Now it was becoming stultifying. At least Caroline had her supposed virginity to protect. But Louisa, safely married, could throw herself at Fitz with abandon, and with no fear of any embarrassing consequences. Damn! He hadn’t thought of that when Charles had explained that his elder sister, Mrs. Hurst, and her husband would be staying with him in his household. “Household,” indeed. It was Fitz she liked living with, Fitz she tormented with her constant adulation, egging Caroline on in her hopes of eventual wedded bliss, and implying, with every word, every look, that in marrying one sister he would gain the favors of both.
Charles rolled over and kissed Fitz on the lips, interrupting his thoughts. “Are you going to lie there like a log all night? Or can a man hope for some help with his trouble?”
“What trouble?” Fitz asked, the corners of his mouth curling up in a smile. He knew the answer to this old joke, but what joy to hear it again.
“Why, this stiff thing,” Charles said, waving his erection almost in Fitz’s face. “It just keeps growing and growing, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Oh, you poor man,” Fitz said, playing the scene out to the end. “Let me see what I can do.” He sat up, rolling Charles onto his back again, and knelt between his friend’s spread thighs. Charles’s engorged cock was leaping and drooling in a state of near release, all without any help from Fitz, just from the presence of Miss Bennet under the same roof. Fitz thought a silent apology to the woman and grasped Charles in a loose fist. “Is this the root of the trouble, do you think?”
“Please, Fitz,” Charles said. “I can’t hold on much longer.”
“So I see,” Fitz said. “And yet it seems to me we’ve had more than enough exertion for two tired old men this night.”
“I wish I’d never said anything,” Charles said.
“Not at all,” Fitz said. “As you so wisely suggested, we ought to consider putting away childish things.” He studied the live member, oozing clear liquid from its tip, the head already jutting out from the foreskin, and jerking in its own uncontrollable rhythm. “By the way, is this one of those childish things?”
“Please, Fitz,” Charles said again. His voice was suppliant, almost tearful. “Whatever I said before, I humbly beg your pardon. Just, please, please, do what you want.”
“Are you sure?” Fitz asked. “Do you know what I want?”
“I can guess,” Charles muttered, but laughing despite his distress.
Fitz took pity on him. “My dear,” he murmured. “I shall do only what you want. And I’m fairly certain you want this.” He licked and kissed, then took the head in his mouth. He felt Charles’s explosion almost upon him and tried to prolong it, removing his mouth, making Charles moan in agony and lift his hips from the bed. Fitz could not draw things out forever, nor could he hold back his own desire, and he put his hands under Charles’s firm buttocks, lifting him up with his muscular arms, opening his mouth and throat in a practiced, smooth motion. When Charles discharged, Fitz swallowed it all, up to the balls.
“Oh,” Charles sighed and groaned in ecstasy. “Oh God, Fitz, you’re a wonder.” He turned onto his stomach without being asked or cajoled, knowing he owed his lover his reward.
Fitz decided to try something else. “No,” he said. “Let me see your face.”
“Damn it, Fitz. You know I hate that.”
“But you promised I could do what I want, after,” Fitz reminded him.
“Bugger it, so I did,” Charles admitted.
“Not it,” Fitz said. “You. I shall bugger you face to face, as I prefer, and you will like it.”
“You can’t make me like it,” Charles said. “You can force me to submit, but no one can make someone like something he detests.”
“If he truly detests it, no,” Fitz said. He was already lifting Charles’s legs, placing the ankles over his shoulders, spitting into his hand and readying himself and Charles’s bum for his possession. “But if you merely find it embarrassing or improper,” he raised his voice to a mincing, effeminate drawl, “then I think I can make you like it very well, despite all your maidenly objections.”
“Not such a maiden,” Charles said, sucking in his breath as Fitz entered him.
“No,” Fitz said. “Precisely my point.” He pushed in further, going slowly but inexorably forward, until he had buried his entire shaft in Charles’s interior. “How do you like that?” Fitz whispered. He pulled out a few inches and pushed back in, still gently, but increasing the force incrementally.
Charles found himself responding to the familiar amorous technique. “Damn it, Fitz,” he complained. “You’re a devil.”
“And you are a tease,” Fitz answered. “But this time you will not escape the consequences of your actions.”
He picked up the rhythm, working steadily until Charles was lost in the sensation, pushing up to Fitz’s body so that they slammed together, hips to buttocks, with each thrust. Charles’s eyes that had been shut like a child’s against a dreaded punishment came open, eyelids drooping but irises focused on Fitz’s face, and his mouth that had been screwed up tighter than his puckered arse opened in slack, sensual acceptance of the glorious pounding he was receiving. And his cock, that had so recently been drained, rose again, brought to precipitate resurrection by the deep penetration that found and repeatedly struck that mysterious place.
As Fitz came, Charles’s mouth stretched into a wide grimace of mingled pain and pleasure, and Fitz leaned down for a tender kiss. Charles discharged again, the effusion trapped between their bellies and heaving chests, gluing them together in a sticky, love-scented mess. Fitz allowed Charles’s legs to descend, but remained inside him, his cock slowly deflating.
“Did you like that, you little tease?” he asked.
“You know I did, damn you,” Charles said. “You know I can deny you nothing.”
“I know,” Fitz said. He was purring with pleasure. “I know.”
Three
ELIZABETH BENNET WATCHED her sister sleep, recalling the past days’ disastrous if amusing conversational exchanges. Jane had enjoyed her first visit downstairs but had become fatigued and had retired early. If it weren’t for Jane’s potential happiness, Elizabeth would press Mama to take her home as soon as she was able to travel. In a proper closed carriage, that could be as early as tomorrow. But meeting Mr. Bingley was the best thing that had happened to Jane in almost seven years, since before she came out in society. There was so little to choose from in a small village, and then having no portion to speak of—no, if this Mr. Bingley loved Jane, and he showed every appearance of doing so, and of being worthy of the term love, then it was Elizabeth’s duty to help things along as much as decently possible.
Jane’s eyelids fluttered and she emerged slowly to consciousness.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Elizabeth asked. “Any better?”
“A little,” Jane said. “Do you think they will mind terribly if I impose on their hospitality a bit longer?”
“I know one person who will be delighted,” Elizabeth said.
Jane blushed. “You must not encourage me in false hopes after so short an acquaintance.”
“If they were false, my dear, I would not encourage them. I will therefore amend my answer to say that if you leave too soon you will endanger not only your health but the happiness of one other person.”
Jane smiled and bowed her head.
“And if an honest assessment allays your worries of my painting the scene rosier than I ought, I can say with certainty that by staying you will sow a great deal of dissension into the rest of the household, and substantially increase my enjoyment of this visit.”
“I think,” Jane said, speaking slowly in her desire to find a way to express an opinion while avoiding taking sides and offending anyone, “you are unfair to Miss Bingley.”
Elizabeth grinned. “I doubt that’s possible. But I was not referring principally to Miss Bingley’s displeasure, but to a certain gentleman’s.”
Jane gasped in dismay. “Mr. Bingley! But you just led me to believe—”
“Oh, Jane, please. Do be sensible.” Elizabeth was constantly reminded how far apart their temperaments were, but grateful for the inseparable devotion that had begun, it seemed, the minute Jane had accepted her first sibling, not as a rival, but as an ally and friend. “I meant that cold, high-and-mighty Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Darcy! Why should he mind that I am here? Surely I cannot inconvenience him.”
“Now there you underestimate your powers,” Elizabeth said. “If you are feeling strong enough, I shall attempt to divert you and raise your spirits by relating all the conversation you have missed these past few days. When I am done, I dare you to challenge my interpretation.”
“Of what?” Jane asked.
“Only a very interesting love affair in danger of ending due to one party’s attempting to retain the waning affections of his beloved, and the other party’s determination to assert his independence.”
Jane frowned in concentration, then looked up with triumph. The vivacity in her face gladdened Elizabeth’s heart. Jane was truly on the mend. “I have caught you in an error, Lizzy! You have spoken of both parties with the masculine pronoun. And here I thought you were going to tell me of Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley.”
“Of Mr. Darcy, yes. But not Miss Bingley.”
Jane gasped again and covered her mouth. “Surely Mrs. Hurst cannot be so lost to virtue that she—”
“I’m sure Mrs. Hurst and virtue parted ways years ago,” Elizabeth said. “But, no, desirous though she may be of losing her good name and her position in the world, she is not Mr. Darcy’s object.”
“I am at a loss, then,” Jane said.
“Why, Mr. Bingley, of course. You will not have had occasion to see it, confined to your bed most of the time. But I have had many opportunities to observe, and I tell you that Mr. Darcy could not be more jealous of a new bride than he is of your nice Mr. Bingley.”
Jane laughed but looked unhappy. “Much as I have resented Mr. Darcy’s slighting of you, and deplored his lack of both taste and judgment in expressing it, still I think it is beneath you to say such things of him in retaliation. Revenge is never justified, especially when a person must stoop to pettiness to accomplish it.”
“It is not revenge. In truth, I do not resent Mr. Darcy’s disdain, for after spending three days in his company I see that in that trifling incident at the Meryton assembly I have been treated no worse by him, and in some ways better, than he treats all of womankind.”
Jane, conscious of some inside knowledge, was moved to explain. “Mr. Bingley has apologized to me for his friend’s behavior.”
“To you?” Elizabeth said.
Jane studied her lap, unable to look her sister in the face. “He could not address you directly on this subject, after all. But with his natural kindness he knew how I would feel your hurt as my own, and he does not wish me to think ill of his friend.”
“Whatever did he say?” Elizabeth asked.
“Only that he knew Mr. Darcy is overly severe on the subject of ladies, but that he hopes his manners will improve as he spends more time in such congenial company. Oh, Lizzy, don’t laugh like that. Those were Mr. Bingley’s exact words.”
“I can’t help it,” Elizabeth said. “And I’m afraid Mr. Bingley is doomed to disappointment, as there is no improvement so far. It is all too obvious that Mr. Darcy considers none of us fit to mingle with the educated and intelligent, by which he means his sex alone. In fact, I suspect he would much prefer to inhabit an exclusive company, like a regiment of guards, where no females of any condition are allowed to sully the purity of superior masculine society.”
“You are just as severe yourself, you know,” Jane murmured. “Mr. Bingley assures me that Mr. Darcy has an excellent character and is a devoted and loyal friend, who has nothing but Mr. Bingley’s best interests at heart.”
“So does a good husband have his wife’s interests at heart,” Elizabeth replied. “Come. I will put the case to you. You shall be the judge, whether I have presented a convincing argument.”
“Very well.” Jane sat up straight in the bed and folded her hands on the bedclothes.
“I would say the first piece of evidence I have to bring is a negative one,” Elizabeth began. “That is, it speaks not so much to Mr. Darcy’s love for his friend as to his lack of regard for women in general. When the subject of Mr. Darcy’s sister arose, Mr. Bingley spoke so glowingly of ladies’ accomplishments that Mr. Darcy was moved to challenge his friend’s generous assessment, and most vehemently. It was almost more than I could do to keep my countenance.”
“But might not Mr. Darcy’s words, ungallant as they appeared,” Jane offered with her usual diffidence, “simply be his way of praising his sister, contrasting her merits with the deficiencies of other ladies?”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said. “But he went too far, assisted by his acolyte, Miss Bingley. She imagines herself an exception, the ideal of her sex—in addition to Miss Darcy, naturally.”
“Miss Bingley is very elegant,” Jane said.
“Oh yes,” Elizabeth said, waving her hand. “She has been to a fashionable ladies’ seminary, and she can afford to wear new gowns every season. But you should have heard their requirements for a lady to be considered accomplished. The inventory of scholarly achievements alone was absurd. When they started in on ‘a certain something in her manner,’ and ‘her way of walking and speaking’—well, it was so ridiculous I had to say that no living woman ever met such impossible standards. And, I ask you, if such a creature existed, would she deign to marry an ordinary, flawed, mortal man? Not even Mr. Darcy himself could match her in perfection!”
“I imagine Miss Darcy’s education and understanding are superior,” Jane said. “She probably favors her brother in both beauty and intellect.”
“She may be a paragon,” Elizabeth said, “but the inconvenient fact remains that Mr. Bingley does not wish to marry a school headmistress or a marble statue. He has that most annoying trait, common sense, and values instead goodness of heart, sweetness of temper, and, because he is but human himself, physical beauty—that is, you.”
Jane flushed again. “Mr. Bingley does sometimes give the impression of being flighty or frivolous, but it is just his natural modesty. He really is quite levelheaded.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “It was obvious that Mr. Darcy’s words sprang from a fear of Mr. Bingley’s being in love with you.”
“I know Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst would dearly love to see their brother married to Miss Darcy,” Jane said.
“Yet I suspect that the desire arises on their part, as well as on Mr. Darcy’s, to create a close tie between the two families, rather than from any concern for their brother’s happiness or genuine appreciation of Miss Darcy’s merits.”
Jane frowned. “I think there is some truth in what you say.”
“They forget that, in such an important matter as a man’s choice of wife, their wishes will inevitably carry less weight than his,” Elizabeth said.
“But Mr. Bingley does speak very highly of his friend’s discernment,” Jane said. “You yourself told me that Mr. Darcy is said to have an impressive library at his home in Derbyshire, and everybody praises his extraordinary learning. I should think the two of you ought to find a great many subjects for conversation.”
Elizabeth grimaced. “I doubt very much whether Mr. Darcy’s library contains any novels. And he would deem anything written by a female not worth the cost of the rags that make up the paper.”
“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said. “All I know is that Mr. Bingley values his friend’s advice, and that Miss Bingley shares her brother’s opinion.”
“And wishes herself in his place,” Elizabeth said.
“I will pretend not to understand that,” Jane said.
“You cannot misunderstand this next item,” Elizabeth said. “You would have laughed out loud watching Mr. Darcy trying to compose
a letter to his sister, accosted at every line by Miss Bingley. She deluged him with interruptions, from compliments on his penmanship to requests to be remembered to Miss Darcy. And he rebuffed each intrusion with serene detachment.”
“It may simply be courtesy,” Jane said.
“A courteous gentleman would not allow Miss Bingley to deceive herself by fancying that her regard is reciprocated,” Elizabeth said. “Watching Miss Bingley’s attack on all sides, deflected by Mr. Darcy’s unconcealed and unchecked derision, I could only wonder. How can Miss Bingley, a resident of this household, be totally unaware of what I have so easily discovered after only three days? Or does the poor woman hope that by constant bombardment she can force a breach in an impenetrable wall? She must see that every cannonball flies wide of the target, and that the defender is hard at work reinforcing the already impressive fortifications.”
“You have changed your metaphor,” Jane said. “You began with a trial at law and have now turned instead to a siege.”
“It seems more fitting,” Elizabeth said.
“Besides, it merely demonstrates that Mr. Darcy feels no partiality for Miss Bingley, not that he harbors an inappropriate fondness for her brother.”
“True. But now we come to the crux of my argument. You know how I like to attempt to draw a person’s character. I had only started when Mr. Bingley, in a fit of exaggerated humility, claimed to be not worth the effort, calling himself shallow and direct, and chose as his example the idea that if he took it into his head to quit Netherfield he would be gone at a moment’s notice. Mr. Darcy, just like the clever husband with the simple wife, sneered at such an uncomplicated nature. He insisted that, rather than sticking to his resolve, Mr. Bingley would give in at once if ‘a friend’ asked him to. Mr. Darcy is so fond of Mr. Bingley, yet he seemed to think the less of him for his willingness to accommodate his own wishes.” Elizabeth shook her head at such incomprehensible behavior.
Ann Herendeen Page 3
