Pride and Punishment: An Erotic Retelling of Jane Austen's Beloved Classic

by Nia Farrell

  No. No one has ever written a poem about Miss Elizabeth. I am certain of it.

  For some unfathomable reason, this makes me smile. Seeing it renders Miss Elizabeth speechless but her mind is far from quiet. It is busy. So very busy behind those midnight eyes of hers.

  Mrs. Bennet repeats her thanks to Charles for his kindness to Jane and apologises for troubling him with Lizzy, making it sound as if she is some onerous burden, inflicted upon him. My hackles raise. Charles knows from the set of my jaw how tight a leash I am keeping, and Caroline sees it too. Striving to keep the peace, they are both civil in their responses, saying what the occasion requires. Caroline is still a frosty bitch, but the words are correct and Mrs. Bennet is satisfied, enough to order her carriage brought round.

  Chapter Ten

  Faced with the prospect of leaving, the youngest of the daughters dares to put herself forward. The two who came with the mother have spent a great portion of their visit with their heads pressed together, whispering.

  “Mr. Bingley,” fifteen-year-old Lydia says, speaking with a natural assurance far beyond her years, “when you first came to visit us, you promised to give a ball at Netherfield, but you have not! You have not! Surely you have not forgotten? I should warn you, it will be the most shameful thing in the world if you do not keep your word!”

  Charles uses the opportunity to forward himself in the mother’s eyes. “I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement,” he says. “When your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.”

  “I accept.” Lydia beams. “And yes, it would be much better to wait until Jane is well. By that time most likely Captain Carter will be at Meryton again. And when you have given your ball,” she adds, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.”

  I raised a questioning brow and glance at Miss Elizabeth. She does not look at me. Instead she catches her bottom lip between her white, even teeth and worries it. After the fantasies about her that I have entertained and the self-gratification I have achieved while so doing, the sight sends a jolt of electricity south and threatens to bring my cock to life. Fortunately her family rises to leave and she sees them out, returning upstairs to her sister and relieving Louisa of her turn.

  “You missed it,” Caroline chortles to her married sister. “The Bennets. Four of them. Here in this parlour. The mother, arguing with Mr. Darcy over degrees of variance in society and the little one daring to ask Charles to host a ball. At least Miss Elizabeth, with her fine eyes, had the grace to blush from embarrassment of having such a mother!”

  “Oh, dear,” says Louisa. “I am sorry that I was not here. But Jane is too sick to leave, and Patrice and Minerva just…just… disappeared. Again! I do not know where our sisters have gotten off to.”

  Victoria, Clarissa, and Marissa are likely in one of their bedrooms, discussing all things Bennet.

  My thoughts hold only one at the moment. Miss Elizabeth. She is worried for her youngest sister. She managed to separate her from Colonel Forster at the ball in Meryton, but evidently it was only temporary. The girl has had contact with him, of that much I am certain. How recently and in what fashion remain to be discovered, as well as finding a way to keep her from him.

  Fuck, fuck, and double fuck.

  Preoccupied, I have managed to block out Caroline and Louisa’s conversation, until deliberately peppered references to fine eyes manage to snare my attention and draw me back to the present. “I was saying, Mr. Darcy,” Caroline trills, “that I shall be happy when our guests are gone. I dread the thought of the mother come calling again, with all of her chicks in tow.”

  Rather than speak ill of Mrs. Bennet, I say nothing. Caroline would have no qualms about filing it away for misuse later on. Instead, I excuse myself and ask Charles if he wishes to visit the kennels with me. Those are the only bitches I welcome at the moment.

  I must miss my dogs more than I realise. I am used to them, of course, having had a canine companion of some sort or the other since I was toddling. The current ones are fine, large dogs, capable of keeping up with me on horseback, let alone on a long, brisk walk about my estate. They were bred to be guardians and so stay close by.

  Bingley’s dogs are hunters, with hearts bent on birds, sharp eyes, keen ears, and sharper noses. They long to run, and I am in the mood to let them. Gavin agrees that an outing will be beneficial and chooses a pair of setters for us to take out whilst Charles returns to the house, his heart bent on the eldest Miss Bennet.

  Gavin and I stay out two hours, enjoying the sunshine that warms the worst of the chill whilst we put the dogs through their paces. Had I a fowling piece, I could have harvested enough birds to grace Netherfield’s table for a week. As it is, I admire the dogs’ pointing, holding, flushing, the explosion of colour and feathers as the pheasants take flight.

  I return to the house as Louisa and Caroline are coming downstairs. I hope to God that they were civil, at least, when they visited Miss Jane in her illness. Wishful thinking on my part, I know. I may not approve of her for Charles, but no one deserves to suffer from such censure as Louisa and Caroline are wont to give.

  The day passes much as the one before. Miss Elizabeth maintains a faithful vigil with her sister, who is reported to be improving. Dinner for two is sent to the sickroom, denying Caroline the chance to make disparaging remarks upon her mother’s bad behavior and her youngest sister’s impertinence. When Miss Elizabeth finally joins us, I am in the midst of writing a letter to my sister. Caroline hovers close by, sneaking peeks when she thinks I do not notice and offering suggestions for inclusion. George and Charles are playing piquet with Louisa as observer to their game.

  Miss Elizabeth takes up some needlework that Virginia had offered to let her work on, should she find her fingers in need of preoccupation. Caroline is like a jackdaw. She simply will not shut up. She wants me to include commendations, compliments my handwriting, admires the evenness of my lines, and praises the length of my text.

  “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”

  I say nothing. Miss Elizabeth pauses mid-stitch, then continues sewing.

  Caroline persists. “You write uncommonly fast.”

  For pity’s sake. “You are mistaken,” I tell her. “I write rather slowly.”

  “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”

  Of course she would think them odious. She seldom reads, let alone writes. Miss Bennet, on the other hand, strikes me as a letter writer. With her curious mind, I could easily imagine her with pen pals around the globe who send her tales of strange customs in exotic places. “It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.”

  “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”

  Not again. Once is enough, and I tell her so. She then offers to mend my pen, slanting a look that teems with innuendo. Miss Bennet seems not to notice.

  “Let me mend it for you,” Caroline begs, glancing at the clock, as if to hasten bedtime. “I mend...pens…remarkably well.”

  Christ in heaven. Patrice and Minerva cannot return too soon. “Thank you, but I always mend my own,” I tell her, giving her a quelling look that she promptly ignores.

  “How can you contrive to write so even?” Caroline wonders, attempting to stroke my ego when I will not let her handle my pen.

  Miss Elizabeth keeps stitching, but there is a telling curl to the corner of her lips that says she is enjoying this, perhaps a bit too much.

  Caroline seems oblivious to my vexation. “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”

  Miss Elizabeth is smiling now. She has lifted her hand to
hide it.

  What I wouldn’t give to lift my hand and spank her bared bottom. No, Darcy. That will not do.

  “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”

  “Oh! It is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”

  Long? That varies. Charming? That depends. If Caroline had not been so intrusive and allowed me free rein of expression, my letter would have been very different indeed. I would have reminded her that Hugh would want her to be strong, as he must be, to endure his time at Rosings. As it is, I mention his name only in passing, while noting that Caroline Bingley is with me as I write. Georgiana will know that I have written a missive fit for public viewing. No dirty laundry aired here.

  “They are generally long,” I say, “but whether always charming it is not for me to determine.”

  “It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.”

  Charles, overhearing us, comes to my defence. I suppose. “Caroline! That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”

  Miss Elizabeth’s dark eyes are fairly dancing.

  “My style of writing is very different from yours.” Of course it is. Stunted speech forced me to master the complexities of language through the written word. Charles has never had to prove himself.

  Caroline needles her brother. “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”

  “My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them,” he protests, “which means that my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”

  After Caroline’s thrust and Charles’s parry, Miss Elizabeth seeks to play peacemaker. She clears her throat and looks to her host. “Your humility, Mr. Bingley, must disarm reproof.”

  I, on the other hand, would play the devil’s advocate. “Nothing is more deceitful than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.”

  Charles demands an explanation. I cite two: his pride in his rapidity of thought that makes for poor letter writing, and this morning’s panegyric, boasting how he would quit Netherfield in a heartbeat, when in actuality, such precipitance must leave very necessary business undone.

  “I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity,” I tell him. “Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it. You would probably not go—and at another word might stay for a month.”

  Miss Elizabeth takes exception to my remarks and mounts a defence on Bingley’s behalf. She thinks that his yielding, readily and easily, to the persuasion of a friend has no merit with me. Me, for whom submission means everything.

  But she does not know this. Cannot know this. Still, I am compelled to answer. “To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.”

  Submission must serve a purpose. Otherwise, what is the point, for the Dominant or the submissive?

  Miss Elizabeth argues that one must allow for the influence of friendship and affection on behavior. She observes that in small matters, a person may choose to comply with another’s desires without waiting to be argued into it.

  She has a point. I make another. “Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?”

  Caroline raises an eyebrow at this. Innocent sounding as it is to Miss Bennett, it is exactly what I would be discussing with her, if I wished her to kneel in service to me. The importance? Utmost. The degree of intimacy…well, that would be limited. I am certain that she is a virgin still. I would need to keep her hymen intact, to instruct her in the erotic arts while avoiding vaginal penetration. I guarantee I would put that mouth of hers to better use than defending Charles Bingley to me.

  “By all means,” Charles pipes in. “Let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, in particular places—” I stiffen slightly when he refers to my clubs “—and at his own house especially.”

  Fuck. Not just my clubs. Room 366 as well.

  “And of a special Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.”

  I release the breath that I have been holding. Charles is being silly now. No clubs, no pleasure room, no secrets kept or revealed.

  I crack a smile. Miss Elizabeth checks her laugh. Caroline chastises Charles for talking such nonsense. Arguments are set aside, and I finish my letter to Georgiana.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I should have been done long before now,” I tell Caroline, sliding my glance to Miss Elizabeth, “but for the interruptions and interjections. Since demands were made on my time, it is only fair that I make demands on yours. Miss Bingley, Miss Bennet, I believe that music would prove beneficial to me. Indulge me, please.”

  Caroline, attention whore that she is, makes a beeline for the pianoforte. Her sister is close behind her. I had hoped to hear Miss Bennet sing, but Louisa is already warming up. Thwarted, I make a new plan of action, rise from my chair, and approach our guest. “Miss Bennet, if you will lead the way…?”

  Miss Elizabeth moves closer to the pianoforte and seats herself. I remain standing. I listen to Louisa sing while Caroline plays, but I do not watch them. I watch her. Miss Elizabeth notices and tries to figure out why she has captured my attention. Is it admiration? Dislike? Or is it simply because she is not one of us? We may be new to the neighborhood, but she is the stranger in our midst.

  After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley strikes up a lively Scottish air. I cannot resist going to Miss Elizabeth and prodding her, just a bit.

  “Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

  She smiles but makes no answer.

  I repeat the question, somewhat louder.

  “Oh!” she says. “I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure in despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all. Now, despise me if you dare.”

  Indeed, I do not dare.

  Presented with her honesty, I now must face mine. I do not despise Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Far from it. She has the spirit, the intelligence, and the fire that call to me. Her honeyed voice, her gentle wit, her skillful dancing, her sense of loyalty, and selfless service to her invalid sister only draw me in deeper.

  I do believe, if it were not for the inferiority of her family’s connections, I might be in some danger.

  Caroline senses my growing attraction to Miss Elizabeth and, the next day, follows me outside. I had hoped to take a walk to clear my thinking. Instead I am harangued by Charles’s sister, who takes glee in planning a fictitious marriage between Miss Elizabeth and myself and imagining my happiness in such an alliance.

  “I do hope you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit a
nd impertinence, which your lady possesses.”

  I am sorry, but Caroline is hardly one to talk of another’s conceit when hers is so very great. To keep the peace, I humour her and ask if she has another advice for my domestic felicity.

  Caroline’s eyes turn shrewish. She suggests placing portraits of the Bennets’ solicitor uncle and his wife in Pemberley’s gallery next to my great-uncle the judge. “They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you must not have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”

  What painter indeed.

  “It would not be easy to catch their expression,” I agree, “but their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.”

  At that moment, we are met by Louisa and Miss Elizabeth herself.

  Caroline forces a smile and greets them. “I did not know that you intended to walk.” She makes it sound accusatory. Like me, she wonders if we have been overheard, but unlike her, I have spoken the truth and have said nothing to be ashamed of.

  Louisa bristles. “You used us abominably ill, running away without telling us that you were coming out.”

  With that, Louisa abandons Miss Bennet and lays claim to my other arm—the one without Caroline clinging to it. The path is only wide enough to accommodate three. Recognizing their deliberate rudeness, I seek to assuage and suggest going into the avenue where we might all walk together.

  Miss Elizabeth sees it as an opportunity to escape the sisters’ lashing tongues and insists that we stay where we are. “You are charmingly grouped and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye!”

  Spinning on her heel, she runs off, laughing, free from the Bingleys. Free from her sickroom duties.

  Free from me.

  I am too much the gentleman to abandon Charles’s sisters and complete my walk as planned. I do not see Miss Elizabeth again until dinner. Her eyes are bright, her spirits raised. Her sister, it seems, is well enough to come down for a short while. When the men join the ladies in the drawing room, I see that Miss Jane is well-guarded against the cold, and that someone—Miss Elizabeth, no doubt—has brought an extra blanket.