Page 35 of The Longbourn Bloodline

Elizabeth rose for her turn. The mound was smaller now, the peak narrower, the sixpence sitting at a precarious angle that made every approach feel dangerous. Flour trickled down to fill in the places that had already been cut away, but Elizabeth was able to consider the architecture, visualize the load-bearing portion of the peak, and make a whisper-thin slice from the side furthest from the coin.

The flour slid away. The sixpence shifted—Elizabeth’s breath stopped, and Lydia groaned in clear disappointment. But the trickle ebbed, and the coin settled without cascading, and Elizabeth’s face was saved. She set down the knife with fingers that trembled only slightly and returned to her seat, catching Darcy watching her without comment.

Mrs. Bennet paraded around the diminished structure, peering down and across, and then settled herself next to Mr. Darcy as if she could borrow his steadiness for her nerves. Her hand quivered, and her cut was slightly too deep, but the mound held, and she presented the knife to Darcy with a flourish that threatened to send the entire pile to the floor.

It was Darcy’s turn, and Elizabeth held her breath as she watched his hands. They were the steady, precise, and strong ones that had caught her from falling on the ice and unwound wire from the rabbit, who was now recovering in the bootroom. The same hands that held her fingers, lifting them to his lips. Expertly, he angled the blade toward the spot Elizabeth would have chosen, a relatively packed section of the mound that would remove excess flour without disturbing the precarious peak.

And then, Mrs. Bennet sneezed, or rather she produced a sound that resembled a sneeze caught with a giggle. Her elbow connected with Darcy’s arm at the moment his knife touched the flour. The cut went wild. The flour column shuddered, and the sixpence wobbled, tipped, and slid down the collapsing side of the mound in a small avalanche of white powder, coming to rest somewhere in the heap of flour now spreading across the dish.

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Bennet pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh, how clumsy of me. I do beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy! The sneeze came upon me quite without warning. I am so very sorry.”

“That was not a sneeze, Mamma,” Elizabeth said. “That was an act of war.”

“Mr. Darcy gets the forfeit!” Lydia clapped her hands, then wrinkled her nose. “Although please do not choose me. Lizzy is the one who wants you to kiss her.”

Elizabeth gave her sister a push that was not entirely playful. “He does not get the forfeit unless he retrieves the coin with his teeth.” She turned to her uncle. “And if he refuses, do we start over?”

Uncle Philips stroked his chin. “He must pay a penalty. A shilling, I say, to be collected by the eventual winner.”

“A shilling is nothing for my cousin.” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyes danced. “Make it hurt!”

“I shall retrieve it,” Darcy said, already removing his coat. “I believe my valet would prefer flour over Hertfordshire mud or picking forty-seven thorns from my waistcoat.”

Elizabeth’s hand covered her mouth as she could not believe Darcy would put his face into the flour rather than throw a shilling into the pot of forfeits. And then she chilled. Who would he claim the kiss from? Jane appeared frozen to her chair, her eyes blank, while Lydia, who had already declared her aversion, was smug. Besides, she was only fifteen, and Darcy was too honorable to select any of her younger sisters. He could not choose Mrs. Bennet or Mrs. Philips, and that left… her and Jane.

Darcy rolled up his sleeves, exposing the healing scratch marks from the thornbush, and then he bent over the dish, his entire face sinking into the flour. While everyone held their stomachs, huffing and laughing, Mr. Bennet included, Elizabeth held her breath, and Darcy, to his credit, neither snorted flour from his nose nor ejected any from his throat. He rose from the mound like a ghost rising from a stone with the sixpence held between his lips. His dark hair was powdered white at the temples, and his face was a mask of white with two dark eyes blazing through it like coals in snow.

Facing Mrs. Bennet, he removed the coin from his mouth and put it in her hand. “Madam, I believe I shall claim the forfeit now, as you have been utterly delightful with your misplaced sneeze.”

The room erupted. Lydia screamed with delight. Kitty clutched her mother as if she were about to be sacrificed to a pagan god. Mary grabbed a book of sermons, searching for a thunderous warning, and of course, Mr. Bennet rustled his newspaper.

“Quite a diverting evening, Mr. Darcy. You may request what you wish from my wife, but I believe, young man, you are not quite equal to her nerves, as they can mount a tumult even the master of Pemberley would see fit to retreat from.”

“Oh, but if he refuses, then I shall own the forfeit and…”

“Fanny, I have never heard of such rules,” Aunt Philips protested. “You cheated, sister, and ended the game early.”

“My nose tickled, and Mr. Darcy was too clumsy with his cut.” Mrs. Bennet reared her two-inch height advantage over her sister. “Since he owes me a forfeit, then I will transfer it to someone more eligible.”

Jane cringed visibly, her eyes wide as if she were a rabbit caught in a snare.

And then, Elizabeth took a breath. “I shall pay, for I am not afraid of Mr. Darcy.”

“Perfect!” Colonel Fitzwilliam clapped. “Darcy, have you not been wanting to speak with Miss Elizabeth Bennet privately? I see you pacing that tiny cottage day and night.”

Mrs. Bennet pivoted like a spinning top, abandoning Jane’s pale face and wheeling on Elizabeth. “Of course, Mr. Darcy and Lizzy, this way to the small parlor. The forfeit demands it, and you shall have privacy, although not too private, as the door will remain open, naturally, and everything will be quite proper, mind you. Jane, help me with the syllabub. Mary, play a lively tune, and everyone, we must have charades so we cannot hear anything from the small parlor.”

Elizabeth stood frozen, not daring to glance at Mr. Darcy, who was wiping his face with a handkerchief. Mr. Bennet was the last to get up from his chair.

“Papa.”

“Go, Lizzy. I shall sit outside, and you shall be quite safe.”

And so, she walked toward the small parlor, her heart unsettled and beating faster than she would admit, and told herself Mr. Darcy was too honorable to claim a kiss, that he wanted her good opinion, because somehow she was important to him, and that, indeed, she had nothing to fear from him.

Except, hanging above the doorway of the small parlor was a kissing bough, festooned with mistletoe and red ribbon. She stopped in her tracks and stared at the fire inside with two chairs waiting before it.

Darcy noticed her looking up, and he stopped behind her.