by Nia Farrell
After breakfast, Caroline disappears into the drawing room to pen the note destined for Longbourn. Charles has been there already. He opines that when he returned the call paid upon him by Mr. Bennet, the daughters were scarce, else he would have made Miss Bennet’s acquaintance a week ago. “It is a shame,” Charles says, describing the property, smaller than Netherfield Hall but pleasing in its prospect. “The estate is entailed to a cousin for lack of a male heir. No offense,” he hastens to add.
“None taken.” In my cousin’s case, there is no child of either gender. He is survived by three cousins, one male and two females, making me heir to a title passed to the eldest son, or the oldest male left in the line. Should my generation fail to produce a son, the title and lands associated with it will revert to the Crown.
I suppose I should be looking for a wife. At the age of eight-and-twenty, I am well into my majority, a landed gentleman with an estate independent of the family’s title and fortune. Pemberley is mine and shall remain mine, whether single or married, childless or prolific. And yet, I suppose it is human nature to crave continuity, to know that we leave behind a legacy that is more than brick and mortar, more than pen and ink.
I should write my sister.
And Hugh.
Bingley, however, has other ideas, hunting chief among them. My dogs are at Pemberley, but he has a kennel newly populated with black and tan setters on approval of their performance. He needs to see how they follow a scent, point and flush, retrieve and yield. Hard mouth or tender? Obedient or willful? They are said to be a boisterous breed, requiring a firm hand that Charles, in truth, lacks. Will they be too much for him? Can he manage to control them, or will his master of the hounds earn his wages?
Bingley loans me a gun, a finely made German fowling piece, intricately engraved. He chooses a double-barrel Manton for himself. Powder horns, drop shot, patches, and wadding follow. Game bird season is in full swing, with grouse starting on the Glorious 12th, partridges on September 1st, and pheasants a month later. Given the information about Netherfield Park, he fully expects to return with pheasants enough for a royal feast come Tuesday.
Ah.
I hide my smile, seeing Charles’s game. He wishes to hunt for her. He wants to show her his ability to shoot. Impress her with his firearm prowess.
Prove that he can provide for her.
Jesus God. I am stuck again. Charles has hunted with me. He will know if I take too long to load. Will know if I deliberately miss a shot. One, I might manage, but two?
I sigh, resigned, commending myself to the deities of the hunt, who will either find us lacking or favour us with a harvest.
If the goddess of love gets involved, I fear that we will need larger bags for our birds.
Chapter Three
The hunt is a smashing success, with braces of birds, taken left and right. The three of us are weighed down as we head back to the Hall, black and tan setters bouncing at our heels.
The Scottish master of the hounds Gavin MacRae is young but experienced, having a sire and grandsire so styled. He confesses to loving dogs, and finds joy in the challenges of this particular breed, descended from the Duke of Gordon’s kennels. Gavin is clearly the alpha of the pack, who look to him for guidance and listen when he speaks in accented English, his voice low and mellifluous, his tone even and soothing to his charges, who retain puppy-like characteristics long after other breeds have matured.
The outing has been a success on several levels. The dogs have performed. Gavin’s job is secured. Tuesday’s meat has been killed. We shall leave the dressing of the birds to Gavin or the kitchen staff, however they wish to handle it.
We return to news that a letter for Miss Bennet is en route to Longbourn. Caroline—and Charles—must now wait for a response, which is something that neither of them does particularly well. I suggest reading. It should be criminal to have such a library and not use it, but none of the Bingleys possesses a literary bent. Music and painting are their fortes; playing games is their pastime.
Cards it is, then.
There are nine of us: Charles, George, the five sisters, Patrice, and myself. George prefers to nap, leaving the rest to divide into two tables of four players each for Whist and Quadrille, switching teams as we go. Charles and I first play Louisa and Victoria, then Caroline and Patrice, and finally his youngest sisters, who are much improved since last we played. I have heard of the link between twins which allows them to communicate without words. It certainly seems the case with Clarissa and Marissa, when they manage to win one of the three rounds that we play.
After dinner, we gather around one larger table for Loo, Commerce, and—Charles’s favourite—Vingt-un. The games continue well into the evening. The Misses Bingley take turns casting off cards in favour of the flute or the pianoforte, with an occasional piece of embroidery picked up, then put down again when a game of chance reels them back in.
Tonight I pay particular attention to Victoria, thinking that she might be an acceptable match for Hugh, should he be inclined to settle. Her red hair is striking against that porcelain skin, and its fairness would appeal to him, showing marks as it must. She is pleasant enough, subdued like a lamb when partnered with her she-wolf eldest sister, but once we are in a larger group and she is buffered by twin bookends, she opens up a bit, smiling secretly—no game face at all, that one, but that guileless innocence would also appeal to my step-cousin.
Hmm.
One more reason to linger in Hertfordshire, I suppose. Not that I fancy myself as a match-maker, but Hugh is three years my senior and will get no younger. Yes, he has particular tastes in the bedchamber, but he can be trusted to provide for and protect what is his. That is our nature, his as well as mine, to have and to hold, to value submission, administer discipline, and reward obedience.
Charles, on the other hand, seeks to please, craves discipline, and responds to the promise of reward. His is a more sensitive soul, easily bruised by rejection. I have seen it. I do not wish to see it again.
Breaking things off with Miss Jane Bennet must be on his terms. It is only fair. But how to accomplish that remains to be seen. I cannot approach the locals, asking questions about one of their own, without appearing either meddlesome or personally interested in Miss Bennet—unless…unless I feign interest in one of her sisters. Yes. Yes. I could then ask about the family in general, in hopes of gleaning information on the daughters, the eldest in particular.
I decide to put my theory to the test that night, and summon a housemaid to my room on the excuse of fresh linens. Seeing how I wet them with my release, she blushes profusely and fetches clean ones.
“I am sorry,” I say as she works, stripping my bed and remaking it. “I was dreaming of a young woman at last night’s assembly and…well.”
I haven’t exactly lied. Day dreaming counts, does it not?
She pauses slightly in her movements, just enough to confirm to me that she is listening, although she says nothing.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” I sigh, my voice rumbling and deep with feigned passion. “Perhaps you know her. One in a set of sisters, I believe.”
“Aye, milord.” The maid speaks so softly, I can scarce hear her.
“I am sorry—” What the deuce is her name? Half of the staff came from London, but the rest—including Gavin MacRae and this maid—are local hires. Ah, yes. “Marian. If you hail from these environs, I am certain that you are familiar with Longbourn, its residents and, I believe, an entailment. I would value your opinion on her family, at the very least, and on Miss Elizabeth, if your duties do not require you elsewhere.”
I know that they do not. Maid Marian came from her bed to attend to mine.
Marian bites her lip and glances at me, bundled in a robe and sporting slippers, careful to maintain a penitent’s pose. I can see her mind working, thinking that I have spent my seed and emptied my lust along with it. I am no threat to her.
Then again, I never was. I may dip my pen at a private club but
I shall touch no ink pot here.
“Aye,” she says, nodding. “The Bennets. Five daughters there are, and no son to inherit. His wife might have a little set by but…” Her voice trails, a string of words dangling between us. I catch the end and follow it.
“So the father wed for money?” I ask.
“I don’t believe so, sir.” She busies herself, folding the soiled sheet so that the dampness is buried in the middle. “Mrs. Bennet’s father was a solicitor, rest his soul. She’s old now—”
God help me, Marian must be far younger than I thought. She makes forty years (or thereabouts) sound positively ancient.
“But you can see, she must have been a handsome woman. The girls are pretty enough, especially Miss Jane.” She looks at me then, eyes narrowing speculatively as she wonders why my attention is not focused on the eldest, prettiest sister.
I think of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, what might possibly snare the attention of a man such as myself. “Yes,” I admit, “but Miss Jane must take after their father. Miss Elizabeth has her mother’s eyes. Dark and striking, are they not? And that glorious chestnut hair, brown with a hint of fire. With that colouring, I believe that artists would vie to paint her. No offense to her sisters, of course.”
She sighs a little, thinking it romantic. “Of course. As you say, sir.”
“Pray tell me, is their father in good health? He did not attend the assembly.”
“La!” she cries, warming up to me. “He may go to private parties but he never comes to public assemblies—at least not that I know of. It’s up to the mother to watch her chicks. She knows where to look for the youngest two quick enough if officers attend. They do love a man in uniform.”
“And what of the other sisters?” I ask. “There are three more, including Miss Elizabeth.”
“Miss Jane is considered the local beauty, sir. No offense to her sisters, but there it is. The middle one, Miss Mary, is said to be the most accomplished, playing the piano as she does. Miss Elizabeth…” Marian had to think for a moment. “Miss Elizabeth dances.”
“Dances.” The one pastime which I try to avoid like the plague when in public. In private, however….
It is said that you can tell how a person makes love by how they can dance, and dark-eyed, chestnut-haired Miss Elizabeth is known for her dancing. Hmm.
“I’m fair certain that she does other things well, sir. It’s just…I know of them but I don’t really know them, ye ken? I mean, I’ve seen Miss Bennet in town with Miss Lucas. Seen her at church. Ooh. Ooh. I’ve heard her sing.” She smiles then, pleased with herself. “Right pretty, too,” she adds, excited to actually be telling me something that I do not in all likelihood know. “She has a ready smile. Nice skin. Good teeth.”
Under other circumstances, I would have more interest in her lips and tongue, but that is neither here nor there. “Yes. Well. Thank you for your insights, Marian. I hope that I can trust your discretion in this, hmm? It would not do to let her—or her sisters—know my interest, n’est-ce pas?”
She melts a little at the twist of French at the end. The way that she is warming to me, I do believe, if I chose to, I could have her on her knees…but no. No. I cannot. I will not. Being in Charles’s employ, she is safe from me and my dark desires.
“You should go,” I murmur, just loud enough to be heard. “Again, my apologies for the bother. Hopefully I can steer my dreams toward less exciting things, like last year’s harvest or this year’s wool production, hmm?”
“Yes, sir.” She bobs a curtsy and slips out the door, closing it softly behind her.
Beneath the clean sheets, the mattress is damp and the air yet smells of self-gratification. I climb back into bed on the dry side, opposite of where I deliberately spent my seed. I have achieved one release. Although another one or two would normally be pending, alas, Netherfield Hall is nether-less for me. No honey will I taste. No ink pot will I dip into. No dark rose will I pluck.
No, I am quite certain that any satisfaction seen here will be by my own hand or not at all.
Sleep is elusive. I struggle in vain to quiet my mind, but for whatever reason, my thoughts keep returning not to the Bennet sister whom I have pledged to separate from Charles but to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, with her fine, dark eyes and sultry laugh. I see again the flash of pain on her face, quickly hidden, when wounded by my words. How much sweeter then, would it be, were she to look at me in such manner, while my girth breeches her folds and stretches her entrance, splitting her open and decimating her maidenhead in a single meaty thrust?
Tears, I would expect, but would she beg? Would she plead for me to stop or would she submit? Would she…take it? Accept it? Learn to embrace it?
If I wished to leave her hymen intact, I could simply order her to her knees. She would rest her hands with upturned palms on smooth, white thighs that she has spread wide for me. I imagine that the delta of hair guarding her secrets is one shade darker than her crowning glory, touched by cinnamon fire that flows over her shoulders and down her back. Her flesh weeps for want of what I could give her, if I choose, but she is new to this. I tell her that she has not yet earned the privilege of full carnal knowledge. As it is, I may not let her swallow my seed.
I smooth her hair and gather it, winding it around my hand, then fisting it. Her breath hisses between her teeth at the sudden forceful hold that allows me to control her. Using my other hand to catch hers, I bring it to my groin, cover her fingers with mine, and press, making her feel the part that marks me as man, feeling myself swell as I push back against her.
“Take me out.” I watch as her trembling fingers work free the buttons of my fall, allowing one side of my breeches to drop open, revealing the thick ridge that pushes against my drawers and shapes the front of my shirt. Tugging on the outer layer of finely woven linen, she works the tail up enough to unfasten the single button at the waist of my drawers.
She catches my cock as it springs free and holds it, brave girl. Not quite fully erect, it is already too large for one hand. She flexes her fingers around my erection and moves them just a bit, fascinated by the feel of velvet skin and ropy veins over a core that hardens like oak.
“Have you touched a man before?” I ask, already knowing the answer by her untutored grip.
She answers, shyly, sweetly. “No, Sir.”
How beautifully the honorific falls from her lips.
“Clasp your hands behind your back, then,” I tell her. She will need shown how to stroke me to a climax, but not tonight. “And keep them there, or I shall be forced to tie you up while I fuck your mouth.”
She obeys immediately and without question.
“Good girl. Now then. A skilled swallow-cock uses her tongue to stimulate, her lips to caress, and the suction of her mouth to give the greatest pleasure. If I say yes, I suggest that you continue whatever it is that you are doing. You will keep your teeth covered by your lips at all times. Fail to do so, and you will be punished. Do you understand?”
Those dark eyes harbor doubt—and dread, as if she fears failure. “Yes, sir,” she whispers. Her throaty voice is rich and smooth, stroking my senses like silk against skin.
Very quickly, I point out the spots that must be addressed for optimum stimulation. “Now open wide, pet. Show me what you have learned.”
Perhaps I expect too much, but in my mind, I see her as a quick study. My fist in her hair controls her head but her tongue, her lips, her throat—those are hers to employ. Stroking earns a yes. Hollowing her cheeks earns another. Flattening, swirling, pressing, teasing—by God, she’s a natural. I deepen my strokes until she gags, force her head into better alignment and try again, this time pushing into her throat. A thread of spittle escapes her lips, hanging for a few seconds before it drips onto the floor between us. I flex, then snap my hips, driving in again. More spittle issues from lips now swollen from my use. “Yessss.”
I fuck her face. She does not fight me. She takes it, accepts it, embraces it. I feel my balls draw up, rea
dy to expel their load. “I am going to come,” I tell her. “It will more than fill your mouth. If you swallow as quickly as you can, you will not have to lick the floor.”
Not that I would have had her do it, but the incentive works. Two short, insistent strokes and I am there, erupting into her mouth like Vesuvius, releasing hot streams of ejaculate into the grotto of her mouth. She sucks and swallows and makes a sound, half whimper, half moan that vibrates my erection, making it jump in her mouth. She continues to suck on it, until she has drained me dry.
I release the hold on my sac and feel my glans retreat beneath the foreskin. For the second time tonight, I have climaxed while thinking of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I lie abed with white stripes drying on my chest, and fall asleep slightly regretful that I did not watch her dance.
Chapter Four
Between Caroline and myself, we manage to convince Charles to send the carriage on Tuesday for Miss Jane Bennet, rather than fetch her himself. I know Charles. Submissive by nature, he will bow and scrape and offer her every service this evening, whilst I watch, judging how she handles him.
If she handles him.
I sigh, unable to suppress my dismal hopes for dinner. With the youngest Bingley sisters allowed at table, there is certain to be an inordinate amount of chatter about fashion and fripperies and such. Heaven help us when they learn that all five Bennet sisters are out—something that the youngest Bingleys have been denied. I can see the three of them now, sinking into the fact like terriers after a rat and thrashing it to death, even if they keep their discussion amongst themselves.
The Bingleys are rather an agnostic bunch, certain to be baptized as infants and just as certain to forego regular attendance in favour of twice-yearly appearances at Easter and Christmas. After breakfast, with the youngest sisters engaged in embroidery, I ask Caroline if she might consider accompanying me outside. The day promises to be warm for October, and the autumnal landscape is pleasing to the eye, with dashes of seasonal colour.