by Nia Farrell
Ropes of spittle connect us when I take my cock from her swollen mouth. Hugh grunts and bucks, finishing in her arse, emptying himself in her dark passage. The mantle clock strikes three, alerting us to the time. Hugh may choose to stay, but I must go. I cannot risk oversleeping.
“Good girl,” I tell our kitten, who is still intimately joined to Hugh. “Cousin, it has been a pleasure, but I must take your leave. Are you coming, or will you stay?”
We took my carriage, as Hugh has none. He is the executor of my late father’s estate and was raised in privileged comfort and afforded the same splendid education as his older step-brother. But my true cousin is Earl, and Hugh, being adopted, will never inherit. The estate, the title—all of it comes to me on Geoffrey’s death, since he had no children with his late, barren wife. Left sterile after a fever, contracted when he was in college, and now suffering from the effects of syphilis caught from his mistress, he will never find a woman of our class willing to shackle herself to him, sad specimen that he is.
Perhaps Geoffrey should visit Hertfordshire.
Hugh circles his pelvis, wringing a response from our tired little kitten. He eyes the toys that remain unused. “I am staying,” he decides. “Safe journey to you, sir.”
“And to you,” I say. “Send word to Mrs. A. at the town house if you are…detained.” Mrs. Annesley is my sister’s paid companion. Georgiana deals with enough as it is, and neither of us wishes to unnecessarily add to her concerns. We have repeatedly assured Georgiana that she is safe, but that has not stopped the nightmares, or eliminated her fear of being taken again.
Hugh meets my solemn gaze and nods. “She will be fine,” he promises.
Thinking that he speaks of her, our kitten purrs.
Chapter Two
Charles was eager to show off his house to friends and family and preceded me with a large party. Among them are his five sisters, his brother-in-law George Hurst, and Hurst’s cousin Patrice, who shares Caroline’s nature (and very likely her bed from time to time).
Bingley’s eldest sister Louisa—Mrs. Hurst—made her husband George come, less for love and more for looks, to provide an acceptable partner for the dances that they plan to attend. Local assemblies are certain to be one of the few civilized amusements where I am headed, offering a rural version of the London marriage mart.
Charles did not disclose the names of those who came to stay with him. “A large party” was all that he said. On my arrival Sunday evening, I am disturbed to see the unwelcome face of a man known to cheat at cards and his sister who will do anything to achieve an advantageous marriage. Late that night, I seek out Charles in the master’s chambers to express my concerns. Having registered my protest, I open the door to leave and see the little slut sneaking into my room. Dragging Charles along with me, I open the door as her chemise falls to the floor.
Her plan was to lie in the dark and wait for me to find her naked in my bed, certain that I would be unable to resist the temptation to possess her. Which only proves how little she knows me.
I make Charles clean house the next morning. Half of his guests are sent packing. They will miss the upcoming assembly at Meryton, but that is their problem and none of ours. My concern is for Charles, and his poor judgment in friends and acquaintances. I, of all people, understand that it is his nature to follow, not lead. To serve and to please. Unfortunately there are those who are quick to take advantage of this, those who think of nothing but their own gain.
Five days later, that awareness yet colours my vision when we enter the hall at Meryton where the local assembly is being held. All eyes are on us, especially me, with fashionable clothes tailored to fit, a noble mien that marks my blood as blue, and whispers that spread rumors like wildfire, only this one—my ten thousand a year income—happens to be true.
Charles has assured me that I will not unduly suffer for partners, not with the family members whom he has brought. When push comes to shove, only two of his sisters attend—Miss Caroline Bingley and Mrs. Louisa Hurst, accompanied by her husband George.
Much to my dismay, every mother with an unmarried daughter is sizing up my fortune, and every unhappily married woman seems to be sizing my physique. I want none of them, and dedicate myself to helping Charles remember his limits. When the music starts, he is to have one dance per eligible female. Show no favouritism. Be pleasant but not passionate, no matter how pretty her face.
That is our plan, anyway.
When he spies Miss Jane Bennet, I swear that I can feel it unraveling, the thread pulling more with each tilt of her pretty head, each throaty laugh or guileless smile. She seems genuinely amiable, and popular, warmly received by everyone regardless of age, station, or gender.
Charles notices when she begins adding names to her dance card. Determined not to be left out, he begins his own campaign, following in her wake, making the acquaintance of the principal people there, employing every social grace to win them to him while my mood grows blacker and blacker. He manoeuvres his way toward Miss Bennet, one dance card at a time, until he reaches her and I see it, the way his head dips, his eyes drop.
He could so kneel for her.
Jesus God.
Unable to stand it, I begin to prowl the room, looking for my own diversion. Seeing no one whose nature matches my needs, I decline introductions and limit both my conversation and dancing to our immediate party, allowing one set each with Louisa and with Caroline. Charles, on the other hand, dances every damned set. With an overabundance of women, a gentleman will never lack for partners unless it is by choice. The chairs along the walls are kept warm by females obliged to sit.
Bingley takes time out between numbers to press me to join him.
I decline, of course. His sisters are engaged, and there is no submissive woman in the room who could take what my fingers itch to give. When I finally give him my Dominant look, he realises just how serious I am when I say that I will not dance.
“You know my feelings on the matter,” I tell him. “A local assembly is hardly the place to find potential partners, and there is not a woman in this room who would stand up to the punishment of my dance.”
He knows the one I mean. Bound to a bed, or dangling from a beam, writhing as my fingers stroke her cunny, bringing her to the brink of orgasm time and time again, until I finally allow her to come. There are a known 365 rooms in Pemberley; together, they number the days of the year. Yet no one considers Leap Year, or asks about the 366th room, which is dedicated solely to pleasure.
Charles gives a quick glance about, seeing who is within earshot before deciding how to phrase his response. “May I remind you that every woman kneels for King and country? Don’t be so fastidious. Upon my honour, I have never met with so many pleasing girls in my life as I have tonight. Several of them are uncommonly pretty.”
I look at the eldest Miss Bennet, a switch at best, when Charles needs a dominant female. “I see only one handsome girl in the room—” discounting his sisters “—and you are dancing with her. Again.”
He ignores my rebuke, too besotted to notice. “Oh, yes. She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. But she has a sister. Very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable.” It is his turn to give me a knowing look. Yes, I noticed Miss Elizabeth Bennet. A little too much spirit to easily submit.
I turn and catch her staring at me, clearly listening to our conversation. I give her a look that should have sent a submissive to her knees. She drops her gaze, but not immediately. I cannot let it pass without some punishment, verbal though it may be.
“She is tolerable,” I tell Bingley, knowing she can hear every word. “Not handsome, but not enough to tempt me. No one will notice my slight, when she is already slighted by other men. I am in no humour to give consequence to young ladies of…her kind. Now, you should return to your partner. She may reward you with smiles, but you shall get none from me.”
Charles obeys, returning to the eldest Miss Bennet. I walk away from her sister, eager to put distan
ce between us after I see her flinch beneath the lash of my tongue and begin to imagine what she would taste like. Once I am gone, she seems to recover quickly enough, and is soon engaged in conversation with her friends. I concede that she has spirit. She is animated and laughs easily, the same throaty sound as her sister, inspiring fantasies about other noises she might make.
I am pulled from my reveries by a frivolous flapjaw of a woman who plants herself next to me, bent on making idle conversation. I wish that I could brush Mrs. Lord off like a pesky fly. As it is, I allow one response, then shut the hell up. Rather than say something I might regret, I imagine a ball gag in her mouth and a collar on her neck, imagine her husband taking a leash and bringing her to heel, putting her in a corner with a bowl, far, far away from me.
By the end of the evening, Charles has a bevy of new friends and acquaintances and I have none, by design. I do not intend to stay here. Hopefully Charles will come to his senses and leave when his lease is up, never to return, but on the carriage ride home, all he can talk about is Miss Jane Bennet, and all I can think of is her sister.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet may not be handsome, but she is pretty enough to have caught Caroline Bingley’s eye, either as a potential conquest or a threat or both. I know Caroline’s nature, as she senses mine. We are both ones to command, but she would be willing to switch, were I to deem her worthy of pursuit. The joining of our families by marriage would be most advantageous to the Bingleys, but whatever her schemes, there is little hope in that regard.
Caroline is not one to readily obey and I would require it. Charles and Georgiana are both sweet natured and biddable, which would be a disastrous pairing. Were they to wed, they would need a strong, guiding hand—a third party, in their case, someone like Hugh….
Or not. Bingley has no interest in men, and while Hugh and I tend to spoil Georgiana, he takes our shared guardianship of my sister very seriously. He is older. She is his ward. There is as much chance of a match between them as between her and Charles.
The confines of the carriage ensure a captive audience for the duration of our return to Netherfield Hall. Listening to Caroline and Louisa pick apart the fashions and the females in attendance, I realise just how big a bitch Caroline Bingley can be. When she starts to disparage the second-born Bennet sister, I realize that I must be mute, or at least pretend to agree with her, lest she suspect my particular interest in Miss Elizabeth.
Caroline asks my opinion on the Bennet sisters. For Charles’s sake, I deem Miss Jane to be the fairest flower in Hertfordshire. Where Miss Elizabeth is concerned, I am evasive. “She, a beauty? I would as soon call her mother a wit.”
After that, I try to stop my ears, turning my thoughts inward, imagining the knots that I would like to make, the harness I would create to suspend Miss Elizabeth Bennet in my dungeon, naked and breathless with anticipation of what is to come. Her mouth would be the perfect height. The angle I’ve created would allow me to go deep into her throat, or take her from behind, holding her hips as I pound into her, forcing one orgasm after another from her, until she ejaculates, fluids bursting from her dam, drenching the both of us to drip onto the floor.
With no moonlight to speak of, the darkness hides my body’s response until I manage to bring it under control. By the time we arrive at Netherfield Hall, I am once more in command. Thankfully the rest of the household is abed and Caroline is all talked out. The ladies bid us goodnight and leave the men to our port, one last drink before retiring.
Charles is still giddy, a puppy eager for the newest mistress of his heart. This is not the first time I have seen him this way, and I am certain that it will not be the last. Unlike my Aunt Catherine, or even Caroline, the eldest Miss Bennet lacks the air of command that Charles requires. I resolve to give him a month. Six weeks at the most. If he has not come to his senses by the first of December, I will help him along.
I finish my glass and set it on the library table. The room is bursting with books, none of which are Bingley’s. Charles uses the space for social drinking and salubrité rather than the edification of the mind. Alas, you may lead a man to a library, but you cannot make him read. Or at least I have not been able to. Perhaps Miss Bennet can help in that regard before her time is through.
My lips tip up sideways as I picture her, draped on a chaise longue, with her feet in Charles’s lap as he reads to her. When the image fades, I bid him goodnight. “Bingley. Hurst. Pleasant dreams. I shall see you at breakfast.”
There are soft sounds coming from Caroline’s room. Patrice is no doubt helping her undress, and vice versa. Thankfully, my room is on the far end, between Charles and the Hursts. Knowing them as I do, there will be no sounds save snoring coming through the walls from either chamber.
Due to the lateness of the hour, I decide to not ring for help and undress myself, draping my clothes neatly on the back of a chair, setting my shoes and folded stockings beside it, lastly exchanging my dress shirt for the one worn to bed last night, after evicting my interloper. Had it been a housemaid freely dedicating herself to greater service, I might have considered letting her demonstrate her oral skills, but to my knowledge, there are no female servants here of that nature and only one young man.
I fall asleep thinking that Hugh should come to Hertfordshire. I awaken marveling at what the devil I was thinking. Hugh would hate it here…or would he? Troops are stationed in Meryton for the winter, and idle hours in the coldest months might make for new bedfellows. I could forward the information but choose instead to withhold it. My mind is set on Charles quitting this place, not tempting others to join us.
A bevy of Bingleys are gathered around the table in the breakfast-parlour. Unlike the Bennets, at least the Bingleys have a brother. Poor Charles, the second-born child and only son, with five sisters and a brother-in-law of more fashion than fortune to support. When Charles inherited, it was expected that he would purchase an estate (fulfilling the dream that was his father’s). He has chosen instead to rent in different locations, to see how they suit and compare them before making such a commitment. Or perhaps he hopes that marriages will reduce the size of his household. If fate is not kind in that regard, or if his younger sisters choose husbands unable or unwilling to support them, it is possible that Charles will simply continue on thusly, and leave it for the next generation to buy a Bingley seat.
Louisa is the eldest sister at the age of four and twenty. Sharp-eyed Caroline is next in line, both in age and temperament. As the oldest unmarried sister, recently turned twenty, it is her province to manage Charles’s household—keeper of the keys, as it were. The elder two sisters lift themselves up by putting others down, including the three youngest sisters, who seek the shelter of their adoring brother’s wings when in danger of being pecked to death. Victoria, not quite eighteen years of age, is a shy girl but gifted water colourist. She is closest to Charles in looks, with fair, freckled skin and a wealth of ginger hair, but with green eyes to his blue. Fair-haired Marissa is sixteen and plays the flute. Her nearly-identical twin Clarissa is almost as proficient at the pianoforte as my sister Georgiana, but Caroline delights in commanding the keyboard, as much to keep attention on herself as to deny her sister joy.
George Hurst’s cousin Patrice is here, the only holdover from the others who left. She sits across from Caroline, with an occasional telling look passed between them. The table talk centers on last night’s assembly, denied the three youngest girls because Caroline remains unwed and has refused to let them come out. Another situation that needs addressed, but not this morning.
Unlike last night in the carriage, when I turned a deaf ear, I take interest in the conversation, hoping to glean information that can be used to further my cause. The consensus is that Miss Jane Bennet is a pleasing girl who smiles too much. There is nothing else to recommend her—no connections, no remarkable talent—nothing that warrants pursuit of her friendship, except that Charles is smitten. He refuses to stop talking about her fair hair and bright eyes, her light
feet and graceful dancing, and on and on until Caroline throws up her hands and agrees to invite Miss Bennet to supper on Tuesday.
Charles smiles like a cat in cream. It is a common enough look for him, though short-lived in the two years that I have had his acquaintance. Our sisters met first, having the same piano master. Bingley and I were introduced at their recital, which heralded the beginning of an instant friendship and easy camaraderie. Charles was drawn to my commanding presence, and I enjoyed the novelty of having a platonic male acquaintance with a quick wit and a desire to please. We have been friends ever since.
I frown, disliking Charles’s unfocused gaze. I have known Bingley long enough, I can tell that he already imagines Miss Bennet here as a guest, if not more, romantic that he is.
Bloody hell.
I had considered returning to London, but now I am stuck. There is no way that I will leave Charles to Miss Bennet’s devices, whatever they are. If there is more to her than a pretty face…I need to know how she presents herself before I can prove her not necessarily wrong but wrong for him. I am certain that Caroline would agree with me, and will welcome the chance to nip this in the bud. She has as much to lose as anyone. For now, she lives with her brother and runs his household. The moment her brother marries, she will be mistress no more.
At least not outside of her bedroom.
Suddenly, Caroline, then Louisa, begins to sing a new tune. They allow that Miss Bennet is indeed pretty. They admire her. They like her. Pronouncing her a sweet girl, they tell Charles that they have no objection to knowing more of her.
Victoria’s jaw drops when Caroline agrees to send a note to Miss Bennet anon. She does not sense, as I do, that Caroline has already found a way to work this in her favour. Caroline is coldly calculating, and crafty enough to know how to pick her own battles. Joining forces with her would be like holding an asp near my bosom and trusting it to not turn and strike. We may have the same goal, but we will work independently to achieve it.
