Sense and Sensibility (The Wild and Wanton Edition)

by Lauren Lane

  “Hum” — said Mrs. Ferrars — “very pretty,” — and without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter.

  Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough, — for, colouring a little, she immediately said —

  “They are very pretty, ma’am — an’t they?” But then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added, “Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton’s style of painting, Ma’am? — She does paint most delightfully! — How beautifully her last landscape is done!”

  “Beautifully indeed! But she does every thing well.”

  Marianne could not bear this. She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor’s expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth —

  “This is admiration of a very particular kind! what is Miss Morton to us? who knows, or who cares, for her? — it is Elinor of whom we think and speak.”

  And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law’s hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

  Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, “Miss Morton is Lord Morton’s daughter.”

  Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister’s audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne’s warmth than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon’s eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.

  Marianne’s feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrars’s general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister’s chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice —

  “Dear, dear Elinor, don’t mind them. Don’t let them make you unhappy.”

  She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor’s shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body’s attention was called, and almost every body was concerned. Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did. Mrs. Jennings, with a very intelligent “Ah! poor dear,” immediately gave her her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair.

  In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.

  “Poor Marianne!” said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention: “She has not such good health as her sister, — she is very nervous, — she has not Elinor’s constitution; — and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who has been a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. Now you see it is all gone.”

  CHAPTER XXXV

  Elinor’s curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between the families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise free; — and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her own sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars’s creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward’s being fettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced.

  She wondered that Lucy’s spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of Mrs. Ferrars; — that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she was not Elinor appear a compliment to herself — or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared by Lucy’s eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.

  The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.

  “My dear friend,” cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, “I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrars’s way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck with it?”

  “She was certainly very civil to you.”

  “Civil! — Did you see nothing but only civility? — I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me! — No pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the same — all sweetness and affability!”

  Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go on.

  “Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,” said she, “nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you; — but as that was not the case — ”

  “I guessed you would say so,” replied Lucy quickly — “but there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan’t talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women, indeed! — I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was!”

  To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

  “Are you ill, Miss Dashwood? — you seem low — you don’t speak; — sure you an’t well.”

  “I never was in better health.”

  “I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I should be sorry to have you ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world! — Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship.” —

  Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied —

  “Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward’s love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! — But now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Middleton’s delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister — besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now; — and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are such charming women! — I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot speak too high.”

  But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she should tell her sister. Lucy continued.

  “I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never a
fter had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way — you know what I mean — if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know it is most violent.”

  Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door’s being thrown open, the servant’s announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward’s immediately walking in.

  Elinor’s heart leapt into her throat at the sight of him, and it was as if every feeling she’d ever beheld for the man — attraction, desire, confusion, anger, love — rushed back into her body at once, overwhelming her ability to speak or think properly. Edward appeared to be feeling the same, for he simply stared at Elinor, his mouth opened slightly as if he had been about to say something but lost his train of thought half way through and had forgotten to close it again.

  Edward did not know what to do with himself. He’d come here with the purpose of seeing Elinor once more, of enveloping her in his arms and feeling her pressed against him like he did every night in his dreams. He’d had it all planned out. He would invent whatever excuse was necessary to get Elinor alone, should she not be alone already at the time of his arrival, and he would let his actions say what he could not, after all this time apart. He would show her how her loved her.

  He would take her mouth with his, hard at first, then gradually becoming slower and softer, tracing the edge of her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, and then gently taking that lip, swollen from his kiss, between his teeth, tugging playfully. Then he would slip his tongue into her mouth once more, and kiss her like she deserved to be kissed, with all the love and admiration in the whole world. Then, eventually, he would break away from her delicious mouth, kissing down her jawline and neck, tasting every inch of her soft flesh down to her breasts, where he would rip off her bodice and take her perfect, erect nipples into his mouth. He would suck and tease and nip and lick until she cried out with pleasure and begged him for more. But he wouldn’t indulge her just yet. Instead, he would slowly, achingly slowly for both of them, undress her, casting aside the torn dress, and sweep her beautiful body off the floor. She would wrap her legs around his waist, grinding against his rock hard arousal tauntingly as he thrust his tongue into her mouth once more. He would kiss her and kiss her, letting her know that she was his and he was hers, that it didn’t matter if they never made love again — if he could kiss her like this for the rest of eternity, it would be more than he ever deserved.

  But she would soon show him that it didn’t have to be that way — that he could kiss her and do whatever else he wanted with her, because when they were together, there was no outside world, no mothers, no secret engagements, no careers or fortunes to worry about. When they were together, everything was perfect.

  Edward would lay Elinor down on the sofa and undress himself, enjoying that delighted glint Elinor always got in her eye when she laid eyes on his manhood. But she wouldn’t get it — not yet. First he would lick and kiss her from the tips of her toes, up her ankles and smooth, firm calves, up her inner thighs, where she would quiver with want and need, and then bury himself between her legs, tasting everything she had to offer him. She would spread her legs wide for him, letting him see and feel and taste all of her, and pull her head more closely to her center and she erupted with spasms of passion. He would feel that glow deep within him that he always felt when he brought her to completion — the satisfaction that he was the only man who had ever brought Elinor to this point of sheer ecstasy, and the wish that he would forever be the only man to be given that honour.

  She would look up at him with low-lidded eyes and whisper just one word: “Please.”

  And he would deny her no longer. They would both cry out as he entered her, and they would rock together in time as they reached their release in one perfect, simultaneous moment. And then, after a few moments passed, they would do it again, and again after that, for Edward knew they would never tire of each other.

  Edward took a deep breath and clenched his fists at his sides, his groin stiffening at the fantasy.

  But none of that could happen, of course, no matter how much he wished for it, as the rather unexpected appearance of Lucy Steele had thrown everything into disarray.

  Lucy Steele, his fiancée. Here with Elinor, the only woman he would ever love. Edward was so stunned at this unfortunate turn of events that he feared he may become sick, for it was clear that now Elinor knew everything and equally clear that Lucy, thank the heavens, had not been afforded the same opportunity. The situation being was it was, it was simply impossible for anything to be said on the matter.

  With Edward’s plans spoilt beyond recognition, all he longed to do now was get Elinor alone — not to play out his fantasy, but to have the opportunity to explain. Lord knew what she must think of him now. He could only pray that she would not hate him forever.

  It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them. They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy’s business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.

  But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment’s recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.

  Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy’s, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor’s.

  Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that was said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother’s health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did.

  Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and that in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne’s joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister.

  “Dear Edward!” she cried, “this is a moment of great happiness! — This would almost make amends for every thing?”

  Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked
by Lucy’s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne’s altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her.

  “Oh, don’t think of me!” she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, “don’t think of my health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both.”

  This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression.

  “Do you like London?” said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.

  “Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!”

  She paused — no one spoke.

  “I think, Elinor,” she presently added, “we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge.”

  Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else.

  “We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull! — But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now.”

  And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private.

  “But why were you not there, Edward? — Why did you not come?”

  “I was engaged elsewhere.”

  “Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?”