Pride and Punishment: An Erotic Retelling of Jane Austen's Beloved Classic

by Nia Farrell

  Begging for more.

  By now there are a number of females on the far side of the room. Miss Bennet, it seems, has rallied her troops with the help of Miss Lucas.

  Caroline notices my interest. “Such a covey,” she remarks. “Which plump breasted partridge among them has succeeded in capturing your attention, Mr. Darcy?”

  “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” There. I’ve said it. Confessed it. But I cannot explain it, not when she is so clearly beneath my station. Like my peers, I am expected to marry a virginal bride of impeccable bloodlines and old money, not a solicitor’s granddaughter who shall be rendered essentially homeless the moment that her father is gone.

  “Miss Elizabeth?” Caroline is shocked, of course, and not just because Miss Bennet is less well-endowed than my usual choice in partners. Caroline finds my genuine interest in Miss Elizabeth Bennet almost incomprehensible. We have been conspiring to separate Charles from one Bennet, and here I am, fixated upon another.

  “I am all astonishment,” she manages. “How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray, when am I to wish you joy?”

  I give her a look of silent censure. “Sheath the claws, Caroline. She is a moment’s distraction, nothing more. Do not let your imagination leap from admiration to love, and from love to matrimony. Such conjecture serves no good purpose.”

  “I could say the same for your…distraction. Now, if you were serious,” she says tartly, “I would consider the matter absolutely settled, replete with the prospect of your charming mother-in-law, who shall settle into Pemberley and forever be with you.”

  Since there is no chance in hell that that will ever happen, I keep my gaze on the wealth of chestnut hair and close my ears to Caroline’s biting diatribe while she rattles on. As soon the youngest Bennet is pulled away by her peers, Miss Elizabeth dares to look at me. She glances at her folded fan and opens it, almost as if she would hide herself from me. Her face, perhaps, but there is no hiding those dark eyes of hers, their spark of vitality, their vast relief, her gratitude for the warning that I gave.

  Caroline embarks on a vacuous commentary on the lack of refined society in the country that I choose to ignore. I listen instead to the music, but my dancing tonight is done. None of the females here capture my interest save one—the dark-eyed, honeyed voiced, surprisingly clever Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

  Chapter Six

  Charles manages to go five days without seeing Miss Jane, but come Guy Fawkes Day, there is no help for it. Bonfire Night provides an excuse to be where she is, observing the local celebration in the village square. The streets are red with officers and enlisted men who are barracked here, to the delight of the two youngest Bennet sisters. One of them makes a game of dropping her handkerchief and rewarding its retriever with a beguiling smile that may one day bode ill for her, if she does not learn to be more selective.

  Miss Elizabeth is with the two Miss Lucases, helping Miss Charlotte buffer her younger sister from the throng, warning off miscreants with a cutting glance as sharp as a blade. Miss Jane, considered to be the local beauty, is afloat in a sea of men vying for her company. Charles is disappointed, of course. If he thought that she was exclusive to him, he was mistaken.

  Finally, a wedge that I might yet manage to drive between them.

  Miss Jane greets him with the same warmth as she does everyone, regardless of age or rank. I feel like a proud teacher when Charles acknowledges her regard and keeps on walking.

  It is an act made easier, I suspect, having his sister Victoria on his arm. Caroline and Patrice are on mine. They have no wish to be bothered by men—although they certainly waste no opportunity to check out the local female population. Their interest is returned but once. However, the disparity in social status makes impossible anything more than wishful thinking.

  Ah, well. At least they can find solace in each other’s arms. I find no peace, ever seeking a pair of dark sapphire eyes. The glory of her chestnut hair is hidden by her bonnet but those eyes are unmistakable, crinkled with humour when she laughs, rich, throaty, her honeyed voice carrying over the noisome crowd.

  No.

  Just…no.

  I strive to ignore where Priapus would lead and manage, for the most part, to keep my distance. Only once am I tempted to do more, when I see Colonel Forster weaseling his way through the crowd, headed in Miss Elizabeth’s direction, his aide trailing in his wake. I watch him try to strike a conversation. Watch her deftly shut him down. She feels my gaze upon her and catches me looking.

  Watching.

  Even from this distance, I can see her agile mind working furiously, as if we are parts of a puzzle to be solved. What am I doing? What is she doing, to engage my interest so? What if…what if…what if…?

  I acknowledge her with the slightest of nods and the smallest, most curious of smiles. Let her try to figure that one out.

  Charles is quiet—too quiet—on the way home. His carriage is uncomfortably snug for our party of seven, so much so, the females are practically on top of each other as they span the seat across from the three men.

  Caroline and Patrice seem not to mind.

  Next time, I will recommend that the Hursts drive separately. If they do not, then I shall. These rides are painful enough without listening to Caroline and Louisa vivisect every other female, especially those who are of an age to be married.

  It is a “truth” universally acknowledged that a single woman, regardless of age or fortune, must be in want of a husband. Society expects it. Family may demand it. Unlike most of my contemporaries and peers, I reject the notion. Each woman is a unique individual. Each possesses free will and the brain God gave her. So armed, she should be free to seek her own destiny, whether it entails marriage or no.

  My sister Georgiana is a perfect example of this. She is an heiress, with a comfortable income that will officially transfer to her upon her twenty-fifth birthday if unwed or to her husband upon their marriage. Given her situation and her unfortunate experience at the hands of George Wickham, she might well choose to remain single and in charge of her fortune, rather than put herself at the mercy of another man. I hope and pray that this is not the case, that she heals enough to consider marriage and finds a man worthy of her trust who will give her the children that I know, in her heart, she still desires. I have seen the look in her eye, the pain of remembrance, her arms aching for what has been lost, but we have agreed never to speak of it.

  Unpleasant memories make me poor company. I speak little in the carriage and excuse myself upon our return, leaving Charles and George in a room full of neglected books whilst I take a glass of claret to bed. I am like a spring wound tight, plagued by thoughts of Forster and Wickham. The Bennet sisters and my own. Charles’s continued infatuation with a woman whose amenable nature is not at all what he needs. My growing attraction to her sister.

  Fuck.

  I am on edge. It is not a common feeling for me, and I seriously do not like it. The wine helps but a little. My right hand promises more. To avoid the need for clean sheets, I take the finger towel from the wash stand and place it on the mattress by my hip. To ease the process, I add water to my shaving mug, work the soap into a lather, and apply it with the hog’s hair brush to the blooming length of my cock, where artistry inspires life. I wrap my fingers around my slickened girth, squeeze and stroke my erection, giving a little twist at the end of each pull and milking pre-cum from the tip.

  All this done with thoughts of lambent midnight eyes and sultry mouth and honeyed voice. Miss Elizabeth…gasping, pleading, mewling, as her nubile body twists with each lash of a deerskin flogger. She will be wet with her own juices when I stroke her vulva, gather her dew, and redistribute it. To keep her hymen intact, I reach instead for her star, wishing mightily that she will relax enough to let me in. Eventually she does, with nips and kisses, with nudges aft and teasing strokes in front, followed by a serious foray beyond her nest of cinnamon curls.

  I uncover her pearl then push past her star to find hea
ven above, silken, clinging warmth that grips me like a warm handshake and welcomes me home. In reality, she would be too dry to handle me, but this is my fantasy. Miss Elizabeth is as wet and as willing as I need her to be. I snap my hips and plunge into her depths, feel my testicles slap her cunny as I drive into her, lustily, relentlessly taking her from behind.

  My balls draw up, tight, ready to expel their load. Grabbing the towel, I erupt into it, catching the white molten streams until my wellspring has run dry. I shudder and give myself one last squeeze, keeping the towel pinched as I ease my softening cock from its folds.

  Putting away thoughts of both Miss Bennets, I set aside the soiled linen and return to my lonely bed. Ejaculation offers but a temporary reprieve. Dark sapphire eyes and chestnut hair, fair skin with the faintest hint of freckles, trim ankles and small breasts haunt my dreams.

  I awaken in a foul mood.

  The breakfast bitch session that Caroline moderates clenches my decision to return to London for a few days. Georgiana has not returned my post, and that has me concerned. It is very unlike her not to respond immediately. With no visits from Miss Jane Bennet scheduled, it is the safest time to leave Charles that has presented itself these past weeks. I admonish him to behave and not chase after her skirts while I am away. Privately, I instruct Caroline to send word at once, should that situation change.

  Georgiana is abed when I arrive. It is late afternoon, and fear of some unknown illness immediately seizes my heart. Having lost our parents (and a number of siblings—stillborn and miscarried—between our births, first and last), we have only each other.

  With so many others lost, my mother considered Georgiana her miracle child, blessed at birth and destined for great things. I believed so too, until Wickham nearly destroyed her. It was weeks before she was more than a shadow of her former self. Months before she smiled again. Where once she laughed so easily, now it is a rare treat to hear her silver tones.

  Mrs. Annesley is gone when I arrive, and the maid is as nervous as a Christmas goose. Hackles raised, I order her away and go up myself, unannounced, determined to see firsthand what the blazes is going on. That the maid dares to follow sets me on edge even more.

  I knock on my sister’s door, authoritative. “Georgiana.”

  She can delay but I will not be denied, and she knows it. “Fitzwilliam. One moment, please.”

  Hmm. She does not sound ill, just odd. “Cover yourself. I am coming in.”

  I open the door like a curtain rising at the theatre. Whatever spectacle I might have expected to see, it is not my sister en déshabillé in her bed, and Hugh half-dressed beside it.

  I am…gut punched. Robbed of breath. There are no words.

  No. No. He cannot. He dare not.

  “Darcy,” he says.

  “Hugh,” I grate between clenched teeth. As close as brothers, we have been. Until today, I have never wanted to raise a hand against him. I tap my fists against my thighs. It is either that, or use them on him. My God. Is he insane? I cannot begin to think what this will mean for us all. “Present yourself in my study in five minutes. Georgiana, I will expect you there half an hour hence.”

  “Yes.” “Yes, brother.”

  Shaking my head, I turn on my heel and leave, pushing past the maid who hovers outside the door. Ex-maid. Or not. Fuck. Dismiss her for keeping this secret from me, and all of our secrets will be out.

  The maid stays.

  But what of Hugh?

  Georgiana is an angel. Hugh is a fallen one at best.

  Two questions loom largest, and I ask them of Hugh first. “Have you had carnal knowledge of my sister…your ward? And is there any chance that she is with child?”

  Hugh’s face flushes with guilt. “No child,” he says simply.

  I hit him, my right knuckles smashing his jaw hard enough to snap his head half off his neck. “You buggered her? You sorry sodomite!” I draw back my fist, preparing to strike again when I realise that he has made no move to defend himself. The son of a bitch is going to let me beat him.

  I push myself away from Hugh, and thrust my fingers into my hair. “How? Why? What in God’s name were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t,” he confesses. “I just…shite.” He blows out harshly and throws up his hands, clearly feeling as helpless as I do at the moment. “Mrs. Annesley’s daughter lost a child. She went for the burial and stayed to help care for her other wee ones. Georgiana started crying. She wouldn’t stop. She went to her room, and I heard her throwing things. Then she got quiet. Too quiet. I was afraid…”

  We looked at each other, sharing a memory that I wished to God could be erased.

  “I forced open her door. She was standing at the window, staring three stories down, like she was trying to decide if it was enough. Christ. She looked so…so lost. I’d only thought to anchor her, to keep her here, but she was having none of it. She hit me. Fought me. When I struck back…spanked her arse…and she looked at me, I knew what she needed, and I gave it to her.”

  Discipline. Punishment and absolution. The cleansing rain of tears, followed by pleasure borne of pain.

  My sister is submissive. Part of me, I suspect, has always known that. But for Hugh to recognize it and act upon it….

  “You could have stopped,” I say tightly. It is the Dominant’s responsibility to instruct, discipline, punish, and care for his submissive. The act of domination does not preclude sexual congress. Two such people may have a lifetime of emotionally intimate exchanges without it.

  “She needed more,” he tells me. “And do not think that I did not try to dissuade. I did. I did. And for a few hours, I believed that I had succeeded. Then she woke up screaming and, well, one thing led to another, and here we are.”

  I shoot him a dark, humourless glance. “And here we are. Wherever the hell this is. Jesus, Hugh! Have you any idea of the mess you have made of things, dipping your wick where it does not belong? Aunt Catherine—”

  He pales visibly at the name.

  “Yes, Aunt Catherine.”

  Hugh and I may have joint guardianship over my sister, but Aunt Catherine has some say over a portion of our inheritance from our mother. Cross her, and cut purse strings ensue. Or worse.

  She will castrate Hugh. Or wish to. But we do not have a choice.

  Chapter Seven

  “Darcy…”

  I quell Hugh with a look. “She must be told. In person. No written report, explanations, or apologies this time. Which means that we shall need to pay a visit. Then…God help you. God help us both.”

  “I suppose it is too soon to speak of marriage.”

  “You suppose correctly.” Hugh is a cousin by adoption, no blood relation, but he holds a commission in the King’s army. “France is quiet but who can tell what Napoleon might do for the son beget on his new wife, and what legacy he wishes to carve for the infant ‘King of Rome?’ God alone knows what will happen. You could be called upon to go and fight, or you might be assigned domestic duties. Either way, you could be summoned away from Georgiana at any moment.”

  “Unless I tender my resignation,” he says. “With Aunt Catherine’s approval, of course.” First and foremost, approval of himself as a husband for Georgiana. It would be folly to resign his commission any sooner and cut off his main source of income. If he marries Georgiana, of course, he can immediately resign without impunity. “How soon, do you think?”

  “I will send word today, asking when we may call upon her. Whatever she answers is when it shall be. God, I need a drink.”

  Georgiana is relieved to find us enjoying tumblers of forty-year-old single malt. I set my glass aside and motion her to sit. She moves stiffly, sits gingerly, no doubt sore from Hugh’s discipline.

  Tender from his possession.

  Yet when she looks at Hugh, her expression is soft, open, admiring. She looks at him as a good submissive does her Master.

  Damn it all to hell.

  When I speak, my voice is surprisingly calm. Steadfast. “I
am pledged to see to your well-being in all things,” I remind her. “Does anyone else beside the servants know? Is Mrs. Annesley privy to it?”

  She looks from Hugh to me and shakes her head. “If the servants can be trusted to keep secrets, then no one. And Mrs. Annesley was not here.” She tears up then, her face crumpling. “Please don’t hate me. And don’t blame Hugh. He tried to leave. I—I wouldn’t let him.”

  “So he said.” I take another drink when I feel myself caving. Georgiana’s tears have always held power over me as nothing else, since the day that she was born, healthy and whole when I thought that I was doomed to be an only child. “And you know that I love you, Ana.” She brightens when I use her nursery name. I gave it to her when she was born, and her Christian name was beyond both our capabilities at the time. “Hugh and I will pay a visit to Aunt Catherine. We can make no plans without her consent. Do you understand?”

  “But—”

  “No!” I stop her. I must. “No, Ana. This is not up for discussion. This is how it must be. You know this.”

  I shrug off the disturbing sense of déjà vu. We were forced to do this before, after Wickham.

  Hugh offers Georgiana the crooked smile of a boy who has been caught with a biscuit—except that he is a man full grown. He knew better and did it anyway.

  “Listen to your brother,” he says. “Fitzwilliam knows how these things work. Moreover, he knows how Aunt Catherine thinks. We must win her to our side if we are to have a chance at all, Georgie.”

  Georgie. This, said with a gentleness that sounds so very strange, coming from Hugh, knowing him as I do. But it is genuine; I have no doubt. Otherwise, my sister would not look at him as she does, with admiration, adoration, desire. There is no hiding how she feels, but all hope is tenuous. Tethered. Linked to our aunt’s good graces, to be pulled to the ground and crushed underfoot, put in a cage and made to wait, or launched with her blessing and allowed to fly free.