Sense and Sensibility (The Wild and Wanton Edition)

by Lauren Lane

  “In defence of your protégé you can even be saucy.”

  “My protégé, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature.”

  “That is to say,” cried Marianne contemptuously, “he has told you, that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome.”

  “He would have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been previously informed.”

  Why was her sister so determined to change her opinion of dull Colonel Brandon? Could she really believe him to be a matter match for her than the dashing Mr. Willoughby? Or did Elinor harbour some kind of inexplicable ill will toward Willoughby and was just using Brandon as a possible (though, really, impossible) deterrent, since he was the only other man around? Marianne wanted to scream some sense into her sister; Elinor was clearly mad if she thought she would ever — could ever — choose the geriatric Brandon over her perfect Mr. Willoughby.

  But, Marianne tried to reason with herself in an effort to calm down before she said something imprudent, Elinor could not be blamed for being so ignorant. Elinor clearly had no idea of the magic of being with a man, the exhilarating freedom of letting oneself go and doing what felt good. She hadn’t spoken of Edward since they left Sussex, hadn’t even shed a tear — and she was supposed to have been in love with the man! Clearly Elinor was a novice when it came to matters of the heart, so Marianne could not begrudge her her witlessness. Still, she didn’t have to agree.

  “Perhaps,” said Willoughby, “Brandon’s observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins.”

  “I may venture to say that his observations have stretched much further than your candour. But why should you dislike him?”

  “I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every body’s good word, and nobody’s notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year.”

  “Add to which,” cried Marianne, “that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression.”

  “You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,” replied Elinor, “and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart.”

  “Miss Dashwood,” cried Willoughby, “you are now using me unkindly. You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection. Several times, he caught her watching him with a hungry look in her eyes, the look of a woman nowhere near satisfied. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Though the cottage was small and Willoughby and Marianne were never afforded the opportunity to be alone in each other’s company — as there was always a Dashwood (or a Middleton or a Jennings or a Brandon) within hearing distance — Willoughby knew in his bones their reunion would not be much further delayed.

  Elinor could not be surprised at Marianne and Willoughby’s attachment. She only wished that it were less openly shown — she knew first hand, after all, what it was like to follow your heart instead of your head only to be cast aside afterwards, and she knew that, should Marianne experience a similar devastation, she would not be as well equipped to handle it as Elinor herself. Once or twice she ventured to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne, but Marianne abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration of their opinions.

  One day, a day much fairer than the day on the hill, Marianne and Willoughby found their chance.

  The evening before, Sir John had invited the Dashwoods and Mr. Willoughby, who always seemed to be around lately, to luncheon at the house the next day. Willoughby feigned to consider the invitation, and then after a pointed yet private glance in Marianne’s direction, he made a large show of remembering a prior commitment in the village that would surely take up the entire day. He thanked Sir John for his gracious would-be hospitality and promised to take him up on his offer as soon as a mutually agreeable day could be determined.

  The invitation was still open to Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters, of course, and the women accepted happily.

  Marianne lay awake half the night in anticipation of the following day. She’d perfected her excuse, set out her favorite dress, and taken extra care during her bath, and all that was left was to imagine what might happen when she and her Willoughby were to finally be alone together once more.

  Just before the time came to leave for the Middletons’ home, Marianne put her hand to her head and sat down in the parlour dramatically. “Oh dear,” she murmured, loud enough for her mother and sisters to hear.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Dashwood asked, hurrying to her daughter’s side.

  “I have just been stricken by a terrible headache,” Marianne said, gingerly leaning her head back. “I am so sorry, but I just don’t think I will be able to make it to luncheon to-day.”

  Mrs. Dashwood placed her hand on Marianne’s forehead soothingly. “We shall all stay home then. Margaret, please bring me some stationery so I can send our hosts a letter.”

  “No!” Marianne cried, perhaps a bit too forcefully. She quickly regained her composure. “What I mean to say is, please don’t cancel your plans just because of me. You all go, have a nice time. It will behoove me to take advantage of a quiet house anyway.”

  Mrs. Dashwood studied her daughter carefully and then said, “Well, if you are certain … ”

  “Oh yes, Mother, I am more than certain. I shall retire to my room for an afternoon nap and I’m confident I shall awake feeling much restored.”

  Mrs. Dashwood seemed satisfied at that, and she and her eldest and youngest daughters whisked out the door. Shortly after they disappeared from sight, Marianne heard the gal
lop of a horse approaching and her heartbeat sped up. She sprung from her perch in the parlour, fluffed up her curls, readjusted her breasts so that they sat pert and enticing under the fabric of her bodice, and threw the cottage door open.

  There, wearing a grin that made her stomach churn in anticipation, was Mr. Willoughby. They stood there in the open doorway, staring at one another for a suspended moment, and then Marianne curtsied. “Mr. Willoughby. Welcome.”

  He bowed, his lips curling in amusement. “Thank you, Miss Dashwood.”

  “Would you like to come in?” She stepped aside.

  “I would.” He removed his hat and entered the cottage. Looking around, he said nonchalantly, “Is anyone else at home?”

  “No. My mother and sisters have only recently left for Sir Middleton’s, and the servants have gone into the village for supplies.”

  Mr. Willoughby’s grin became even more pronounced as he kicked the front door shut and came close to Marianne. “Yes, I saw your family leave. I was waiting at the top of the hill, disguised by the trees. I came down the moment I felt sure I would go undetected. I could not stand to be apart from you for one second longer.” His body was right up against Marianne’s now and he tenderly fingered the curls that surrounded her face.

  Marianne’s heart swelled at his admission and she lifted her face up to his. “The feeling is mutual, Mr. Willoughby. These past weeks of seeing you but being unable to touch you or speak the thoughts in my mind have been a torment.”

  At that, Willoughby grabbed a handful of her dress, pulled her tight against him, and hungrily took her mouth with his own. Marianne’s lips parted immediately, and she threw her arms around him, running her hands through his hair, as their tongues danced eagerly. Their connection was even more explosive than the last time, as now they had weeks of pent up lust pouring out of every cell in their bodies.

  As Marianne nipped at Willoughby’s lower lip with her teeth, he let out a groan and took her breasts in his hands. They were round and full and the perfect size to fill his hands. He yanked the top of her dress down to free her breast, ripping the shoulders in his haste, but he did not stop his actions. “I apologize, Miss Dashwood,” he murmured as he leaned down to bring his mouth to one of her ripe and ready nipples. “I shall buy you another one.”

  “Do not apologize for anything to-day, Mr. Willoughby,” she replied, gasping as his tongue rapidly circled one of her peaks. She pressed herself further into his mouth and he took her willingly, sucking firmly. With his hand he reached up and pinched her other nipple tightly between his forefinger and thumb, using his nail to add a hint of sharpness to the sensation.

  The combination of his soft, wet, luscious sucking on one breast and his sharp, almost painful tweaking on the other pushed Marianne swiftly toward the edge. She fell back against the door, moaning in pleasure. And then, so quickly she didn’t even feel him do it, he switched, taking the other breast into his mouth and teasing the wet one with his fingers. All at once, Marianne cried out, her body shuddering with intensity, and she threw her hands to either side of the doorjamb to keep herself upright.

  Slowly, Willoughby pulled back from her breast and took in the sight before him. Marianne was flushed with pleasure, her legs still quivering, her top half exposed in all its delicious glory, her nipples pointing straight towards him like the barrels of two rifles. He felt himself harden even more at the view, and reached forward to rid this gorgeous creature of her clothing once and for all.

  He’d had plenty of practise undressing women, so he knew exactly what to do to release her body in a matter of seconds. Her dress and undergarments fell to the floor, and there she stood, the most exquisite, desirable specimen he had ever laid eyes upon. He’d expected her to feel self conscious, embarrassed even, standing before him in nothing but her own skin, but she bored him with eyes that screamed her aching desire for him. She ran a hand across the back of her neck and down her chest, cupping one of her breasts teasingly, then travelled down her stomach to the thatch of soft hair between her legs. But before she could go too far, he reached out and stopped her.

  No. She would not let him stop her now. She would make sure he knew exactly what she wanted, just as Fanny had always done with John. “I want you to do what you did to me on the hill that day,” she whispered, her voice steady and sure.

  A groan escaped his throat and he whisked her into his arms and brought her into the parlour where he threw her slim, lithe body onto a sofa.

  Marianne watched, her heart thumping with raw need as he disrobed. Her gaze went directly to his arousal and she saw, in perfect clarity, the thing that she’d stroked so rapidly that day on the hill. It was different than she’d imagined — longer, pointing out toward her severely, but it did not scare her. Instead, the thought she’d had that rainy day returned to her — she needed to know what it would feel like to have this inside her, for Willoughby’s beautiful, masculine body to be joined with hers.

  She reached out toward it, spreading her legs almost subconsciously, but he backed away just enough to be out of her reach.

  “But … I want … ” she protested, trying to find the right words.

  “I know what you want, Miss Dashwood,” Willoughby responded. “You told me. You want me to make you feel the way I made you felt on the hill.”

  Oh, yes, Marianne thought, I do want that. She nodded eagerly and he chuckled, kneeling down on the floor beside the sofa and swinging her body around so that her knees were on either side of him.

  He ran his fingers over her slickness, parting her folds to tease her. He just continued to rub, his fingers getting closer to the place at the top of her sex that was begging to be touched, circling just around her center but never quite getting there. Marianne raked her hands through her hair in frustration, sending pins flying, arching her hips towards Willoughby. “Please, Mr. Willoughby … ” she moaned.

  He gave her that amused smile once more. “Please what, Miss Dashwood? Tell me what you need.”

  “I need … ” She swallowed. “I need you inside me. Now.”

  His fingers crept closer to her opening.

  “No, not your fingers,” she said, panting with want. “You.”

  He laughed softly. “But I thought you wanted me to touch you the way I touched you on the hill … ” He was teasing her. He was doing this to her on purpose. She hated him for it — and she loved him for it.

  “I was wrong,” she screamed as his fingers finally grazed across her pleasure spot. “You. Now.”

  With that final plea, Mr. Willoughby growled with his own need and thrust himself inside Marianne’s moist, warm center.

  At first, she was confused. Was he doing something wrong? Why did it hurt so? It wasn’t supposed to feel like this, was it? How could her body be begging so ceaselessly for something that would cause her such pain?

  She yelped softly with agony and her body froze. “Mr. Willoughby,” she gasped. “It … it hurts.”

  He pulled out slightly and then pushed in again. “I know, my dear, I know. This happens the first time. Just try to relax. It will get better.”

  She nodded and held on to his shoulders as he slid out and then in once more. She concentrated on loosening her muscles and imagined her body stretching to accommodate him with each thrust. It began to work. She began to open up, her body learning to accept his manhood. A few more thrusts, and the pain subsided and was replaced by a version of what she’d experienced on the hill but much, much better.

  Marianne moaned softly, and Willoughby knew that she was enjoying herself now. And dear Lord in heaven, so was he. She was so tight, so wet, so open for him. Of all the women he’d been with, Marianne fit him like a glove. He began to work his hips more creatively, rocking into her in tempo with her heartbeats, thrusting in hard, pulling out soft, teasing her opening until she was begging for more.

  He pushed himself inside and as far as he could go, then moved around within her. He felt his release coming, and needed it as desper
ately as he needed air to breathe, but he needed to mark this woman well, to make certain she enjoyed her time with him so much that she would always be begging for more. He licked his thumb and then ran it over the ripe bud peeking out from just above where their bodies were conjoined.

  The combination of Willoughby pleasuring her internally and his finger teasing her externally pulled Marianne to a level of ecstasy she hadn’t known possible. Her body exploded into a million pieces of pulsating energy, her release blasting into her so hard she thought it entirely possible she would faint. She screamed Willoughby’s name until the windows shook, and as the sensation finally began to recede, his hand pulled away and he began to thrust harder, more rapidly than he had before now.

  “Oh, Marianne!” he groaned, his eyes red hot and his brow beaded with perspiration.

  “Oh, Willoughby!” she moaned back, holding his gaze and spreading her legs wider for him.

  Their hips were colliding with unbelievable force and she felt his body tremble as he exploded into her.

  Willoughby collapsed on top of Marianne, and she ran her fingers lightly over his moist back. She never wanted this moment to end, but after a few long seconds, he withdrew from her and began to dress.

  She did the same, her body feeling light and billowy, as if it were made of water.

  When they were fully presentable once more, Willoughby grabbed Marianne and kissed her hard. He placed his forehead against hers and breathed, “You are perfection. We are not finished.” And then he left, leaving Marianne alone in the cottage once more.

  She hugged herself tight, filled with joy and satisfaction and love, and watched him gallop away. “No, my Willoughby. I dare say we shall never be finished.”

  • • •

  Marianne Dashwood was in love with John Willoughby. And there was every indication he felt the same for her. Their need for each other was so unquenchable that they began to devise ways to see each other. While out on a shopping trip with her sisters, Marianne, having informed Willoughby of their agenda for the day, would duck away and meet him in a secluded alleyway or a shop’s back room.