by Nia Farrell
Flexing my hand on the ornately patterned knob top of my walking stick, I press my fingers into its intricately chased silver, feeling the cool metal warm beneath my grip. Caroline Bingley eyes my hold and looks at me curiously.
I allow her half a smile. She is, after all, desirous of the same end result—although not quite as concerned with how well it ends, so long as it ends. Amicably or badly, it makes no difference to her.
“And how is your evening?” I ask, all politeness.
She sighs dramatically and wrinkles her nose behind her fan. “Dreadful,” she whispers. “I pled fatigue with the last fellow, but I cannot put them all off. For my brother’s sake, if they are bold enough to ask for a turn, I am obliged to consent. Just so you know, Charles has accepted an invitation to Sir William Lucas’s assembly next Friday. Thank heavens, it is a private affair. The caliber of company should be improved—perhaps enough that you can be prevailed upon to abandon your cane and dance with me. Are you certain that you cannot be tempted?”
I slant a look down at her, examining her guileless face. Guileless, except for the calculating gleam in her eye. Like most women her age, Caroline looks to the future and how best to provide for it. Married to a man of my income, she would lack for nothing—including maidservants whom she might prevail upon, who would willingly submit to her and feed her need for control. Or she might install Patrice as a permanent guest and look no further than the door across the hall to assuage her natural desires. It is her marriage bed that would be unnatural. I cannot imagine that she or her husband would find happiness in it, merely duty fulfilled, some pleasures of the flesh while engaged in the act, with the intent to procreate.
“No,” I tell her, looking across the dance floor where Miss Elizabeth Bennet moves like a goddess among mortal men. “No. I cannot be tempted.”
I will not be tempted.
Not by Caroline, and not by her.
Chapter Five
On Sunday evening, Miss Jane Bennet arrives betimes, descending from the carriage with a half-hour to spare. She beams at us, her easy smile equally bestowed on servants, Bingleys, Hursts, and me. Nothing appears to displease her. She seems… genuine. When exchanging pleasantries, she sounds sincere in her compliments, freely and easily given. Charles basks in her sunshine, warming himself in her praise of his new coat, the flowers in the foyer, the gleam of the marble tile, the perfect pitch of the pianoforte that Clarissa is playing in the drawing room down the hall. She is all amiability, and thus far unassailable. But she lacks the air of command that Charles requires and has not demonstrated the willingness—let alone the desire—to lead where he would follow.
Tonight’s courses do not include pheasant. We have checked that box, as it were. Having demonstrated his skill as a hunter and his success in providing for his table, Charles now seeks to prove himself the perfect host. Low arrangements dot the center of the dinner table, with candlelight casting a soft golden glow to the dining room, which is a fraction of the size of Pemberley’s and not nearly so fine. Ten place settings are ranked on each side and the two ends, with Miss Bennet seated near Caroline, who overruled Charles’s wish to place her at his end of the table.
The youngest Bingleys behave themselves and refrain from asking about the other Bennet sisters who are out before the eldest is married.
After dinner, Caroline claims the pianoforte. Not content with denying Clarissa joy, she insists that Miss Bennet join her and sing for us. Miss Bennet blushes and demurs but, in the end, acquiesces and performs. Much to Charles’s delight, she has a pleasant enough voice and the range to trill the song that, I am certain, was chosen by Caroline because of its degree of difficulty.
I am curious what Caroline’s next move will be. She seems as calculating as a chess master bent on neutralizing the opposing queen—Miss Bennet, in this case. I have yet to learn anything that might persuade Charles to abandon his folly. Her social rank, while far beneath my own, is not as distant to that of the Bingleys, whose fortune comes from trade. Charles could overlook her lack of connections, even her lack of a dowry (given the size of his inheritance) if she were truly the woman to command his heart.
But I do not see it. I simply do not see it.
There is nothing in her manners, in her looks, in her conversation and speech—nothing that suggests that she has the steel in her corset that he needs. And if she does not have it, there is no hope for them. None. I just have to make him realise it.
A light supper is served in the drawing room, and cards begin thereafter. Miss Bennet is a studied player, remembering hands, counting cards, betting cautiously, folding when a bolder player would see and raise the stakes. Either she is not a passionate person or she has cultivated the ability to simply sound and appear content. Pleased.
With everything.
If there is a disagreeable bone in her body, I have yet to find proof of it.
Charles has promised Mrs. Bennet that he will have her daughter home at a reasonable hour. Evidently there is an appointment Monday morning with the dressmaker in Meryton, and a new gown to debut at Sir William Lucas’s All Saints Day ball at the week’s end. After the second hour of cards, Miss Jane folds her hand for the final time and asks that the carriage be made ready to take her home. Her kindness to his younger sisters has already endeared her to them, and protests erupt when she says that she must go. Seizing the opportunity, Charles insists that she return for dinner two days hence and celebrate Victoria’s eighteenth birthday with us.
I say nothing about Miss Bennet upon his return. Indeed, I strive to steer his thoughts to subjects as far removed from the residents of Meryton as I can. But, alas, there is no escaping them, not on Tuesday evening, nor on Friday when we are ushered into Lucas Lodge and, as newcomers to the neighborhood, are welcomed as guests of honour.
Charles is disappointed in the extreme that the Bennets are not yet here. When they arrive shortly thereafter, he is like a drone in spring, flying to his queen, blissfully unaware that he is one of the many who wish to partner with her. No doubt, she will leave a trail of bodies in her wake.
To mate with a queen bee is to die, penis ripped out and body cast aside once service is provided and duty is done.
My thoughts jump to Aunt Catherine and cock-and-ball torture, never a good pairing in my mind. Shaking it off, I catch Miss Elizabeth Bennet watching me, studying me. Those dark eyes flash—with mild shock, then with hurt pride. Scratching at the surface, she thinks that she knows the reason for my revulsion. Just as clearly as she has misjudged me, I can see that she believes me to be repulsed by her.
I curse my luck that Miss Elizabeth happened to be standing in the line of fire, as it were, when I was trying to erase the mental image of a penis and testicles constricted and silence the echo of my aunt’s laughter. From the wounded look in those midnight eyes of hers, I have added injury to insult, however innocently done.
Hurt, she seeks refuge with Miss Lucas, Sir William’s daughter. From what maid Marian says, the two are fast friends. Soon Miss Bennet is tossing her head and laughing, a throaty luscious sound that snares the attention of every man within earshot, Colonel Forster among them. My hackles are raised when he manoeuvres into position and strikes up a conversation with Miss Bennet. From her easy manners, she must not know about him, otherwise she would keep her distance from him and his aide, who, unless I am much off my mark, sees to the Colonel’s every need, however intimate.
Perhaps they like to share.
There is no explaining the sense of unease that I feel, watching them engaged in conversation. If I but knew what they were saying, I could set my mind at ease and clear my conscience of this nagging sense of responsibility, that I have somehow steered her toward an unknown danger. If anything would happen, and I did nothing to prevent it…
I sigh. There is no help for it. I must find a way to warn off Colonel Forster, let him know that Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s cap is to stay firmly upon her chestnut head and not adorn his bedpost.
Damn him.
Displeasure is roiling off of me by this time. Keenly aware of my poor luck where Miss Elizabeth is concerned, I tamp it down and edge closer, lifting my chin, catching Forster’s attention, and leveling him with the full weight of my gaze before I shutter it. Mission accomplished, I stay close by, just in case.
I almost say something when Miss Bennett suggests that the Colonel give a ball in Meryton. With younger sisters who chase after any red-coated, red-blooded man of rank and Forster himself, as licentious as they come, how can she think it wise? The Bennet sisters are but sheep to his kind. To court Forster’s company is to court disaster. An invitation from him would be like a wolf asking the neighbor’s flock to his den, on the pretense of socializing with his pack.
Miss Elizabeth is clueless, of course. She notices my interest in her conversation with Colonel Forster and remarks upon it to Miss Lucas, her equally clueless friend.
I do not know whether to be amused or dismayed by their naiveté.
No matter. I consider Forster warned away. My self-appointed duty done, my conscience clear, I seek out Charles to remind him—again—that he needs to limit his dances to one set per partner. From the way he avoids eye contact, I can see that I am too late. All that is left is to partner his sisters for one turn each and watch the rest of the evening unfold, counting the hours until we leave.
I find myself watching Miss Elizabeth, with her chestnut hair caught up in a style that compliments her face and figure. Neither her countenance nor her form is perfect by modern standards of beauty; however, her throaty laugh, her graceful dancing, her…enthusiasm…more than make up for her deficiencies. For the second time in as many minutes, I find myself entranced, watching her with her partner, those striking dark eyes aglow with delight as she perfectly executes the most intricate of steps. I may one day regret that I shall never know how she moves in bed with her ankles around my neck. If asking her to dance would not invite speculation as to my particular tastes and give rise to unreasonable expectations, either towards Miss Bennet or any other female with a half-full dance card, I believe that I could be persuaded to lead her in a contredanse or the Boulanger.
As it is, I am expected to stand up with the host’s wife and daughter. Seeing that Mrs. Lucas is engaged, I search the crowd and find Miss Charlotte Lucas speaking with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Hmm. A quandary. I cannot ask Miss Lucas to dance without extending a second invitation to her friend. Then again, it provides the perfect opportunity to ask Miss Bennet to dance without appearing to single her out.
Squaring my shoulders and softening my face, I approach the two women. Miss Lucas is nearly my contemporary, far past the age when most young women marry. Miss Elizabeth is of that age and, as such, should greet me with a welcoming smile, if not promises of pleasure, yet I sense a satirical lift to her eyebrow, and those midnight eyes of hers—so dark a blue as to be almost black—sparkle with a hint of mischief. I do not have long to learn what she is about.
“Do you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”
When she was baiting the bull and ignored every red flag that I was throwing? “Yes,” I say a bit tightly. “But then most women wax eloquent on subjects dear to their hearts.” Seizing the opportunity when Miss Lucas is momentarily distracted, I lean and whisper, for her ears only, “You were clever, Miss Bennet, but unwise. Some men should not be teased.”
She stiffens imperceptibly and drops her gaze to her folded fan. “Sir, you are severe on us.”
Sir. One word to fall from those full, expressive lips, and suddenly I want more.
Jesus God. I must be mad. Or desperate. Or both.
Fuck.
Her bosom heaves with a small sigh. I swallow, my mouth gone painfully dry. She has deliciously small breasts, barely large enough to fit my hand, no doubt sensitive, as small-breasted women tend to be. With the layers of clothing, I would only be guessing that her nipples are hard, but the riot of gooseflesh that dimples her skin tells me that she is not unaffected.
Miss Lucas follows the line of my gaze and rushes to rescue her friend from my scrutiny. “It is your turn to be teased, Eliza. I am going to open the instrument, and you know what follows.”
What follows is a performance that will inspire fantasies for nights to come. Miss Elizabeth’s soft white hands and dexterous fingers playing the pianoforte. Her honeyed voice is like liquid gold, a rich contralto, turning the most innocent of tunes into a decadent delight. I cannot help noticing that her white throat and swan’s neck are perfect for wrapping fingers around. And those luscious lips of hers, which are so very, very expressive….
I imagine them parted. Imagine her panting, sweet moans escaping, then vibrating against my length as she swallows me to the root.
Double fuck.
By the time that she finishes her performance, I am ready to ask her to dance…until the chilling sound of her mother’s voice acts like ice water thrown on my libido. My sanity restored, I dance instead with Miss Lucas (as daughter of our host), with Sir William’s wife, and with Charles’s two sisters.
My obligations met, I am a free man once more.
Sir William notices that I am unencumbered and offers to introduce me to Miss Mary King. I demur, striving to keep my tone civil despite his meddling. Just then Miss Elizabeth Bennet approaches us.
“My dear Miss Eliza,” Sir William snares her with his hand and voice as she passes by, interrupting whatever mission that she is on. I follow the line of her anxious gaze across the room, to where her youngest sister is laughing with Colonel Forster. “Why are you not dancing?” our clueless host inquires. “Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.”
I have no doubt that she would be, if I were in the habit of seducing virgins, which I am not. That particular kink is George Wickham’s, not mine.
Damn him.
“You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.”
When he seeks to give Miss Elizabeth’s hand to me, she pulls away, refusing to touch me, anxious to separate her sister from the Colonel. That she listened to my warning pleases me greatly, and softens the effect that her words might otherwise have had.
She says with some discomposure to Sir William, “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”
I am ready and willing to lend my aid in handling the Forster situation. “Might I offer you my hand?” I say meaningfully, flicking a glance toward Forster.
“No,” she says simply, her voice a bit strained and her nerves starting to fray the longer that our host detains her.
Miss Bennet does not wish to give offense, but Sir William simply will not let it go. “You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”
No. No. That will not do.
“Mr. Darcy is all politeness.” This, with a forced smile, just as quickly gone. She catches her plump bottom lip between white, even teeth and worries it.
Would that I could bite it. Would that I could watch her, those fine eyes hood
ed with desire, breasts heaving with each panting breath, her body stiffening as she climaxes, bathing my hand with her passionate release.
She smells like night-blooming jasmine.
I wonder how she will taste.
“He is, indeed,” our host agrees, “but, considering the inducement, my dear Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance—for who would object to such a partner?”
She looks archly at him and turns away, headed for the youngest chick hatched in the clutch of Bennet sisters.
I keep my gaze fixed upon her, curious to see how she will manage separating her sister from the Colonel. Sighing at opportunity lost, Sir William moves on to his next potential pairing, and Caroline Bingley takes his place.
“You seem preoccupied. By what, I wonder?” She tips her head and looks down her nose at the potential disaster waiting to unfold on the far side of the room. “Do not tell me. Let me guess the subject of your reverie,” she purrs, showing her claws just a bit.
Miss Elizabeth whispers to Miss Lucas, who peels off, leaving the two Miss Bennets with the Colonel and his aide.
“You may try.”
“Come now,” she says. “I know what you must be thinking.”
That Forster is living dangerously. That Miss Elizabeth Bennet is either incredibly reckless or extremely clever.
That I would very much like to see her naked. On her knees. Better yet, across my lap as I spank that arse of hers for what she dares tonight.
“Do you? I should imagine not.”
She affects a sigh and guesses, “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What I would give to hear your strictures on them!”
“Your conjecture is totally wrong,” I assure her. My mind is more agreeably engaged. “I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.” Especially streaked with tears, pleading for mercy.
