Welcome to the 2025 Austen Variations Advent Calendar, where our amazing authors will bring you a new gift every day from now until December 24th.

A Very Accidental Mistletoe: Part One

Someone—Lydia, almost certainly Lydia—had declared that every doorway in Netherfield must have mistletoe, and now the entire house looked as though a flock of overenthusiastic birds had been nesting in the rafters.

Miss Bingley had gone to town for last-minute shopping and had, before leaving, informed her brother that “a few feminine touches” around the house would be required for the Christmas gathering tomorrow. Unfortunately, she had provided no details beyond that. And Mr. Bingley had sent for the Bennet ladies to lend their opinions—rather promptly and perhaps somewhat secretly.

Lydia, catching the words feminine touches, had assumed it meant complete botanical takeover.
Elizabeth suspected that Mr. Bingley, horrified at the idea of disappointing his sister and equally horrified at the idea of disappointing Jane Bennet, had simply surrendered at once.

And there was no Miss Bingley present to stop Lydia’s interpretation from escalating into a full-scale evergreen invasion.

Elizabeth stood on a decidedly unstable dining chair in the great hall, stretching on her toes as she attempted to rescue one such bedraggled sprig before it fell directly into the punch bowl.

“This,” she muttered, leaning just far enough to tempt fate, “is what comes of letting children mix cider with Christmas enthusiasm.”

Her fingers brushed the greenery. The chair gave a warning creak.

All was well. Perfectly well. Entirely under control.

She stretched a little farther. The chair objected violently.

Some things, perhaps, were no longer under control.

Elizabeth had just enough time to picture her own spectacular descent—arms flailing, dignity scattering like pine needles—when a firm hand closed around her waist.

A very large, very steady, very male hand.

“Oh!” Elizabeth grabbed the air and found, with painful swiftness, that she was no longer falling but being righted by none other than—of course—Mr. Darcy.

He stood far too close, breath caught somewhere in his throat, as though he had not meant to touch her at all but had been forced by the imminent threat of her death via seasonal décor.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, in that tone of earnest alarm he used whenever she behaved like a normal person and not the porcelain figurine he probably thought she ought to be. “You nearly—”

“Yes, yes,” she said, cheeks flaming. “I am aware. I was about to demonstrate a most spectacular downward flight. Tragic I was deprived of the opportunity.”

He blinked, once, as if unsure whether she was jesting, then—after a visible internal struggle—released a tiny, scandalized huff.

“May I suggest,” he said, stepping back a fraction—but only a fraction— “that chairs are not meant for acrobatic feats?”

“And I suppose tall gentlemen such as yourself never need chairs,” she returned. “You simply stride through life with every rafter perfectly within reach.”

His gaze flicked up.

Then down.

Then—alarmingly—lit on her.

It was only then that Elizabeth realized where she was standing. Directly beneath the mistletoe she had been attempting to untie.

Of course. Naturally. Why would chance ever lose an opportunity for mischief?

Darcy’s shoulders went rigid.

Her pulse performed an embarrassing little leap. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Darcy, I fear the situation calls for… careful navigation.”

“Yes,” he said tightly. “If Mrs. Bennet appears at this moment, I shall not survive it.”

The worst part was that he was right. Her mother would have fainted, revived, summoned the apothecary, fainted again, and then demanded the banns be read immediately.

Elizabeth stepped down from the chair, intending to create the illusion of respectable distance, but Darcy moved at the same time. They ended up nearly colliding, and she had to plant her hand—her whole hand—against his chest to keep from knocking them both over.

It was an extremely broad chest.

Warm, too.

Far too warm.

She snatched her hand back at once. “Oh—excuse me—I did not mean— That is, I was simply—”

He cleared his throat sharply. “Quite understandable.”

Che cleared her throat and clasped her arms tightly about her and tried to look anywhere but him. Which was decidedly more difficult than it ought to have been.

At last, Darcy reached up, plucked the mistletoe from the beam with a decisive tug, and held it in his hand as though he had single-handedly disarmed a French soldier.

“There,” he said. “That should prevent any… complications.”

Complications. Yes. A very sensible word for… whatever had nearly happened.

Elizabeth nodded at the sprig in his hand. “Thank you. You have saved my reputation. Again. I shall have to add it to my ledger of debts.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Any other man might have smiled. Darcy appeared to be locking the impulse away with iron chains.

He extended the mistletoe toward her, and when she reached to take it, his gloved fingers brushed hers.

The smallest touch.

A whisper.

But her heart stopped all the same. And her mouth was doing something very unreasonable.

He noticed. She could tell he did, because he looked away too quickly—far too quickly for a man usually so in command of his expressions. He seemed to wrestle with something, then spoke with careful gravity.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “if ever such a moment were to occur again… I should prefer it happen by choice. Not because a plant commands it.”

Elizabeth stared at him.

Oh.

Oh dear.

She was suddenly warm all over again, and the stupid mistletoe felt like a coal ember in her hand.

She managed a small, steadying breath. “That is… considerate of you, sir.”

He looked at her—really looked this time—and the gentleness in it nearly melted her on the spot.

Then—

“Lizzy?” came Mrs. Bennet’s unmistakable voice from down the hall. “Are you done with the mistletoe? I want to make sure you are not lingering under it with any handsome gentlemen—Oh! Mr. Darcy!”

Darcy’s spine stiffened like a startled cat.

Elizabeth shoved the mistletoe behind her back with lightning speed.

“Mother!” she called brightly. “We were just—decorating. See? All done. No need to rush. No need to… observe… anything.”

Mrs. Bennet swept in, examined them with narrow, suspicious eyes, then clucked her tongue. “Well! It is only you and Mr. Darcy, I suppose. Not like it is Mr. Bingley and Jane. Come now, Lizzy, we must find a place for the mulled wine before Lydia drinks it all.”

Darcy bowed so quickly he nearly toppled the chair she had been standing on.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured.

“Mr. Darcy.”

He looked as though he wished to say something else, perhaps something wildly inappropriate like that was nearly catastrophic and also I am not displeased it happened, but instead he turned sharply and strode away.

Elizabeth watched him go.

And only when he disappeared around the corner did she slip the mistletoe into her apron pocket.

For safekeeping.

Just in case another… complication… should arise.

Check back tomorrow for your next gift. 

To see each day so far, visit austenvariations.com/2025-advent-calendar/