Chapter Ten #2
The scarf Elizabeth had made him lay draped across the arm of his chair where he’d left it earlier.
Darcy picked it up, running his fingers over the uneven stitches and crooked edges.
It was ridiculous—lumpy and lopsided and quite obviously the work of someone who had no business working on handicrafts.
It was also unquestionably the best thing he’d received.
She had spent weeks learning to knit for him. Weeks.
“The earphones were a good present. Practical. Thoughtful,” he told himself as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and leaned back in the chair.
He draped Elizabeth’s scarf around his neck and tried to work out where he’d gone wrong.
Because something was definitely wrong, even if he couldn’t put his finger on what.
For a man who prided himself on analysing problems and finding solutions, he had never felt quite so thoroughly at sea.
He was just contemplating whether a glass of his father’s Macallan might help when he heard soft footsteps in the corridor.
“Darcy?” Elizabeth whispered as she peered around the doorframe. “Sorry, I saw the light on. Couldn’t sleep either?”
“Not particularly, no.” He straightened in his chair, conscious of how he must look—hair dishevelled, still wearing Elizabeth’s scarf like a lovesick fool. “Is everything all right? The bed’s comfortable enough?”
“Oh yes, perfectly comfortable.” She padded into the room, barefoot and wrapped in what appeared to be his old Cambridge hoodie over her pyjamas. The sight of her drowning in his clothes did something alarming to his heart rate. “Just too many thoughts rattling about, you know?”
“I’m familiar with the sensation.”
Elizabeth settled herself into the chair opposite, tucking her feet beneath her with that easy grace of hers. In the lamplight, with her hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, she looked impossibly young and completely at home.
“You’re wearing the scarf,” she said, and there was something tentative in her voice that made Darcy’s chest tighten.
“It’s very warm,” he said, which was true, if not the whole truth.
“It’s dreadful,” Elizabeth said with a laugh. “I can’t believe you’re being so polite about it. The stitches are all wrong on that one row, and the ends are different widths.”
“It’s not dreadful.” The words came out more forcefully than he’d intended. “I love it.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “You do?”
“You learned to knit for me.” Darcy found himself leaning forward, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Do you have any idea how extraordinary that is? I can’t remember the last time anyone took that level of trouble over me.”
“Well,” Elizabeth said, colour rising in her cheeks, “you’re rather worth taking trouble over.”
The silence that followed was charged with something Darcy couldn’t quite name. He was acutely aware of every detail. The way Elizabeth was worrying her lower lip between her teeth, the smell of mulled wine, the faint crackle of the dying fire in the grate.
“I’ve been sitting here for the better part of an hour,” Darcy said, “trying to work out what’s wrong with me.”
“Wrong with you?”
“Today was perfect. And yet I feel . . .” He gestured helplessly. “Unsettled. As though I’m waiting for something to go wrong.”
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, studying him with those dark, perceptive eyes. “Perhaps,” she said, “you’re not waiting for something to go wrong. Perhaps you’re waiting for something to go right.”
Before Darcy could ask what she meant by that, Elizabeth had risen from her chair and was crossing to where he sat. She perched on the arm of his chair, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of coconut from her shampoo.
“What are you doing?” he asked, though he made no move to pull away.
“Investigating,” she said. “I have a theory about your problem.”
“Do you indeed?”
“Mmm.” Elizabeth reached out and began fussing with his scarf, straightening the uneven edges with careful fingers. “I think you’re so used to managing everyone and everything that you’ve forgotten how to let yourself have nice things without waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Her hands had stilled against his chest, and Darcy found himself holding his breath.
“And what,” he managed, “do you propose to test this theory of yours?”
Elizabeth’s smile was soft and mischievous all at once.
“Well, for starters, I’m going to sit right here until you stop looking like a man expecting imminent disaster.
And then—” She glanced up at the ceiling, where a sprig of mistletoe hung from the old light fixture, one of Georgiana’s additions to the decorating scheme.
“Oh,” Darcy said.
“Oh indeed.” Elizabeth’s eyes were dancing now. “I can’t believe you didn’t see it earlier. Rather convenient, don’t you think?”
“Terribly convenient,” Darcy agreed, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
“Of course I wouldn’t want to presume anything. If you’d rather not—”
But Darcy had reached up to cup her face in his hands, cutting off her words with a kiss that made everything else in the world fall away.
Elizabeth made a soft sound of surprise that quickly melted into something warmer, her hands fisting in the front of his jumper as she kissed him back with a sweetness that made his head spin.
When they finally broke apart, Elizabeth was smiling that radiant smile that never failed to make Darcy’s heart skip.
“Better?” she asked.
“Much,” Darcy said, and meant it. The restless anxiety that had been gnawing at him all evening had vanished, replaced by something warm and certain and entirely right. “I think Georgiana hung that mistletoe.”
“Oh, she did,” Elizabeth said. “She said something about you ‘mooning about.’”
“I do not moon,” Darcy said with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn’t much considering Elizabeth was still perched on his chair and looking insufferably pleased with herself.
“Of course not,” Elizabeth said.
“I’m never living this down, am I?”
“Not a chance.” Elizabeth leaned down to press a lingering kiss to his forehead. “But I’m rather fond of your mooning about, as it happens.”
Darcy found himself laughing, the sound rich and unguarded. “Come here,” he said, tugging her into his lap.
Elizabeth came willingly, curling against his chest with a contented sigh. “This is nice,” she murmured against his throat.
“It is,” Darcy agreed, wrapping his arms around her and thinking that perhaps Christmas wishes did come true after all, even when you were too afraid to say them aloud.