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A Very Accidental Mistletoe: Part 2

The week after Christmas at Netherfield had been a parade of gentle absurdities.

First: Lydia had declared that “we must begin celebrating at once,” meaning the decorations she had scattered through the house were now considered untouchable fixtures, despite Hill’s silent pleas.

Second: Mr. Bingley—good, obliging man—had invited the Bennets again for a small supper, as though nothing delighted him more than hosting the entire county inside his drawing room.

And third: Mr. Darcy was still in Hertfordshire.

He had meant to leave for London days ago. Elizabeth had overheard Mr. Bingley in the next pew last Sunday, expressing surprise—“Darcy, are you quite certain? I thought you meant to be off Tuesday—no? Wednesday then? No?”—each time met with Darcy’s careful, neutral reply:

“I have… adjustments to make to my departure.”

He never specified what adjustments.

Elizabeth had several speculative theories, all of them foolish.
All of them dangerous.
All of them making her unreasonably warm whenever he entered a room.

Which was precisely why she had stepped outside, into the cool, lantern-lit garden, to regain a sense of proportion. She breathed in the cold air and watched the lanterns sway slightly in the breeze. The snow had softened to a light dusting, catching the candle glow in gentle sparks.

She should go back in.

She did not.

The faint drag of boots over fresh snow whispered behind her. Elizabeth closed her eyes for one brief, promising moment. Then she turned.

Mr. Darcy stood in the doorway, coat unfastened, expression somewhere between apology and resolve. “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to intrude.”

“You are not intruding,” she answered far too quickly.

His brows lifted slightly, as though she had startled him. Then he stepped outside, letting the door fall nearly shut behind him. A lantern’s light caught the snow caught in his hair—only a few flecks, but enough to give him a distinctly softened look.

“Everyone else is in the drawing room, but you are not missed at the moment,” he said. “Bingley has begun speculating on whether the punch was too strong.”

Elizabeth laughed softly, warming at the contrast between the frigid air and Darcy’s presence. “Perhaps it was,” she teased. “I believe he added an extra measure of something.”

“Several somethings,” Darcy murmured. “He claims it encourages conviviality.”

She tilted her head. “Has it worked on you?”

He drew a breath—slow, almost pained. “Perhaps a little. I am… not naturally the most convivial man.”

“You are more so than you once were.”

That made his gaze flick to her, arrestingly direct. “I am trying.”

Elizabeth’s heart clenched—not from pity, but admiration, painful in its tenderness. She glanced toward the glowing windows behind him. “Are you certain you wish to be outside? Even with that great overcoat, it cannot be that warm.”

“I brought it for you,” he replied, shrugging it from his shoulders before she could protest.

“Oh—I do not require—”

“It is cold,” he said gently, and draped it around her without touching her, though she felt the warmth of him all the same.

Elizabeth exhaled into the coat’s lingering heat, thinking it would be wildly inconvenient if she ever had to give it back. They stood in silence, breath clouding in the crisp night air.

At last she said, “Mr. Darcy… may I ask you something?”

He seemed to brace very slightly. “Yes.”

“We all heard you meant to leave nearly a week ago. And also, there was talk of you leaving the week before that. Did you  mean to be in London already?”

“I did.”

“And yet here you are.”

He swallowed, gaze lowering to the snow between them. “Yes.”

She waited. He did not elaborate.

Elizabeth stepped nearer—not close enough to be improper, but close enough to make clear that a simple, polite evasion would not satisfy her. “Something kept you,” she said softly. “What was it?”

Darcy’s jaw flexed—once. He looked up, straight at her, and for a moment he was unguarded in a way that tore at her. “I discovered,” he said quietly, “that London held nothing I wished to hurry toward.”

Darcy’s words hung in the lantern-lit air.

Elizabeth went very still. “I see,” she managed. “That is… unexpected. More so is the implication that Hertfordshire holds something you would rather remain for.”

His gaze searched hers, as though he feared he had said too much.
Or hoped he had said just enough.

Elizabeth’s pulse skittered in a most unhelpful way. She needed a moment—just a moment—to steady her thoughts. She turned toward the small back door, intending only to slip inside long enough to gather herself before she said something irrevocable.

She reached for the handle, but it did not move. She frowned, tried again, and felt the metal resist completely.

Darcy stepped beside her at once. “It sticks in cold weather.”

He set his hand to the latch. It refused even a fraction of give. A breath of incredulity escaped him. “More than sticks, apparently.”

“We are locked out?”

“Unless we wish to force it and alert the household that we were alone out here,” he murmured, his voice low in the quiet. “Yes.”

“It appears,” she said, “that we are trapped.”

A single exhale of something dangerously close to amusement escaped him. “It appears so.”

There was, she realized, quite literally nowhere to go—unless they walked around the entire house through the deepening snow. And she doubted Darcy would allow her to do that, not while wearing his coat. That might prove a scandal neither of them would survive.

Which meant they were alone until someone discovered them. Lantern-lit. Breathless.

Elizabeth felt, rather than saw, his attention shift to her pocket. Or, rather, his pocket. It was his coat, after all.

Her hand drifted there instinctively. The mistletoe sprig—still intact, still hidden—sat beneath her fingertips.

When she looked back up, Darcy was watching her with an expression she had not yet earned the privilege of interpreting. Something reverent. Something afraid. Something hoping.

Very slowly, Elizabeth drew the mistletoe from her pocket.

She lifted the sprig—not high, not boldly, just enough to make the meaning clear. “I recall,” she said gently, “you once expressed a preference… for moments that were chosen. Not accidental, which this appears to be.”

“Are you so sure?” Darcy stepped toward her.

Elizabeth’s pulse stumbled. “You mean to tell me you planned for the door to—”

“No.” He shook his head once, firmly. “But I have seen it seize in cold weather before. And I know Mrs. Nicholls passes this way every quarter hour to check the back lanterns.” His gaze held hers with steady intent. “We are alone… but only for a moment.”

A breath of cold brushed her cheeks. “Then you came out here knowing it might… linger shut?”

“I came out,” he said quietly, “because I hoped for a moment in which no one would interrupt us. If the door obliged me for a minute… I did not object.”

Elizabeth had no answer for that. Not when he stood this close. Not when his meaning was unmistakable.

Darcy looked down at the mistletoe in her hand, then back to her, his voice low and trembling just faintly with the cold. “What say you, Miss Elizabeth? Does the greenery’s suggestion suit your wishes?”

Elizabeth’s heart beat once, hard, in answer. She nodded.

He closed the last of the distance between them in a slow, deliberate movement—as though giving her every chance to step away, though she found herself incapable of the slightest retreat.

His hand rose, hesitated, then cupped her cheek with exquisite care. His touch was warm despite the cold air; it made her eyes flutter shut. She leaned in—just slightly.

He covered the remaining space and kissed her.

It was not hurried, nor stolen, nor dictated by greenery or accident. It was a kiss composed of restraint and longing and relief all at once—soft, reverent, and achingly certain.

When he drew back, barely a breath apart, he whispered, “You are perfectly right. I should have left for London days ago.”

“Why did you not?”

His forehead rested lightly against hers. “Because,” he said, “something kept me.”

“Something?” she repeated.

His hand traced her cheek once more, gentler than a lantern breeze.

“You.”

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