The Captain of Her Fate: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  Shivering at the thought, she slipped the book into the pocket of her dressing gown, locked the cabinet, and put the key back exactly where she found it. Then, with her womb aching intolerably, she made her way back upstairs to her bedchamber.

  After locking the door and cast off her robe. The bedroom was freezing, and when she slid into bed, the cool of the crisp white sheets gave her goose pimples. For some time, she lay there in the soft candlelight, imaging Theo doing to her the things the handsome Italian had done to Polly in the book. Rather than bringing her relief, however, the fantasy only enflamed her the more.

  In desperation she braved the cold to retrieve her secret treasure from her dressing-gown pocket. Opening to where she’d left off, she read:

  But guess my surprise, when I saw the lazy young rogue lie down on his back, and gently pull down Polly upon him, who giving way to his humour, straddled, and with her hands conducted her blind favourite to the right place; and following her impulse, ran directly upon the flaming point of this weapon of pleasure, which she staked herself upon, up pierced, and infixed to the extremist hair breadth of it…

  Louisa shuddered, ready to die from longing. Had the household not been asleep, she would have cried out in frustration. She must have relief. She simply must. So what if her only outlet was wicked? She had already sinned by welcoming—nay, encouraging—a man’s courtship in defiance of her father. Worse yet, she yearned for the Captain to do to her all the things the Italian had done to Polly.

  What was self-pleasuring compared to that? And besides, who would discern her guilt apart from herself and God? Nobody. Not even Theo would know how wantonly she fantasized about him.

  With her fingers, she explored that part of herself that was swollen and tingling. The ache was unbearable; the longing a torture that burned her from the inside out. She did not really understand the sensations coursing through her. She only knew she needed to be free of the terrible throbbing between her legs. One of her fingers touched a spot—a small cluster of nerve endings—that seemed to hold the key to ending her suffering. How had she not known it was there? How had she not known her body was capable of producing such sublime sensations? Why had the world so wickedly kept this secret from her?

  Touching herself again, her pleasure spiked. She moaned and hugged her pillow to her. The building pressure was exquisite torture. She continued to rub, licking her finger when it got too dry.

  Yes. Oh, yes. This was what she longed for. To burn, to be on fire. Like Juliet, Guinevere, or Isolde. The only thing that could make it more wonderful was if Theo was here to impale her with his weapon of pleasure.

  The inner fire reached a fever pitch. Then, something inside her seemed to break open like a pipe. Pleasure gushed through her, leaving her quivering and breathless as she, too, expired in an agony of bliss.

  * * * *

  Theo shifted restlessly in his bed and tried not to think how good it felt to have Louisa’s body pressed against his while their tongues danced so deliciously. How divine those few moments had been—but also how dangerous.

  I want to burn, Theo. Like a fiery comet shooting across the heavens.

  That boldness of spirt, which he so adored, would get her into trouble one day—possibly as soon as tomorrow. For he did not think he could resist her if she tried to seduce him. He was only a man, after all—and one who’d denied himself the sweet pleasures of the flesh far too long already.

  Had that gentleman not interrupted them, God alone knew what might have happened in that banquet room. Why had he agreed to meet her there? Could he honestly say he had no notion with might occur? No, he could not. But he went anyway. Because he was an idiot who let his cock override his better sense.

  He closed his eyes and tried again to put Louisa out of his mind. Dearest, loveliest Louisa, who had seeped under his skin as indelibly as the swallow tattoos on his chest and forearm. The only way to get rid of her now was to cut out not his flesh, but his heart—and he had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

  Because he loved her, dammit, and could not live without her. He wasn’t quite ready to offer her marriage, but felt confident he would be very soon. Maybe not tomorrow or the day after, but certainly before she would be compelled to marry her contemptible cousin.

  The question was: Could he wait that long to satisfy his passion for her? Maybe, if he saw to himself. Yes, it was a sin, but certainly a lesser one than fornication. Not that he had not committed both innumerous times already, along with many others. Killing and dishonoring his father (with just cause), for example, as well as taking the Lord’s name in vain.

  In God’s eyes, were there greater and lesser degrees of sin? Maybe and maybe not. Either way, he could not imagine that, with all the evil in the world, God cared a jot whether a man induced his own climax or not.

  With that thought in mind, he reached under his nightshirt, striving no longer to block the memory of what transpired between him and Louisa in the banquet hall. On the contrary, he took the liberty of embellishing what was in truth a fairly innocent encounter.

  In his mind, he did not pull away when she reached inside his trousers. Instead, he bared her breasts and suckled her nipples while she stroked his grateful erection. His hand was her hand, pumping and pulling and pinching in all the right ways.

  What pleasures she bestowed unwittingly with that clever hand of hers!

  At the moment of crisis, he reached to the bedside table for his handkerchief. Onanism might not be a serious sin in the eyes of God, but he still had his dignity. And that was a vast deal more than he could say for his shipmates, who “Boxed the Jesuit” without the decency to stifle their grunts and groans.

  How glad he’d been to be promoted to a position with his own quarters, where he could box without an audience!

  Thirteen

  It being Sunday, Louisa was in church, doing her best to tune out Pastor Woodbridge’s sermon on morality. Having hidden Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure in her prayer book, she had far more interest in what was transpiring between Fanny Hill and her numerous patrons, friends, and lovers than anything the curate had to say. Attentiveness, moreover, would only promote feelings of guilt. And why invite shame when she had not the least intention of repenting?

  As the minister droned on about chastity and virtue, Louisa returned to her reading:

  I, struggling faintly, could not help feeling what I could not grasp, a column of the whitest ivory, beautifully streaked with blue veins, and carrying, fully un-capt, a head of the liveliest vermilion: no horn could be harder or stiffer; yet no velvet more smooth or delicious to the touch…

  Louisa tried to imagine what the author described, but could not quite draw the mental picture. From a few pews behind, she could feel Theo’s eyes burning a hole in the back of her bonnet. Much as she longed to turn around, she did not dare with her father so near. Over breakfast, Papa gave her permission to spend the rest of the day at Greystone Hall with Miss Raynalds, and Louisa was not about to tempt fate (any more, that was to say, than bringing his stolen book with her to church). For now that she knew what ecstasies a man could arouse in a woman, she could hardly wait to be alone with her secret suitor again.

  Might she persuade him to reveal the object she could not envision?

  When at last the service drew to a close, Louisa clutched her book to her bosom and exited the church with her family. Tingling with anticipation, she waited for Theo’s party to emerge. When, at length, they appeared, she endeavored to catch the Captain’s eye.

  The moment he saw her, he tipped his hat and came over. “Good morning, Miss Bennet. How well you look this fine day. And what a becoming frock that is.”

  The dress remarked upon was one of her favorites. Tea-green silk with a high waist and puffed sleeves, the gown had a wide band of rusching around the hemline.

  She lowered her gaze to his trousers, which displayed very clearly the shape of his manhood. “Thank you for the compliment, Captain.”

  �
�Did you enjoy the sermon?”

  “I might have…had I paid the least attention to it.”

  Mirth twinkled in his sea-blue eyes. “Did you not?”

  She leaned closer, her thoughts still on his penis. “Can I trust you with a secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was reading.”

  He laughed robustly. “Why Miss Bennet, you shock me. Reading novels in church? What is one to think?”

  Her face burned like a struck match as she hugged Memoirs to her bosom. She was sorry now she’d confessed her secret to him.

  One eyebrow shot up as his gaze landed on the book. “Is that the offender there?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “May I see it?”

  She held the book tighter. “No.”

  Just then, to Louisa’s tremendous relief, his sister joined them. “Dear Miss Bennet. How delighted I am to see you looking so well! And what a pretty dress that is. My brother tells me you are coming home with us this morning. Is he telling the truth?”

  Louisa flicked a questioning glance toward Theo. “Did he also tell you the reason?”

  “He did,” the Captain replied.

  Worried about his sister’s good opinion, Louisa turned back to Miss Raynalds. “I hope you do not think less of me as a consequence.”

  “On the contrary, I could not be more delighted.” With a wink, Miss Raynalds added, “Did I not tell you he would come around?”

  Louisa blushed and looked away just in time to see two bay hackneys pulling an open landau toward the church. The driver wore the livery of Greystone Hall.

  When the conveyance stopped before them, she turned back to the Raynaldses in time to hear the Captain ask his sister to locate Lt. Churchill.

  As soon as the girl set off on her errand, Theo opened the carriage door. “We will drop Winnie and Churchill at Greystone before setting off on our own. Do you have any notion where we might go?”

  “I thought we might visit the ruins of Buildwas Abbey.”

  He grinned at her in a deliciously salacious manner. “An Abbey. How fitting. It being Sunday and all. But must we conduct ourselves piously while touring the ruins?”

  She returned his smile with lust in her heart. “Certainly not.”

  He laughed and helped her into the landau, taking the forward-facing seat on the right-hand side. She took the one across, as was proper, for only fallen women sat on the left side of a gentleman in a carriage.

  A troubling thought struck Louisa as she straightened her skirts. Was she, in fact, a wanton? She strongly suspected she was, given her improper desires. Young ladies of good breeding were not supposed to entertain such feelings. Fortunately, the Captain seemed unaware of her passion for him (or her preoccupation with his “weapon of pleasure”), so her reputation was still safe.

  That would change in an instant, however, if they were spotted out together unchaperoned.

  “Perhaps we ought to put the top up before we set off,” she suggested.

  “I shall when we reach Greystone,” he said, “though it seems a shame to waste such a beautiful day shut up in the carriage.”

  It was indeed a beautiful day. Clear and sunny with a slight cool breeze, on which she detected the scents of wildflowers and freshly cut grass.

  Theo said, “Tell me more about this Abbey you wish to visit. Is it far?”

  “The ruin is near Ironbridge, which is just over five miles away,” she told him. “Although Wenlock Priory is closer, the likelihood of us being seen together is much higher there.”

  They dropped the subject when the rest of their party appeared. After helping Miss Raynalds into the carriage, Lt. Churchill took the seat next to his friend while the young lady claimed the spot beside Louisa.

  When they reached the manor, Theo invited Louisa to take her ease while the servants readied the landau for their outing. After enjoying a cup of tea and a slice of honey cake, she followed him outside to the now-covered carriage. He asked her to tell Mr. Bell, his driver, which way to go before helping her in through the right-hand door. Following her with some effort, he claimed the seat beside her.

  The carriage lurched as they set off in the direction of the main road. As they bounced along, he scooted closer and set his hand atop hers. The thrill of his touch, even through their gloves, sent a shiver of longing through her. She hoped he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her with passion, but he only asked her to tell him more about the Abbey.

  Having grown up in Much Wenlock, she knew quite a bit about the area’s ruins. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Well, for starters, which order established it?—and in what year?”

  “The French Congregation of Savigny, a hermetic order found on the ideals of St. Benedict, established the monastery in the twelfth century.”

  “And it fell into ruin, I suppose, during the Reformation.”

  “You suppose correctly.”

  He smiled at her and her heart beat faster. “Your interest in the history of the area does you credit.”

  His compliment pleased her, but not half as much as the kiss he gave her. Though it was no more than a peck on the lips, she was elated.

  “I have wanted to do that since I first spied you in church.”

  She batted her eyes at him. “And I have wanted you to kiss me even longer than that.”

  “Then allow me to do it in a manner more worthy of our patience.”

  Pulling her to him, he devoured her mouth in a way that liquefied her bones. As their tongues enmeshed, he reached into her bodice, withdrew her right breast, and ran his fingertips lightly over the nipple. Instead of protesting as any proper young lady would have done, she delighted in the erogenous tingles his intimate touch produced in her.

  Breaking from the kiss, he cupped her breast and moved his mouth toward it. She gasped when he closed his lips around the astoundingly sensitive tip. His mouth was hot and his tongue incredibly soft. As he flicked the tip against her nipple, her sex spasmed delectably.

  When he began to suckle, she grew drunk on the thick, sweet port of sensual pleasure. All the while, her fingers burned to explore the enigma between his legs; to feel its smooth texture, bulging veins, and vermillion head. Would she find it wilted or rigid? Lord, what she would give to know.

  She moved her hand down the front of his waistcoat. Her heart fluttered as she neared her target. When her fingers brushed the bulge in his trousers, he made a sound that was half-sigh and half-groan.

  Releasing her breast with a pop, he cocked his head and looked at her. “What are you doing?”

  Her face caught fire. “Is that not obvious?”

  “Indeed it is, though I daresay your motives are less so.”

  “I have no motives.”

  “Then I strongly suggest you refrain from touching me again the way you just did.”

  She regarded him narrowly as she tucked her breast back into her bodice. “Then I suggest you refrain from touching me again the way you just did.” With a coy smile, she added, “Even if I did enjoy it immensely.”

  At that, they both laughed, easing the tension some.

  As the carriage approached the bridge spanning the River Severn, she slid toward the window. “Did you know this is the first cast-iron bridge ever built?”

  He leaned over her to look out. “I did not.”

  “Well, it is—and was forged nearby at Coalbrookdale, the first foundry in the world to smelt iron. They also make cookware and very fine gates.”

  They talked on about foundries and mining—safe-albeit-dull topics—until the carriage stopped before the ruins. Once they disembarked, she took his offered arm and walked with him along the open-air nave.

  As they walked, she asked about his upbringing. “Were you fond of your parents?”

  “I was fond of my mother,” he said revealingly.

  She looked up at him with one eyebrow arched. “Not your father?”

  “I cannot tell you how many nights I slept on the floo
r outside my mother’s room to keep her safe.” He paused to lick his lips. “I know it sounds terrible—and probably makes me an unfeeling ingrate—but I was not the least bit sorry when I received word of his death.”

  She squeezed his arm. “I do not think what you felt makes you an ingrate. For I shall shed no tears for my father, either.”

  Theo stopped walking. “Does he ill-use you, Louisa?”

  “He does,” she said, turning from him in shame. “Not only by beating me, but also by treating me like an object to be bartered rather than a human being. For I am sure that if he cared at all about my happiness, he would not make me marry my cousin.”

  Theo moved in front of her and clasped her arms. “How often does he beat you?”

  “Quite often.” She pushed the words past the lump in her throat. “For he has a terrible temper, you see. Sometimes, as awful as it sounds, I wonder if he derives a perverse kind of pleasure from birching us all.” She took a breath and forced herself to smile. “But let us not speak of such dreary topics, for it will only ruin my good mood.”

  “I admire your resiliency,” he said as they began to stroll again.

  As they stepped into the chapterhouse, she asked how he became his sister’s guardian.

  “My mother died while I was away fighting,” he somberly replied. “The letter our pastor wrote to inform me of her passing took several months to reach my ship and, by the time I was able to return to Portsmouth to make provisions for Winnie, she was nowhere to be found. After weeks of searching, I located her in an orphanage, so thin and pale I scarcely recognized the poor creature.”

  “How dreadful that must have been.” Louisa’s heart ached for him and his sister. “What did you do?”

  “I pulled her out of that awful place and put her in the finest finishing school my newfound fortune could buy.”

  Louisa, more impressed with him by the minute, now understood why his sister had the poise of a lady instead of the rough manners of an urchin.

  “Do you have any siblings other than Winnie?”