Jane Austen Made Me Do It (21 page)

“I was speaking with Miss Jane Austen earlier,” he said, “and she told me of a mistletoe legend.”

“Yes, she told us, too.”

“Apparently it doesn't work when the mistletoe is still attached to the tree. It must be cut and formed into a bough.”

“A kissing bough.”

“Do you intend to hang a mistletoe bough in Ivy Cottage?”

“The girls will insist on it.”

“May I stop by this evening? I forgot to bring the bottle of port wine I had selected for you.”

Did he mean …?

Elinor was blushing. She couldn't control it, and suddenly didn't want to. She'd run mad to read what she did into his words and manner, but it was a madness she'd cling to as long as possible.

“Of course.” But then she realized everything he'd said could apply to Amy, not herself. Of course that was what he meant. So what should she do?

“Mama, Mama!” Maria plucked at Elinor's skirts. “Can we go home and start decorating the cottage?”

Escape. “Of course. We must have all our greenery hung tonight, including our kissing bough.” She dropped a curtsy and took a bold gamble. “I hope to see you this evening, Sir Nicholas. You will be very welcome.”

He bowed and joined his brother. Elinor watched him for too long, allowing herself to tell a fanciful story, but then gathered her daughters and headed home.

Captain Danvers hurried after, however, insisting that they'd need help to hang the evergreens. Once back at the cottage, Amy shared that task with him while Elinor helped Margaret and Maria tie up the mistletoe with ribbons. She put aside her anxieties and joined in the Christmas Eve excitement.

Captain Danvers hung the bough in the middle of the parlor ceiling and then stole a quick, light kiss from Margaret and Maria, pinching off a berry for each as they giggled. And then he did the same with Amy. It was quick and light, but afterward the two looked into each other's eyes as if startled.

Elinor would
not
believe in mistletoe magic.

Captain Danvers turned and pulled Elinor beneath the kissing
bough. If there was anything to the legend, she wasn't in love with Captain Danvers. But she already knew that.

When he left, Elinor provided a quick supper and then shooed the younger girls upstairs to bed. Amy remained to help her tidy up, still lost in a daze.

When all was done, Amy asked, “Will I have to wear mourning for Twelfth Night, Mama? It will be so close to the end. I don't want … But you understand!”

Elinor did. Come what may, it was time to face the future. “We'll all put on our colors. Why be crows at the feast? But we'll all have to spend some time on alterations, I fear.”

Amy hugged her. “Thank you, thank you, Mama! And … I think Sir Nicholas is the most wonderful man in the world!”

“Amy, you can't mean that.”

Amy flushed red. “Well, no. But … I have hopes … Oh, you know what I mean.” She raced upstairs, doubtless to spin wondrous dreams. Elinor remembered what it felt like to be sixteen and in love, perhaps now more poignantly than ever. She returned to the parlor, looking up at the mistletoe bough, rapt in her own impossible dreams.

Men of rank and fortune didn't marry penniless young women. Even less did they marry penniless old ones. But she wanted the impossible to be true.

It wasn't a matter of wealth and station, though it would certainly be pleasant to be Lady Danvers of Danvers Hall. It was Nicholas himself. His kindness, his intelligence, his gentle humor. Everything, including his broad shoulders, vigor of movement, steady blue eyes, strong hands.

At a clench of physical longing, she moved to pace the room; Lord save her, she might be tempted on the road to ruin by such physical hungers. It had been so long.…

Mince pies. The small oven by the kitchen fire was ready. She would make the pies instead of sinking into lewd thoughts.

She was rolling out the pastry when someone knocked on the kitchen door, but Sir Nicholas opened it without waiting. At the sight of her, he grinned.

“Oh!” Elinor put her hands to her face, only then realizing that they were floury from the pastry. “Why did you have to come barging in here?”

“My deepest apologies,” he said, putting a bottle of port on the table.

She turned to the basin of water to wash her hands, then wet a corner of her apron and scrubbed at her face.

“Allow me,” he said, and turned her to gently dab at some spots. “Though flour becomes you, my dear Elinor.”

Surely there was no mistaking the look in his eyes. “I'm five years older than you,” she said.

“Port improves with age.”

“Are you comparing me to
wine
?”

“Shall I compare thee to a well-aged port …”
he misquoted. “Good wine has depth, and warmth, and gladdens the heart. As you gladden mine.” He took her hand and led her into the parlor. “A very pretty bough. Now to put mistletoe to the test.”

“Should we?” Elinor whispered, frightened that his kiss might feel no different to his brother's.

“We should.” He drew her gently to him and put his lips to hers.

Warmth. A warmth greater than lips to lips, a warmth that spread gently through her, melting, softening. She looked at him and he looked at her, as lightning-struck as Amy and his brother.

Knowing.

There could be no doubt in that, or in the hunger that instantly ignited deep inside her. She pressed close again, opened
her lips to him, savored him, sliding her arms around him in order to be even closer.

She pushed back, but stopped herself from turning it into a panicked rejection. She shook with panic of another sort. She'd never felt anything like this before.

“In my opinion,” he murmured, “Miss Jane Austen knows a thing or two about mistletoe.”

“And about love. I do love you, Nicholas Danvers. I don't know how I didn't realize it months ago.”

“I've known for months, but you seemed such a stickler for the proprieties. When you denounced
Pride and Prejudice
, I feared I had a hard fight ahead.”

She chuckled, moving back to rest against his chest, despite or because of all her wicked hungers. “By all rights and reasons, you should not marry me, you know, any more than Fitzwilliam Darcy should have married Elizabeth Bennet.”

“We'll have no shoulds. The mistletoe has spoken.”

She melted perfectly into another kiss, as if they'd kissed a thousand times, his strong arms around her already familiar.

Amy crept to the parlor door, squeezed into her prettiest pink gown. It just fit if she didn't breathe too deeply. It would fit perfectly by Twelfth Night with some inserts of lace.

She peered around the corner and smiled, hugging herself in delight.

Sir Nicholas Danvers was going to be the most wonderfully perfect father.

As for his brother … time would tell.

She crept back upstairs to dream.

I
stood outside the Green Park Underground station with my tour leaflet thrust high in the air, ignoring the feelings of ridiculousness that made my arm waver. The leaflet should have been unnecessary for attracting notice, given that I was wearing a plumed bonnet, an empire-waisted long dress, and a little jacket known in Jane Austen's day as a spencer. On a busy London street on a Sunday afternoon, though, few people were paying any attention to my getup. That was good news and bad news. Because when you're trying to attract tourists to your bootleg Jane Austen tour, you're shooting for notice.

After five minutes or so, my arm started to ache from holding up the leaflet and my cheeks ached from smiling, but at last a middle-aged couple was heading toward me.
Ka-ching
. That would be six pounds each, which would at least buy a few groceries or top off my Oyster card.

“Do you know where we can find a restroom?” the woman asked in a nasal American accent. Midwestern definitely. Possibly Chicago.

“If you go back in the station and follow the subway under the
street, it's on the other side there.” I nodded across Piccadilly and its buzz of traffic. “I'll hold the tour for you.”

“Tour?” She looked at me strangely. “Oh. I see. I thought you were just … well, local flavor.” She and her husband turned and made a beeline for the entrance to the station.

Who was I kidding? I'd thought putting together a tour of Jane Austen's London would be easy money. I'd throw up a website, get a costume, and use my grad student's knowledge of my favorite author to drum up some much-needed income. As an American studying in London, I wasn't technically supposed to hold a job. I'd managed to wheedle my way into a few hours at a local bookstore, but London was expensive. Very expensive. I was going broke just washing my clothes at the laundromat. A young single female shouldn't have to choose between eating and not smelling. And then there was the small matter of next year's tuition.…

My arm started to wilt and the leaflet sank along with it. Well, it had been worth a shot. This was my third Sunday morning in a row holding up my leaflet, and I still hadn't had any takers. Perhaps it was time to throw in the tea towel.

Then I spotted him emerging from the station. You couldn't miss him, really. He was tall, made even taller by the high-crowned hat of a bygone era. Jane Austen's era, to be exact. The hat matched his dark brown cutaway coat, vest, and Hessian boots. Buff-colored breeches and a white shirt, complete with cravat and high collar points, finished off the outfit of a Regency gentleman.

I shut my mouth so it wouldn't hang open. What was this guy—the competition? I could tell him not to bother. He might be a nice-looking man, swoon-worthy really in that getup if one was a Jane Austen–inclined kind of gal, but I doubted he would be any more successful as a tour leader than I had been.

He spotted me, even without the leaflet in the air, and strode toward me with purpose. When he came to a stop in front of me, I had to look way, way up to talk to him.

“Are you here for the tour?” I asked in my best fake British accent. I'd been practicing it in the mirror for weeks now. I mean, how many tourists want a Jane Austen experience in an American drawl?

He smiled. A very nice smile, if a little crooked. He had dark eyes, brown hair, and a bit of a hook to his nose. Not exactly Colin Firth, but not too shabby either.

“I am indeed here for the tour.” His accent was much better than mine because it was authentic. His word choice was appropriate, too. When I'd dreamed up the tour, it never occurred to me that participants might turn up in costume as well.

“We'll just wait a few minutes for the … others.” I looked around, aware that my optimism was misplaced.

He pulled a pocket watch from his vest, opened it, and frowned. “A quarter past.” He joined me in looking around at the hordes of people passing by, all in distinctly modern clothing and none of them paying any attention to us. “Perhaps we should begin.”

In all my planning, it had never occurred to me that I might end up doing the tour for one person, much less a good-looking man dressed in period clothing.

“Yes, let's begin.” I paused, unsure what to say next. My plan had been to escort the group around the corner to a quiet spot and give my opening spiel. But wouldn't a guy who was dressed like Mr. Darcy already know all about Jane Austen? “This way please.”

We made our way down Stratton Street and then around the corner to stand in a recess along the front of a large office complex. Once upon a time, a stately London mansion, the home of
the Dukes of Devonshire, had stood upon the spot. Now it was a very posh office block.

I turned to my customer, swallowed past the lump of anxiety in my throat, and tried to keep up my accent.

“My name is Elizabeth.” I held out my hand expecting a handshake, but instead he took my gloved fingers in his and raised my hand as he made a small bow. For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss the back of my hand, but he completed his bow and then let go.

I felt strangely disappointed.

“And you are …?” I prompted.

A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”