The Scotsman’s Ghost: or How to Wreck a Yule Party (Christmas With Darcy and Elizabeth)

28. Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Eight

Elizabeth

T he ball had barely begun, and already I was regretting the decision to wear new slippers. They pinched my toes like an overzealous aunt at Christmas dinner, but I forced a smile as I followed Jane into the grand ballroom at Netherfield.

“Mama was right,” Jane whispered beside me, her cheeks pink with excitement. “This really is the event of the season.”

I glanced around at the crowd gathering inside—the well-dressed, the well-mannered… and Mr. Wickham. Naturally. At least Mr. Collins had returned to Kent—without a bride, mind you—but we still had that vulture in our midst.

Before I could begin tallying how many times Wickham would try to lie to us all tonight, I caught sight of Mr. Darcy standing near the far wall, looking as tall and forbidding as ever. He was watching me. Of course, he was.

“Lizzy,” Jane said softly, glancing between us. “I do believe he means to speak with you.”

“Is that so?” I said lightly, though my heart had begun thumping a little faster. “Well, I suppose there’s no avoiding him. He does look rather determined, doesn’t he?”

Jane smiled. “Perhaps because he’s not as terrifying as you think.”

I arched a brow. “You’re not the one who’s had to make excuses for him all over Meryton. Did you even hear that conversation I had with Aunt Philips yesterday? She was sure he was for Bedlam, and I w—”

“ Go , Lizzy,” Jane commanded, giving me a little push forward.

Before I could continue, Darcy had arrived. He greeted us with a crisp bow that made my skin flush. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low and far too delicious for my nerves. “And Miss Bennet,” he added with a nod to Jane, who returned it with all her sweetness. “I hope you find the ball to your satisfaction.”

“Who could not, Mr. Darcy? I was just saying as much to Jane, was I not?”

Jane’s eyes were already fixed across the room, and she hummed distractedly. “Indeed, you were. If you will excuse me, Lizzy, I… I think I should like some punch.”

Mr. Darcy bowed again as Jane left us, and we both watched her path—directly toward Mr. Bingley, who was already moving to meet her halfway.

“Your sister appears to be somewhat… emboldened this evening,” he observed.

I pinned him with a look. “Precisely what is that supposed to mean, sir?”

“Nothing more than surprise on my part, I suppose. I had not previously noticed any symptoms of peculiar regard from her.”

“That is because you have been too twisted in knots to notice much of anything apart from your own concerns.”

Mr. Darcy narrowed his eyes at me, but there was that flicker in his cheek that gave away his efforts at not smiling. “Touché, Miss Elizabeth. It seems that for once in my life, I cannot presume the right to claim the superiority of my own observations. I trust I may rely on your counsel in… certain matters?”

“On that one, at least. And if you should decide to take it upon yourself to meddle in my sister’s affairs, I shall start telling everyone that you talk to spirits, and do not for an instant think I won’t.”

“I would not dream of it, Miss Elizabeth. There are few beings in this world… or the next… who frighten me quite so much as you do.”

I fisted a hand at my hip and surveyed him archly. “ I frighten you? And you, a big, strong gentleman who would never, in a thousand years, dream of running screaming across the Netherfield lawns in abject terror? Certainly nothing twitchy or nervous about you , Mr. Darcy.”

He arched a brow. “I will give you ten thousand pounds to never repeat that episode to another living soul.”

“Oh, I will take you up on that offer, Mr. Darcy. I suppose you expected me to modestly protest that I could never take advantage of you like that, but I could, and I will. Do you prefer a bank cheque, or hundreds of ten pound notes that no one will ever trace back to you?”

His lips twitched, and his eyes twinkled in mirth, though it still wasn’t quite a smile. “I submit to the lady’s preference.”

“Well, this lady’s preference is to sort it out over a dance. And since we have been standing here for several minutes and you have yet to tender your offer, I shall simply claim it. Shall we dance the first set, once the music begins, or the supper set?”

He looked me directly in the eyes. “Yes.”

That caught me by surprise. His gaze was so focused just now—the light in his eyes so intense and his posture suddenly listing toward me in such a way that I felt like we were alone at that gamekeeper’s cottage again—and he was still pleading for me to understand, to accept what made no sense.

It was that look that said he would have crawled inside my winter cloak with me and simply hidden away from the rest of the world, clinging to me like I was his only friend… or a lover. Either notion made my blood heat in a way that was probably indecent in a crowded place. Indecent anywhere , I suppose, save a bedroom—another idea that made my skin prickle with wild notions.

I tried to swallow but found little success. “Well, sir,” I rasped. “I believe the first set is about to begin. And as you have said, ‘yes,’ that amounts to a contract, so I shall demand my due.”

This time, Mr. Darcy did smile, and it did something to break off the look with which he had been searing me. A relief, to be sure, but not altogether a pleasant one. I rather liked the way he had been looking at me.

He cleared his throat and gestured toward the ballroom. “It seems I’ve been dragged into festivities against my will.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly, catching the flicker of something—someone—just over his shoulder. Oh, of course. Ewan . I couldn’t see him, but Darcy’s posture stiffened, his eyes flickering to the side, telling me all I needed to know. The ghost was back, and no doubt, he was up to something.

“Dragged against your will, Mr. Darcy?” I tilted my head in mock sympathy. “Whatever could have convinced you to agree to such torture?”

Darcy’s eyes flicked momentarily to a spot over my shoulder, the barest hint of exasperation crossing his face before he composed himself again. “It’s a long story, Miss Bennet. One that involves... more than just my own volition.”

I bit back a laugh. “I’m sure it does.”

Just as I spoke, a loud crash echoed from the refreshment table. Every head in the room turned toward Wickham, who stood frozen next to what had once been a perfectly intact bowl of punch. He looked down at his soaked waistcoat, blinking in shock.

Wickham’s gaze darted around the room, searching for someone to blame, but as far as everyone could tell, the punch bowl had simply toppled of its own accord.

I smirked. “Well, Mr. Darcy, it seems the festivities are already off to a... lively start.”

Darcy cleared his throat. “I fear there may be more of that to come.”

“Oh, don’t be so dour,” I teased. “It’s a ball. What could possibly go wrong?”

Just then, a shriek rang out from the far side of the room as one of the younger militia officers’ cravats tightened dramatically, choking him so suddenly that he flailed about like a startled duck. Darcy’s hand clenched slightly at his side, and I could almost see him resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

I blinked at him. “On second thought, you might be right.”

Darcy

T he ballroom was a blur of movement—twirling skirts, laughter, and the bright hum of conversation—but all I could focus on was Elizabeth. She stood across the room, speaking with her sister and Bingley, her eyes alive in the candlelight, her lips curved in a faint, secret smile that seemed meant only for herself. I had barely looked away from her all evening.

It wasn’t just her appearance, though. Egad, I had not expected to be so thoroughly undone by the scent of lavender surrounding her, or the way her curls framed her face. Her smile, her laugh, her ease among the crowd—the way she commanded attention without demanding it, that effortless grace tempered by something fierce and untamed. And every so often, she glanced in my direction as if checking to see if I was watching. And by Heaven, I always was.

Ewan had claimed she was meant for me—destined even.

I hadn’t taken him seriously at first. But now—every look, every laugh—it was clear that fate or no fate, I wanted her as I’d wanted nothing else. She would be mine—that had become my only hope. Every glance she cast my way only set my resolve firmer. The rest of the evening didn’t matter. It was all leading to one thing: Elizabeth Bennet in my arms, and willing to stay there forever.

“Mr. Darcy,” a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts, one that grated on my nerves as easily as nails on slate. I turned to see Wickham, his smile more predatory than pleasant, approaching me with a lazy confidence that made my blood boil.

“Wickham,” I replied, stiffening. Elizabeth was still visible just over his shoulder, her laughter a light melody on the air. But now, my mood had shifted. Wherever Wickham went, the air turned sour.

“I trust you’re enjoying the evening?” Wickham asked. He stepped closer—close enough for me to see the evidence of still-drying punch framing an unsightly circlet across the front of his waistcoat. “I couldn’t help but notice you and Miss Elizabeth Bennet have become quite the subject of interest tonight.”

I raised a brow, refusing to rise to his bait. “I wasn’t aware my dance partners were of such concern to you, Wickham.”

He chuckled, a sound that sent a jolt of irritation through me. “Oh, I think they concern more than just me, Darcy. After all, I overheard a rather intriguing conversation earlier. Seems Miss Bingley wasn’t best pleased by your choice of partner to open the evening. She seemed quite... put out, if I may say.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Caroline Bingley’s wounded pride was the least of my concerns. But Wickham had a knack for turning any situation to his advantage, and I could sense there was more to his visit than idle gossip.

“You see,” Wickham continued, his smile widening, “there’s been talk. After all, it’s quite rare for a man like you to take an interest in a lady like Miss Bennet. Some might say... unusual. Others might even think there was more going on than meets the eye.”

“There usually is.”

“Could be lust, of course. I certainly could not blame you—she is a fetching specimen. But I know you better than that, Darcy, and I have another theory.”

“Oh, do tell.”

He raised his brows. “Madness?”

I kept my expression deadpan, staring at him until his questioning look relented into a grin.

“Come, Darcy, I have known you too long. Either this is your cleverest ploy yet to evade matchmaking mamas, or there is something…” he tapped my lapel… “ very wrong with the master of Pemberley.”

“I suppose that would be a matter of opinion.”

“The Lord Chancellor’s opinion, I daresay. If Fitzwilliam Darcy is mad, then what, I do wonder, must become of his dear sister?”

I tensed, my fists clenching at my sides. “Get to the point, Wickham.”

“Why, Darcy, you wound me! Are we not old friends?”

“No.”

He laughed and leaned to the side to pluck a wineglass from the tray of a passing waiter. “Very well, I shall come out with it. A thousand pounds, Darcy. Enough to keep me quiet about your darling sister and your…” He took a drink from his glass. “… Shall we say ‘oddities.’”

I studied him, then forced a fake smile. “Suppose I refuse to pay you off for… what, I do not know. It is not as if giving you money has ever proved a sound investment before. Why should I even entertain your threats?”

Wickham shook his head. “You do not believe I would bother confronting you if I only held one trump card, do you?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I noticed something curious a few days ago—a lady’s tracks in the snow, leading into the woods from Longbourn. And not just a simple woodland wandering was it—no, no, those tracks continued on a straight path for better than a mile to an abandoned cottage in the woods. Someone was on a mission. I’d hate for anyone to misunderstand what those tracks might mean. Especially when another set of tracks in your boot size led back to Netherfield.”

My heart hammered, but I kept my expression neutral. This was exactly the kind of trap Wickham excelled at—dangled just close enough to ensnare me, but not enough for me to bite back.

“And?” I said coolly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Wickham’s eyes gleamed with malicious delight. “And, Darcy, people notice things. They talk. A gentleman like you wouldn’t want his name linked with scandal, would he? Especially not a scandal involving a lady’s honor. That would be... most unfortunate. Oh, you are welcome to your dalliances, I care not. But I daresay you have your sights set somewhere higher for a wife than a country lass from Hertfordshire.” He leaned back and tilted his head. “Unless, of course, you are fond of the chit. Is that it, Darcy?”

Before I could respond—likely with something less than polite—something odd caught my eye. Wickham’s cravat. It twitched.

Just slightly. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, but then, unmistakably, it shifted again, loosening ever so slightly as if someone was untying it with invisible hands.

I blinked, and sure enough, there he was. Ewan. Standing just behind Wickham, his hands working deftly at the cravat, untying it with such precision that Wickham hadn’t noticed yet.

Not now , I thought, glaring at him, but Ewan only grinned.

Wickham, oblivious, continued. “Now, of course, I’m sure it’s all innocent. But you know how people love to talk. And a word from me, well... I could either quell those rumors of madness or liaisons, or I could let them spread like wildfire. All it would take is a whisper.”

The cravat loosened further, the knot now barely holding, but Wickham still hadn’t noticed. Ewan stepped back for a moment, admiring his handiwork, before reaching out again—this time, more deliberate. His fingers tugged gently at the fabric, making it slip down just enough for Wickham to feel the shift.

Wickham frowned, his hand moving to his neck, brushing at the loose ends of his cravat. “As I was saying, Darcy, it would be in your best interest to—”

And then, without warning, the cravat unraveled completely, the silk fabric slipping free and fluttering to the floor in a soft heap.

Wickham’s hand froze, his face flushed with confusion. He stared down at the cravat, utterly baffled, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Something the matter, Mr. Wickham?” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the room, her tone sweet and innocent as she stepped beside me, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

Wickham flushed an even deeper shade of red, scrambling to pick up the fallen cravat and fumbling to retie it. “I... it’s nothing,” he muttered, clearly flustered.

Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Perhaps you should take more care, Mr. Wickham. It wouldn’t do to have your attire... misbehave.”

Wickham, still flustered, tugged at the cravat, his hand shaking slightly as he tried to loop it back around his neck with only one hand free. “As I was saying, Darcy,” he stammered, his composure all but shattered, “I think you understand the... delicacy of the situation.”

I raised an eyebrow, taking full advantage of Wickham’s momentary disarray. “Delicacy, Mr. Wickham? Perhaps you’re the one who should take care with such... delicate matters. You wouldn’t want to make a fool of yourself, would you?”

His eyes flashed with anger, but before he could retort, Ewan struck again. This time, Wickham’s wineglass tilted—slowly at first, then more deliberately—until the red wine sloshed over the rim, splashing across his loosely hanging cravat and his already-stained waistcoat.

Wickham let out a strangled sound, staring down at the crimson stain spreading across his chest. His hands flailed uselessly, trying to dab at the mess with his sodden cravat, but only succeeded in smearing the wine further.

Elizabeth stifled a laugh beside me, and I could feel my own lips twitching as I watched Wickham’s mounting frustration.

“Goodness, Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth said, her voice laced with mock concern. “You do seem to be having a rather difficult evening.”

Wickham sputtered, his face now a deep, furious red. “I—I don’t know what’s happening, I—”

“I think it’s clear,” I said, my voice steady, but the amusement was impossible to hide. “You are either in your cups, or there is something very wrong with Lieutenant George Wickham. Perhaps you should retire for the evening before further humiliation strikes.”

Wickham glared at me, his chest heaving with rage, but before he could respond, the button at the top of his breeches gave a sudden twitch. My eyes widened as I watched in disbelief. Ewan, don’t you dare… There were ladies present!

Wickham opened his mouth to respond, but at that very moment, the final button of his breeches gave way, and the fall slipped, exposing… egad, too much , even to the tops of his garters. He fumbled, his hands flying to hold his breeches together, his face now a deep shade of crimson.

Elizabeth covered her mouth, but a gasp escaped her. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from joining her outright. “Mr. Wickham! How dare you expose yourself in public? Turn away, Miss Elizabeth—you needn’t look on something so distressing.”

“Oh, I daresay this is not the first time Mr. Wickham has exposed himself to a lady.” Elizabeth did not, as I had hoped, look away. Instead, she crossed her arms… and laughed. “I cannot see why you are so concerned, Mr. Darcy. There is nothing worthy of looking at.”

“This is absurd!” Wickham sputtered, furiously buttoning his fall and glaring at me with venom in his eyes. “You’ll regret this, Darcy.”

“Regret what? I never touched you. All I see is the careless efforts of a lazy soldier coming to fruition. You really ought to take better care of your wardrobe, Wickham.”

“You… you did something!” he accused. “I don’t know what, but I’ll find out, and everyone will know! You’ve some sorcery or… or your sort of madness is catching!” He clutched at his clothing again, sweeping Elizabeth with his gaze. “You’ll be a pariah, Darcy. It’s dangerous just to be around you!”

“Oh, I doubt that,” I replied calmly. “Miss Elizabeth, do you feel in any danger in my company?”

She frowned and lifted a shoulder. “None whatsoever. Really, Mr. Wickham, this sort of conduct is unbecoming of an officer. What will Colonel Forster say when he learns of it?”

With one last scowl, Wickham gathered what was left of his dignity and stormed out of the ballroom, his breeches hastily fastened and his wine-soaked waistcoat still dripping.

Elizabeth turned to me, her eyes alight with laughter. “Mr. Darcy, I must say, that was the most... eventful conversation I’ve witnessed all evening.”

I couldn’t hold back anymore. Laughter—genuine and unrestrained—spilled out of me. I do not think I had laughed that long or that hard since I was a boy. And if anyone present wished to declare me mad for laughing until tears sprang into my eyes, they were welcome to it.