Chapter 12 The Final Party and the Mistletoe Kiss
THE FINAL PARTY AND THE MISTLETOE KISS
It was Christmas Eve, and Darcy had not seen Miss Elizabeth since their walk.
The hours between had crawled past with agonizing slowness—but not, for once, because of doubt. She had said yes. Had watched him step closer with welcome in her eyes. Had whispered the word he had scarcely dared to hope for, and then Lydia's shriek had shattered everything.
Tonight, she had promised. Tonight.
The word burned in his chest like a flame.
He dressed with more care than usual, changing his cravat twice before settling on one that seemed appropriately festive without being ridiculous. His valet watched with barely concealed amusement but wisely said nothing.
The house glowed with candlelight as servants made final preparations. Evergreen boughs arched over doorways. Ribbons wound through banisters. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon and the particular warmth of a house made ready for celebration.
And there, hung throughout the public rooms, were Caroline's inevitable sprigs of mistletoe.
Darcy counted seven before he had crossed the entrance hall. A minefield of botanical hazards. For once, Darcy found he did not mind.
If Caroline's scheming placed him beneath mistletoe with Miss Elizabeth again, he would not complain. Not after this morning. Not after yes.
Bingley found him in the drawing room, vibrating with nervous energy.
“Darcy! Thank God you are here. I have changed my cravat three times and I still cannot decide if it is correct. Does this one say 'respectable gentleman preparing to announce his engagement' or 'nervous fool who cannot dress himself'?”
Darcy examined the cravat. It was perfectly tied. “The former.”
“You are certain? Because I thought perhaps the blue might be—”
“Bingley. You look fine. Miss Bennet will not refuse you based on your neckwear.”
“No. No, of course not.” Bingley took a breath, then another. “She has already accepted me. This is merely the formal announcement. There is nothing to fear.”
“Nothing at all.”
“I am terrified.”
“I know.”
Bingley laughed—a slightly hysterical sound—and clapped Darcy on the shoulder.
“At least you understand. Caroline keeps telling me to stop fidgeting, but she does not comprehend the magnitude of the moment. Tonight, everything changes. Tonight, I become the happiest man in England, publicly and officially.”
Darcy smiled—a real smile, warm with anticipation. “You may have competition for that title.”
Bingley's eyebrows shot up. “Competition? Darcy, what—” His eyes widened. “Miss Elizabeth? Did something happen? On your walk this morning?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps! He says perhaps!” Bingley seized Darcy's arm with enthusiasm that bordered on assault. “Tell me everything. Did you speak? Did she—”
“Tonight, Bingley.” Darcy extracted himself gently. “All will be revealed tonight.”
Bingley looked as though he might explode from curiosity, but he managed to restrain himself. Barely.
“Have you prepared your speech?” Darcy asked, redirecting the conversation to safer ground.
“Speech?” Bingley went pale. “I need a speech?”
“You might want to say something when you make the announcement. A few words of gratitude, perhaps. An expression of joy.”
“Oh God.” Bingley began pacing. “What do I say? How do I possibly put into words—”
“Something simple. Something sincere. Miss Bennet will appreciate sincerity above eloquence.”
“Simple. Sincere. Yes.” Bingley nodded rapidly. “I can manage that. I think. Possibly.”
Darcy let him pace, his own thoughts drifting to what lay ahead.
He knew what he wanted to say. Had rehearsed it a hundred times during the endless hours since their walk. The words came easily now—not polished or perfect, but true. He would tell her of his admiration. His regard. His hope that she might consent to be his wife.
Guests began arriving as the afternoon light faded into evening.
Darcy positioned himself near the entrance hall, making no pretense about why. He nodded to neighbors, made brief conversation with acquaintances, endured Caroline's pointed comments about London society—but his attention never wavered from the door.
The Bennets arrived in a flurry of noise and color.
Mrs. Bennet entered first, her voice raised in admiration of the decorations. Lydia and Kitty came after her, shrieking about something. Mary was quieter. Mr. Bennet drifted in their wake, then Jane, lovely in pale blue. Her eyes immediately found Bingley across the crowded hall.
And last, finally—
Miss Elizabeth.
Darcy's breath caught.
She wore a gown of deep green, simple but elegant, the color bringing out the warmth in her complexion. Her hair was pinned up, a few curls escaping to frame her face. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her eyes bright as they swept the entrance hall.
When her gaze found his, she smiled. A smile full of promise.
Darcy crossed the hall before he was fully aware of moving.
“Miss Elizabeth.” His voice came out steadier than he expected. “You came.”
Miss Elizabeth laughed, her expression open, inviting him to share the jest. “Did you doubt I would?”
“Not for a moment.”
Her smile deepened. “Good. I have been counting the hours.”
“As have I.” He held her gaze. “Every single one.”
Before either could say more, Mrs. Bennet descended upon them.
“Mr. Darcy! How delightful! And such a fine evening Netherfield has arranged—though I suppose Miss Bingley managed most of the particulars—but no matter! We are so pleased to be here. Are we not pleased, Lizzy? I told her this morning, I said, Lizzy, you must look your best tonight, for one never knows what might happen at a Christmas Eve gathering, and—”
“Mama.” Miss Elizabeth's voice was gentle but firm. “I believe Jane is looking for you.”
Mrs. Bennet's attention shifted instantly. “Jane! Yes, of course—tonight is the night, after all—everyone will know by midnight—oh, my nerves!” She bustled away, leaving blessed silence in her wake.
Miss Elizabeth met Darcy's eyes and smiled ruefully.
“My apologies. She means well.”
“No apology is necessary.” He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “We do.”
“Miss Elizabeth!” Caroline's voice cut through the moment like a blade. “How delightful that you could attend. Do come and see the decorations—I have arranged everything myself, you know. The greenery is imported from London.”
Miss Elizabeth was swept away before Darcy could stop it.
He watched her go with considerably less frustration than before. Caroline could delay, but she could not prevent. Tonight was theirs.
He would simply have to be patient a little longer.
The gathering swelled as more guests arrived. The quartet struck up seasonal music. Servants circulated with punch and sweetmeats. Laughter echoed from every corner of the house.
Darcy moved through it all with unusual patience, secure in the knowledge that the evening would bring what he sought. He watched Miss Elizabeth speak with her sister, watched her laugh at something Mr. Bennet said, watched her navigate Caroline's pointed comments with grace and wit.
Every glance she sent his way confirmed what he already knew.
She was waiting too.
And then Wickham approached her.
The man appeared from nowhere, his uniform bright against the candlelit room, his smile as false and charming as ever. He positioned himself at Miss Elizabeth's elbow with the casual confidence of someone who believed himself welcome.
Darcy's hands clenched at his sides—not from fear, but from disgust.
He could not hear their conversation from across the room—could only watch as Wickham leaned close, his expression solicitous, his posture intimate. But he could see Miss Elizabeth's response now, and what he saw made his heart swell.
No warmth. No welcome. Only polite, frigid tolerance.
Darcy started forward anyway.
He was halfway across the room when Miss Elizabeth's voice cut through the chatter, cool and clear and carrying.
“You are mistaken, sir. Mr. Darcy has shown me nothing but integrity.”
Darcy stopped.
The words were a declaration. A banner unfurled in his defense, public and unmistakable. He watched Miss Elizabeth's expression, visible now in profile, and saw no softness in it. Only polite, icy clarity.
“I would prefer,” she continued, “that this topic be closed entirely.”
Wickham's smile faltered. For a brief, satisfying moment, the charming mask slipped entirely, revealing the cold calculation beneath.
Then he recovered, bowed with exaggerated courtesy, and withdrew.
Darcy watched him go with grim satisfaction.
Bingley's announcement came shortly after ten o'clock.
He stood in the center of the drawing room, Jane beside him, his face alight with joy so pure it was almost painful to witness. The room fell silent as he raised his glass.
“Friends. Neighbors. Family.” His voice trembled slightly but held. “I have the honor—the very great honor—of announcing my engagement to Miss Jane Bennet.”
A heartbeat of silence.
Then Mrs. Bennet screamed.
The sound was somewhere between a shriek and a sob, so loud that several guests jumped and a footman nearly dropped his tray. She clutched at Mr. Bennet, who bore the assault with resigned patience, while tears streamed down her face.
“JANE IS ENGAGED! My beautiful Jane! Oh, I knew it—I always knew it—did I not say, Mr. Bennet? Did I not say he would propose before Twelfth Night?”
“You did, my dear. Repeatedly.”
“And now it has happened! Oh, my nerves! My heart! I may faint!”
Mrs. Bennet did not faint, but she did require smelling salts, a chair, and several minutes of vigorous fanning before she was sufficiently recovered to begin planning the wedding at top volume.