“I did tell you it was dashed dull at Hurst’s,” Charles said. That provoked a smile, he was glad to see.
“You certainly understated the dangers of your situation.” Fitz lay back and put his hands behind his head. “Now, what I want to know is, can’t a man have some help with his trouble?”
“STOP IT, GEORGE!” Lydia Bennet pushed Wickham away and swiped at him with her fan, deliberately missing.
George grinned, stepped back and moved to her other side. “Stop what?” he whispered, pulling her left tit from her gown and fastening his mouth on it. God, she was big for sixteen!
“Oh!” Lydia moaned and trembled against the tree. “Oh, Wick! You’ll have me all tumbled and tousled!”
“I’ll do my best,” George said. “You know you like it.”
“Of course I like it,” Lydia said. “Who wouldn’t like it? But Wick, I don’t want the others to know.”
“Hmm?” George let go of her and looked into her face. It was frightening how she resembled her sister at the oddest moments. “Know what?”
“Silly! That we love each other.”
“I see,” George said. “You want to be free to go on flirting with all the other officers.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, Wick. You know I only want you. But I have to be careful. Harriet Forster was so very kind to invite me to stay with her and the colonel. If it had been up to my father, I wouldn’t even be here in Brighton. But I can’t let anyone know what we’re going to do, not just yet.”
“What are we going to do?” George asked. He took a quick, careful glance over his shoulder, saw no one approaching, and, using the toe of his boot, hiked up her skirt far enough to get his hand under. “Something like this?”
Lydia squealed with delight and helped, standing on one foot and bracing her knee on his hip. “Oh! Oh, Wick! I think—I think I’m going to—oh! Oh! Oh!”
George nearly lost his balance as she slumped against him, still shuddering, her cunt in full spate. “Steady, girl,” he said. He freed his hand, managing to wipe it almost clean against her petticoat.
“There you are!” Mrs. Forster appeared as if materializing from the sea. “Come on, you two lovebirds. The dancing’s about to start. You can’t have Mr. Wickham all to yourself, Lydia.”
Letting Mrs. Forster go ahead, they walked slowly back to the camp, the faint sounds of the music growing louder. “I could have you all to myself if we were married,” Lydia whispered.
“Aren’t you too young to be thinking of marriage?”
“I’m sixteen. It would be the greatest fun imaginable to be married before any of my sisters.”
“But to give up all your freedom before you’ve even been out.”
“I don’t need freedom if I’m with you, Wick. Don’t you want to?”
“You know what I want,” George said, nuzzling her ear and putting his hand down the front of her gown. “Can’t get enough of these luscious sugar plums.” He ought to be careful, but what was a man supposed to do when a girl just laid herself down in front of him, spread her legs, and begged to be ravished. What?
“You could get enough if I was your wife. We could do it all the time, whenever we liked, and not have to worry about being seen.”
That was a joke, George thought. Lydia never gave a damn about being seen. In fact, he suspected she would much prefer to have an audience, the larger and more varied the better. He was the one who didn’t like to be seen, making do with this crude paste bauble because he was thwarted of the diamond. Elizabeth had made it very clear that she had learned the truth from Darcy during her visit to Rosings. At least Darcy’s version of the truth. And for some reason Elizabeth had believed it this time. Probably because George wasn’t there to contradict Darcy’s harsh accusations. Imagine holding a grudge over a bit of boyish arse fucking. That was Darcy all over: petty, stingy, and prudish. But lusty. George had to give him that.
They had reached the regiment’s camp now, and George allowed Lydia to be swept off by Pratt for a reel. He stood back in the shadows, away from the light of the torches, avoiding the melting, eager looks of the other girls. Here there were plenty of men to go around; no girl need sit down for lack of a partner.
Brighton was certainly an improvement over Meryton, and a necessary one. The regiment’s new posting couldn’t have come at a more opportune moment. God! It had been a near-run thing after Miss King’s family had whisked her home to Yorkshire—all those merchants clamoring for George’s nonexistent money to pay their cheating, racked-up, exorbitant bills. He’d had to wheedle and beg the other officers to do his shopping for him those last tedious weeks. And as for the so-called debts of honor—George preferred not to think of the subterfuges and humiliations he’d had to stoop to. Those creditors were no-nonsense country squires who wouldn’t be fobbed off with excuses but enjoyed using their fists and preferred breaking a few bones over more conventional methods of extracting payment. He had hoped to recoup his losses among his fellow officers, but all that had accomplished was to accumulate yet another string of debts. Seems the image of the lax, drink-befuddled officer was just one more myth. Bunch of sharps, every last one of them—and damned few gentlemen willing to forgo payment in the interest of comradeship.
The one problem with Brighton was there was too much competition. The place teemed with officers—regulars as well as militia—guards and riflemen in all the best regiments wearing the smartest uniforms. A junior officer in a red coat was just one of hundreds. And most of the women were their counterparts, adventuresses and fancy whores. No respectable heiress would be allowed within five miles of this den of iniquity, this Hell-Fire Club by the sea.
“Not dancing?” Denny joined George by the fence. “Wouldn’t hurt to be seen with someone else occasionally, Wick, if you catch my meaning.”
“Hard to miss, old fellow. But I can’t see it’s any of your business.”
“Well, you know, Wick, it’s becoming pretty obvious that you and Miss Bennet are an item, as they say. Even Colonel Forster is beginning to look uncomfortable on the subject.”
“What if we are? No one takes these Brighton flirtations seriously.”
“They do if it turns into more than a flirtation. Seems to me you’ve already gone a good ways past that.”
“Listen, Denny. Keep a lid on things for another week or ten days. At the end of it, shouldn’t be a matter of interest to anyone.”
“What do you mean? Don’t tell me you’re running out on us so soon. You still owe some of the fellows for those purchases back in Meryton.”
“Including you, Denny, although you’re too polite to dun me directly. Look, here’s an earnest of my good intentions.” George scrounged an old receipt from his pocket and a stub of pencil and scrawled a promise. “You’ve been a damned good friend, Denny. It was decent of you to bring me in, but I’d say my welcome in the regiment is just about worn out by now, wouldn’t you?”
“Ah, Wick. All it takes is to stand a few rounds, a few of the old debts settled, and you’ll be in everyone’s good graces again.”
“Yes. That’s the difficult part, though, isn’t it?”
The reel ended and Lydia returned like iron to its lodestone without waiting for the second dance of the set.
Denny bowed. “Miss Bennet, may I request the honor of being your next partner?”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Denny. I might be persuaded, if you were to bring me a glass of refreshment.” Lydia’s words were perfunctory and she turned away as if dismissing a servant. “Aren’t you dancing, Wick? Are you tired?”
“No, love,” he said. “Just don’t fancy a lesser partner after the best.”
“Flatterer,” Lydia said, smacking him with her fan, hitting him pretty damned hard. “Flirt! I think you just like to watch, hoping some of the sluts aren’t wearing petticoats and you can see through in the torchlight.”
“You caught me out, Lyd,” he said. He wrested the fan from her grasp as she was bringing it down for anoth
er blow and threw it out on the sand, putting his hand over her mouth to silence her protests. “But I’d rather look at you, although I can do without any more thumping.” He put his arm around her and pulled her close, pressing her against him and letting her feel the erection. No reason for her to know it was caused by memories of her sister.
“Oh, Wick,” she said, sighing and cupping her hand over it. “Let’s go away together. Please.”
“Temptress,” George said. “How will I keep my hands off you?”
“Why should you?” she said, genuinely puzzled. She stroked him through his breeches until he was ready to explode, removing her hand at just the opportune moment. How did the bitch know such things? Born to it, George supposed, as a cat to sneaking and a horse to running.
“Oh God, Lyd,” George said, groaning and bending over with the pain. “You’re going to kill me one of these days.”
“Not if we get married,” she said in a deceptively sweet voice. “I’ll do anything you like then, all night long—and all day too.” She opened her lips in a slack, liquid O and circled the tip of her tongue slowly around the perimeter.
George remembered his last conversation with Elizabeth, his desperate hope that all was not lost, that she had not succumbed to Darcy’s clever misrepresentations. “In essentials, he is very much what he ever was,” she had said. And so cold. Never could he have imagined her capable of such icy detachment. Downright frigid. To him, to her soul mate. He thought of Elizabeth in Lydia’s place, using her tongue like that, and he lost control, discharging in his breeches like one of those shameless halfwits in Bedlam that people paid to watch and mock.
“Now see what you’ve made me do,” George said, forcing Lydia’s hand against the wet stain.
“Shocking!” She laughed and wriggled in George’s grip, but didn’t actually attempt to remove her hand. “When we’re married, we can be as debauched as you like.”
“As you like,” he said, waiting for the hypocritical denials that never came. He gave her credit for that much. If men were dogs, always sniffing at arse and cunt, most women were whores. What made them hot wasn’t a man’s prick but his purse. But Lydia was an honest slut. She wanted George’s cock as much as he wanted to give it to her, and she knew all about his lack of money. She was a drab but she didn’t pretend to be pure. Unlike her sister, who teased and hinted and then, like all the rest, sold herself to the highest bidder.
That was it, George thought. Darcy must have made Elizabeth an offer. But if he had, the whole world would have heard of it, that a Miss Bennet had snagged the greatest prize in Derbyshire. And if not, had Darcy really prevailed on her to surrender without marriage? Not from what George thought he knew of Elizabeth. But what, then? What, short of marriage, could have led her to change her opinion? How could Darcy have overcome his stony reserve and divulged his deepest secrets to anyone, much less an innocent young lady?
“Come on, Wick,” Lydia said. “Dance with me.”
“I can’t. Not like this.” He motioned to his stained uniform. “Besides, you promised Denny.”
“Then we’ll just have to stay out of sight.” She took his hand and led him away from the dancing and the fires, into the scrub that separated the wall from the strand. They found a secluded spot, sheltered from the wind, and settled down, Lydia leaning in the crook of his arm. She was much of a height with him and probably outweighed him by a stone or even two. He let her have her way, unbuttoning him and taking his prick out and fondling it. He shut his eyes, imagining her. It was not so very difficult. They had the same dark hair, the same liveliness. Even the eyes had a similar shape, especially if one didn’t look too close. “Do you like that, Wick?” she asked again and again, rubbing and stroking. “Do you like that?”
“Yes, love,” he said. Safer than using the wrong name by not thinking. And it was getting very hard to think. When she put her mouth on him it was all he could do not to make the great error. Elizabeth, he thought. He imagined her sweet little breasts and her tiny mouth. Could she even fit her mouth around him like this? Oh, my love. Lizzy. “Liz—” he murmured before correcting himself just in time. “Lydia.”
Eighteen
Pemberley, Derbyshire. August 1812
GEORGIANA DARCY SCRATCHED at the door of her brother’s dressing room. “Fitz, what is the matter?” she said. “I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet was to dine with us.”
Fitz paused in the act of changing his pantaloons for leather breeches, and sent his man to fetch his riding boots. “I’m sorry, Georgie. Miss Bennet and her aunt and uncle have had some bad news and must return to town immediately.”
Georgiana came into the room despite her brother’s state of partial undress. “Oh, I am sorry. Is it a death?”
“No, not so bad as that.”
“Is somebody ill?”
“Georgie, please don’t press. It’s not the sort of thing one can talk about—I promised Miss Bennet, and it would not be proper in any event. But she is perfectly healthy and no one has died.” He added under his breath, “Although someone will wish he had died when I catch up with him.”
“Who?” Georgiana asked.
“Who what?” Fitz said. “Really, Georgie, you oughtn’t to be in the room when I’m dressing. You’re not a child anymore.”
“Please don’t scold, Fitz,” Georgiana said. “You haven’t been a child for the last ten years, and there’s nothing to see that I haven’t seen a hundred times before. And who will wish he had died?”
“Someday those sharp ears of yours will hear something you’ll wish you hadn’t,” Fitz said.
“You sound just like my old governess,” Georgiana said. “And I always hear things I wish I hadn’t, because people persist in saying things they shouldn’t. Especially Miss Bingley. Who will wish he had died?”
“If you must know, George Wickham. There, are you happy now?”
“Oh my goodness! But how does this affect Miss Bennet?”
Fitz sat down on the bed and waved away his man, who was attempting to enter with the boots. “Very well, Georgie. Come sit beside me and I’ll tell you. I promised Miss Bennet I would say nothing to anybody, but because of your history I think she won’t mind that I make this one exception. You must give me your word that this will go no further.” He held out his hand. “I want your solemn oath, Georgiana.”
Georgiana took her brother’s hand, tears of indignation stinging her eyes. “Oh, Fitz, this isn’t necessary. You just agreed I’m not a child.”
“So I did. I don’t have a lot of time to spare, so I’ll have to keep it short. Miss Bennet has received a letter from her eldest sister saying that her youngest sister, Lydia, has run off with Wickham and is living with him in town. Her father has been searching for them without success and now her uncle will want to help. And of course they won’t be able to find him, and even if they do they won’t have the means to force him to marry her.”
“Oh, Fitz, how dreadful! But I thought the Miss Bennets had very small portions. Why would Mr. Wickham run away with one of them? I suppose he truly loves her.” The last sentence was expressed on a sigh and a lowered voice, whether of shame or longing Fitz was too preoccupied to discern.
“Love? Wickham? My dear Georgie, the man is incapable of the sentiment.”
“I don’t understand,” Georgiana said.
“It does pass all understanding, doesn’t it? Let’s just say that men like him are not always governed by the rational desires of the mind but are often at the mercy of their lower body’s instincts.”
“That’s an edifying thought to share with your sister,” Charles said, knocking at the door but pushing in without waiting for a reply. “Especially given the condition of your lower body at the moment, Fitz. Georgie, do you really think you should be here when your brother is dressing?”
“Oh, stop it, Charles,” Georgiana said. “You’re just hoping I’ll come in on you when you’re dressing.”
Fitz glanced from his sister to his fr
iend and back again. “Since when are you two so familiar?”
“Since we decided always to be friends and never to marry,” Georgiana said.
“Is that not somewhat extreme?” Fitz asked. “Might you not regret your chastity as old age approaches, say at twenty-five?”
“Each other,” Charles said. “We resolved not to marry each other. I’m sorry, Fitz. I know the scheme is dear to your heart, but—”
“Oh, never mind that now. Listen, Charles, I was just explaining to Georgie. I’ve become aware of a serious situation and I am forced to dash to town tomorrow. You mustn’t tease Georgie to death to find out what it is. It concerns Miss Bennet’s family and I don’t want it bruited all over Derbyshire and beyond.”
“Well, thank you very much for your low opinion of my ability to keep my mouth shut,” Charles said.
Fitz smiled. “In the presence of my sister, I’ll deny myself the pleasure of the appropriate reply to that. I’ll merely say, Charles, that I’m sure you intend to be the soul of discretion, but your sisters have a way of worming the truth out of one that could put the Foreign Office to shame. You know, if they were willing to employ women, Caroline might find her true vocation.”
“All right, Fitz. Enough of that joke, if you please,” Charles said. “I can’t believe you’ll tell your sister and not me.”
“My dear,” Fitz said, “you mustn’t take everything so to heart. The matter involves a certain person whom it would be better for Georgie not to hear about by chance. I thought it best to tell her now, myself. But it’s no concern of yours.”
“I see,” Charles said. “It concerns Miss Bennet and therefore it cannot concern me. Might I not wish to express my sympathy to her in her trouble?”
Ann Herendeen Page 22
