Chapter 12 The Final Party and the Mistletoe Kiss #2
The room erupted into congratulations. Guests crowded around the happy couple, offering good wishes and admiring Jane's radiant blush. Lydia demanded to know if she could be a bridesmaid. Kitty burst into happy tears. Mary pronounced something about the sacred duties of matrimony that no one heard.
Darcy hung back, watching from the edge of the celebration—but his patience had reached its limit.
He caught Miss Elizabeth's eye across the room and tilted his head toward the alcove near the back. A question.
She nodded. An answer.
He moved through the crowd with quiet determination.
The alcove was a small space half-hidden by a decorative screen, mercifully free of other guests. Darcy positioned himself by the window and waited, his heart pounding with anticipation rather than anxiety.
She came moments later, slipping around the screen with a grace that made his chest ache.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Elizabeth.” He turned to face her, drinking in the sight of her—flushed and lovely and finally, finally within reach. “We have been interrupted too many times.”
“We have.” She stepped closer, near enough that he could see the rapid pulse at her throat. “I believe you were saying something this morning. Before Lydia so thoughtfully announced our location to the entire garden.”
“I was.” He took a breath, steadying himself—not from nerves, but from the sheer overwhelming joy of what was about to happen. “I was trying to tell you how ardently I admire you. How completely you have captured my regard.”
Her eyes softened. “I remember.”
“I was trying to tell you that every attempt I have made to suppress my feelings has failed. That every argument of reason has crumbled.” He stepped closer, close enough to touch. “I was trying to tell you that I love you, Elizabeth. Wholly. Desperately. Without reservation.”
Her breath caught. “Mr. Dar—”
“MISTLETOE!”
Lydia Bennet's shriek split the air.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly, caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. Of course. Of course.
They both looked up.
There, suspended from the ceiling directly above their heads, its white berries gleaming in the candlelight, hung a sprig of mistletoe.
Caroline's handiwork again. The woman's determination to create chaos was almost admirable.
Miss Elizabeth laughed—a bright, surprised sound that made Darcy's heart flip.
“She is remarkably persistent,” she said.
“She is.” Darcy found himself smiling despite everything. “Though I confess, at this particular moment, I am grateful for her dedication.”
Darcy heard the rustle of fabric, and then Lydia peeked around the edge of the decorative screen, her eyes wide with delighted scandal. She must have been hovering nearby, waiting for precisely this opportunity.
“You are caught! Again!” She bounced into the alcove, practically vibrating with glee. “The tradition must be observed!”
Other guests were turning to look. Whispers rippled through the room. Caroline appeared at the edge of the crowd, her expression caught somewhere between triumph and horror—as though she had not fully considered what her trap might produce.
Mrs. Bennet pushed her way forward, her eyes enormous. “Lizzy! Mr. Darcy! Oh, my heart!”
Darcy looked at Miss Elizabeth.
She was already watching him, her eyes bright with laughter and something deeper. Something that matched the warmth blazing in his chest.
“Miss Elizabeth.” His voice was quiet, pitched for her ears alone. “I believe I already know your answer. But I would hear it again.”
Her smile could have lit the room.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Always yes.”
Darcy kissed her.
He had imagined this moment a hundred times—in the quiet hours before dawn, in the spaces between conversations, in every unguarded second when his thoughts drifted to her. But nothing he had imagined prepared him for the reality.
Her lips were soft. Warm. She tasted faintly of punch and something sweeter beneath, something that was simply her. The first brush of contact sent a jolt through his entire body—not just his lips but his chest, his hands, the very core of him.
He meant to keep it brief. Proper. A gentleman's kiss, suitable for a crowded room.
But then Elizabeth rose toward him.
Her hand found his sleeve, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring herself.
The small movement undid him completely.
He deepened the kiss—still gentle, still reverent, but no longer hesitant.
His hand came up without conscious thought, fingertips grazing the curve of her jaw, tilting her face toward his.
She made a soft sound against his mouth. Not quite a sigh. Something more vulnerable than that.
Darcy felt it in his bones.
The world contracted to nothing but this—the warmth of her, the press of her lips, the way she leaned into him as though she had been waiting for this moment as long as he had.
His heart hammered so hard he was certain she must feel it.
His breath came ragged, unsteady, completely beyond his control.
He had never felt so exposed and never felt so alive.
When they finally separated, it was by inches. Slow. Reluctant. As though some invisible force kept drawing them back together. Darcy's forehead nearly touched hers. He could feel her breath against his lips, quick and uneven, matching the chaos of his own.
Her eyes fluttered open. Dark. Dazed. Beautiful.
“Oh,” she breathed.
They separated at last, both flushed, both breathing unsteadily, both transformed by what had passed between them.
A beat of silence.
Then chaos.
Mrs. Bennet collapsed into the nearest chair, fanning herself with both hands, alternately laughing and sobbing. “TWO! Two daughters engaged in one night! Oh, I shall die of happiness!”
“You are not dying, Mama,” Miss Elizabeth said, her voice remarkably steady given the circumstances. “And I am not—”
“Not yet, perhaps, but soon! I can see it! Mr. Darcy is completely besotted! Oh, my nerves!”!”
Caroline looked as though she had swallowed something deeply unpleasant. Her face had gone through several colors in rapid succession and settled on a shade of gray that clashed horribly with her gown.
Bingley was beaming. He crossed the room in three strides and embraced Darcy with enthusiasm that nearly knocked him off balance.
“I knew it!” he declared. “I knew there was something between you! This is the happiest night of my life—and yours too, I suspect!”
“Bingley—”
“No need to be modest! The whole room saw it! You are caught, my friend, thoroughly and completely caught!”
Darcy could not bring himself to mind.
He looked at Miss Elizabeth, who was being embraced by Jane, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes bright with unmistakable joy.
She caught his gaze over her sister's shoulder and smiled—a private smile, meant for him alone.
He smiled back, feeling lighter than he had in years.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur.
Guests offered congratulations he barely heard. Caroline attempted to intercept him multiple times and was rebuffed with increasing firmness. Mrs. Bennet recounted the mistletoe moment to everyone within earshot, embellishing freely with each telling.
Darcy endured it all gladly, because Miss Elizabeth was never far from his side.
They did not speak of anything significant—the crowd made privacy impossible—but they did not need to. Every glance, every accidental brush of fingers, every shared smile communicated more than words ever could.
When the Bennets finally prepared to depart, Darcy offered to escort them to their carriage.
He walked beside Miss Elizabeth through the entrance hall, past the garlands and ribbons and treacherous sprigs of mistletoe that had caused so much wonderful chaos. The night air was cold against his flushed face as they stepped outside, snow falling softly around them.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He stopped at the carriage door, reluctant to let her go even for a few hours. “I will call tomorrow. Early.”
“I will be waiting.” Her voice was warm, her eyes bright in the flickering torchlight. “Early.”
“There is still much to say. Much to arrange.”
“I know.” She reached out and touched his hand—a brief, improper contact that sent lightning up his arm. “But the important things have already been said.”
“Have they?”
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I had always wanted a marriage of affection. Affection and dare I say love? Everything else is merely detail.”
Darcy's heart stopped.
“You—”
“Yes.” She said it simply, certainly, as though it were the most obvious truth in the world. “I should have said it this morning, but Lydia—”
“Has remarkably poor timing.”
“The worst.” She laughed softly. “And perhaps the best. She did give us the mistletoe. Twice. I suppose I must forgive her eventually.”
Darcy raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her gloved fingers. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow I will ask you properly. With your father's blessing. With all the formality you deserve.”
“And I will say yes.” Her smile was radiant. “Again.”
He helped her into the carriage, their fingers lingering together until the last possible moment.