His lips met hers, and the strength of the spark between them nearly lifted her to her toes. Mr. Darcy stepped back, appearing a little dazed.
There was a spluttered sound of outrage that could only mean one thing. Mr. Collins had returned. “Cousin Elizabeth!” the man cried.
Elizabeth sighed. She was very tired of hearing her name spoken in such a way.
But Mr. Collins was not alone.
“Ah,” her father said dryly. “I see that the mistletoe is up.”
Chapter Nine
Elizabethheldontothe back of a chair in Papa’s book room, her grip upon the frame very tight indeed. She had not wished to slap anyone since she was a child, but Mr. Collins was as provoking as Lydia had been at five.
“You cannot possibly think that a kiss on the cheek under a sprig of mistletoe is cause for scandal, Mr. Collins,” Papa said wearily.
“It was on the lips!” Mr. Collins fanned himself like an outraged matron.
“It was an accident, Papa. I moved to say something to Mr. Darcy just as he . . .” She blushed.
“You could not stop talking long enough for a kiss?” he asked merrily. “This is admirable, Lizzy.”
Mr. Collins was turning an alarming shade of red. “You must understand, cousin, that Mr. Darcy is promised to Miss de Bourgh.”
“Who promised him?” Papa inquired with a smirk. “For as much as his aunt might wish it, she cannot issue a proposal on the gentleman’s behalf.”
“My aunt would like nothing better,” Mr. Darcy said, entering the room. “However, it is not true.”
Elizabeth sighed in relief, surprising herself. She shot an anxious glance at Mr. Darcy only to find him gazing at her with a soft smile. Clearly, he had heard her.
She looked away. Papa ought to be annoyed that the man had let himself in without so much as announcing his arrival, but he simply sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. He was enjoying himself immensely and would make no move to remove Mr. Darcy from their company.
Traitor.
Mr. Collins was blathering on about Miss De Bourgh, her mother’s excellent fortune, her father’s grand estate, and something about the glazing of windows. It was in the middle of his laudatory oration that she saw it.
Mr. Darcy rolled his eyes.
It was an astonishing thing to witness, and she could not help but laugh. It was no more than a snicker, really, but it stopped Mr. Collins in the middle of some statement that had him pointing his finger in the air and waving it about. He was incredibly affronted.
It was Mr. Darcy’s fault, but wouldhebe the object of Mr. Collins’s ire?
“Mr. Darcy,” her father said, “if you would be so kind as to return the use of my book room to me?”
Mr. Darcy’s brow creased, and he tossed a worried glance at Elizabeth. He was concerned for her.
Well, good. She would not allow him to fret for long, but Mr. Darcy deserved to be left dangling for a time. Elizabeth would not meet his eye.
After a pause fraught with tension, Mr. Darcy nodded once and strode out.
“I am pleased you have come round to my way of thinking,” Mr. Collins said, and moved to take one of the chairs.
“I only detained you to warn you, Mr. Collins,” her father said.
“Warn me?”
“You are soon to be a married man, Mr. Collins,” Papa reminded him. “You must think of the future. Your living, as you know, is a lifetime appointment.”
“Yes, Lady Catherine De Bourgh has so graciously . . .”