by Nia Farrell
The ruse works. When Miss Bennet calls in Grosvenor Street, Charles is not there. Caroline tells her that he is much engaged with me. An understatement, since he lives with us, but it is designed to dampen any hopes that Miss Jane may have of seeing him. Meanwhile, as a precaution, I make certain that the balls we attend are prestigious enough to bar those of her social status from attending. The weeks pass without incident, but we shall breathe easier once she is gone.
The nearest we come to disaster is the day that the girls insist on going to the river for the frost fair. It is rare for the Thames to freeze over, but January has proven to be the coldest in memory. One day when the sun is out and the wind has calmed, the girls beg to go to the festivities. Charles and I, doting brothers that we are, indulge their youthful fancies.
As we are leaving, I see Miss Jane Bennet arriving. At least, I think it is she. Bundled against the cold as we all are and part of a crowd, it is easy to miss an acquaintance. She pays us no mind and continues on. Perhaps I am mistaken.
February has enough warm days to thaw the ice and end the frost fair, with an extra day at the end of the month that is reason enough for celebration, Leap Day coming as it does but once every four years. Victoria is especially excited. There is to be a reverse dance, where females ask the males to partner them. I have never heard of the like but I am outvoted and thus we go.
Victoria first approaches a young man who has been too shy to ask her to dance and engages him for the first set, which lasts nearly an hour. Georgiana, of course, partners with Hugh. Twice. I sigh, having gone through this with Bingley, but she cares not what others think. Hearing her argue in her own defence, I am reminded of Miss Elizabeth’s arrival afoot at Netherfield, petticoats six inches deep in mud, her fair face flushed with exertion, caring not a whit what anyone thought of her, concerned only for her sister upstairs, sick in bed.
The thought crosses my mind that they are rather alike, and would probably get along, adventurous spirits that they are. Hopefully Miss Elizabeth has not been tempted to explore with Mr. Wickham. It would be a shame, to have her so disgraced. She certainly would have no family in a position to hush the scandal it would cause. She would be ruined, likely doomed to spinsterhood. No decent man would have her.
And yet….
I look across the dance floor to where my sister dances with Hugh. If the truth were known, society would consider her ruined. Yet knowing her history, knowing some of what happened with Wickham, Hugh would still have her in a heartbeat. He is more than a decent man; he is an officer and a gentleman. I must ask myself, what does that say about me, that I cannot bring myself to consider Miss Elizabeth Bennet as anything more than fodder for my fantasies? As manor-born with an income of ten thousand a year, I have clearly delineated responsibilities and high expectations to meet. A family name to uphold. Exacting standards to maintain. A legacy, mine by right of birth, to safekeep for the generations yet to come.
I take pride that I am first and foremost a gentleman. I am considered “a catch,” as they say. I was and am the good son and nephew. I have always adhered to society’s basic rules, and have done what was expected of me, regardless of my personal feelings. No matter how many debutantes have been thrust in my direction, or what number of women have thrown themselves at me, not once have I looked into their eyes and seen more than fear or greed, trepidation or lust. Search as I might, I have never seen a future, or felt the potential for one, until I looked into Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s fine eyes and suddenly wanted more.
More what? What can I possibly aspire to with one such as Miss Elizabeth Bennet? Granted, my objection to her sister with Bingley is more about Miss Jane’s nature than the Bennets’ social standing. Charles needs a dominant female, or a woman with a stiff enough corset to keep him in line. I must admit, my personal opinion of Miss Jane increased when I learned that she had taken the initiative and followed us to London. What she does, and how she does it, will tell me if I have misjudged and whether there is hope for the couple after all.
Chapter Sixteen
Miss Jane proves stronger than I credited her. She stays one month, then another, paying several calls on Caroline at the Hursts’ home in Grosvenor Street. In early March, she manages to inveigle an invitation to a ball that we thought to attend. Alternate plans are made and potential disaster avoided, on more than one front.
Her sister Elizabeth is in town as well, travelling with Miss Maria Lucas and her father Sir William, whose elevated position grants access otherwise denied them. Hearing of their visit, Caroline refuses to look upon Miss Elizabeth’s “fine eyes” and makes herself unavailable to either sister, until after Sir William and the two young women depart, headed for Hunsford to visit his other daughter, Mrs. Collins.
My aunt has informed me that the former Miss Charlotte Lucas is slowly settling into the role of a minister’s wife. She and her husband dine twice weekly at Rosings, or whenever they are summoned to table. I try to imagine the look on Miss Elizabeth’s face, were I to pay a surprise visit. I do not know who would be the more shocked, Miss Bennet or my aunt, who does not know of our acquaintance.
I prefer that she remain ignorant of it, for now. A thought has occurred to me, if I might somehow manage to introduce the eldest Miss Bennet to my Aunt Catherine, to make a final determination on her capacity for handling Charles. Judging from Caroline’s growing dissatisfaction, Miss Jane seems to have mettle and the determination to persevere, adapt, and overcome, despite being given no encouragement, offered no hope.
Perhaps it is a pipe dream that will dissipate like opium fog, revealing my delusion. But in hindsight, I have never seen Charles as content as he was with her at Netherfield. Despite the rounds of balls and regular excursions into society, there is not a woman in the whole of London who has engaged his interest. I notice the same behavior in Victoria, who has no lack of suitors yet looks upon none of them as she did Gavin. Mayhap it is a family trait. Like birds that mate for life, they may fix their affection on one candidate, however ill-suited, and there shall their hopes forever remain.
After giving this serious consideration, I determine to consult my aunt. As soon as she mentions that Sir William has gone, I send a letter and make plans to visit. My first concern, of course, is my sister and her propensity to tempt the beast. Knowing that Charles will be no deterrent to a dominant such as Hugh where Georgiana is concerned, rather than leave them both in London, I coerce Hugh into coming with me. He cannot argue the wisdom of it, and on the twenty-third of March, the two Fitzwilliams descend upon Rosings to visit with our formidable aunt.
Aunt Catherine greets Hugh amicably enough but is cold as marble to me. I learn the why of it straight away.
“I wrote to you,” she snaps. “I told you of Sir William Lucas’s visit with his younger daughter and her friend, yet you did not indicate that you knew them. I do not appreciate being kept in the dark, Fitzwilliam. I should not have had to hear from their lips what should have come from you—that you have been introduced and you saw them socially while you were in Hertfordshire. It is too late now,” she says crisply. “The deed is done. The news is out. No doubt they are at the parsonage at this very moment, giggling at my shock.”
Miss Elizabeth is here.
I came to ask about her sister, for my friend’s sake, and now must wonder at my own. I cannot deny that Miss Elizabeth has captured my imagination. I confessed as much to Hugh when confiding the purpose of our visit. I called it interest. Hugh half-jokingly called her my obsession.
I fear he may be right.
Aunt Catherine clearly does not share my fascination with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Hugh squeezes my shoulder, offers a look of support and commiseration, and seeks to distract our aunt with the latest whispers that have leaked from the war department. My cousin is summoned, along with her governess Mrs. Jenkinson, to hear what the Modern Alexander is up to these days.
It is an unfortunate start to my visit. Aunt Catherine is better satisfied with Hugh, who
manages to edify and entertain. I listen, for the most part, adding to the conversation here and there, waiting for the chance to speak to my aunt alone.
I use no names. I want nothing else to adversely colour her perception of Miss Elizabeth beyond the young woman’s own words, deeds, and situation. She already considers her improperly out (before the eldest is married), outspoken, and impudent. A brat, she adds when we are alone and free to speak as nearly equals, Mistress to Master.
“She needs spanked, that one,” Aunt Catherine huffs. “I could scarce eat for the itch in my hand to apply it.”
Spanked, bound, blindfolded, fucked—exactly in that order.
“Yes,” I say smoothly, suffering my own itch and barely quelling the erection that will follow as soon as I allow it. “She is stubborn. Headstrong. But she is also a devoted sister and fiercely loyal to her friends, if she could but master her tongue.”
“Or have someone master her,” my aunt huffs beneath her breath. “Now then. Tell me why you are here, sir. Your letter was properly vague.”
“Yes. Well. The subjects shall remain unnamed, to protect the privacy of all concerned, but there are two individuals nurturing an initial attraction. One is clearly submissive and ready to kneel. The second has no experience in mastery, nor have they shown any signs that they are either interested in or capable of learning what will be required if their relationship is allowed to proceed. Being in the dominant position, responsible for the happiness and well-being of another, is a demanding role, and she is clueless of what that entails. How to play a submissive wife in society and dominate him when they are alone. How and when to discipline. How and when to reward. How to push his perceived limitations and to administer post-play care.”
I pause, seeing the familiar light of challenge in my aunt’s eyes when I identify their genders. A good sign. “Should the opportunity present itself, I would appreciate your opinion on whether or not she has merit. I fear that my vision is clouded and perhaps I have failed to see her potential.”
My aunt preens. “For you, sir. If and when the opportunity presents itself, I shall make a swift and certain judgment and be quick to advise you of it. If,” she says meaningfully, “the future of this couple is as important to you as it seems, and I determine that there may be hope in that direction, I shall consider taking her on. No promises,” she adds. “She must first pass my test. Anything else will, of necessity, follow.”
“Thank you, Aunt Catherine.” Our talk satisfactorily concluded, I slip into the role of nephew once more.
“Not so quickly.” She gives me that look, the one that made me quail as a boy and still has the power to put me in my place, the king on a chessboard second to its queen. “How goes it with the colonel and your sister?”
“As well as can be expected,” I tell her. “They are grateful when allowed to spend chaperoned time together, unhappy when they are apart. Each strives to keep occupied. We found an older male submissive looking for a strict disciplinarian. Punishment only with orgasm denial, which works perfectly for Hugh. His flogging arm stays in practice. His need to dominate is met. I harbor hope that their situation may continue long term….”
And spare Ana’s tender flesh remains unspoken.
My aunt gives a stiff nod of approval. “Yes. With the temptation to otherwise engage removed, there should be no true cause for jealousy, hmm? And what of you, Fitzwilliam? Shall I send someone to your room or would you prefer the training room? My latest could benefit with a Master’s instruction and Hugh is not yet allowed. She has nearly managed to overcome her gag reflex but needs more practice.”
I may not diddle servants, but my aunt’s students are here for one reason, to learn to dominate or learn to submit.
“Training room,” I say. “In a quarter hour, if that is agreeable.”
Aunt Catherine draws herself up. “It is. Now go. Prepare. I shall send her down.”
As with Pemberley, Rosings’ private room is beneath the house, for more even temperatures year round, comfortable even when the heat swells in summer. It lacks a bed but other apparatus are there—a St. Andrew’s cross, spanking benches, an elevated table, a fainting couch. Racks of implements line the walls, some of them gender-specific. Chests of drawers and trunks hold ropes, chains, and other treasures that my aunt has carefully and purposefully collected.
A tentative knock sounds on the door.
“Enter,” I command. “Close the door behind you, disrobe, and kneel.”
I turn my back, eyeing the selection of floggers rather than to look at her. I want her at her most vulnerable when I do. Naked body, naked truth.
She obeys immediately, without question. Once she has shed her clothing, she sinks to the floor, awaiting instruction.
I exhale and turn to find a blushing miss, with flaming hair and fair, freckled skin, cheeks high with colour that floods to her chest. Her breasts are large, her waist thick, her hips generous, with sturdy thighs and shapely calves but it is her mouth that I am drawn back to. Wide, full, lips slightly parted, eager to please.
“You know why you are here,” I say, more statement than question.
“Aye, Sir.”
“Before we begin, is there anything I need to know? Any limits to what I can do with you? Or do to you?”
“Knives,” she says softly, suppressing a shudder. “No blades, Sir, if you please. I can take pain, should you choose to whip me, but not blood.”
“Are you a virgin?” I ask, just so we are clear. I would not put it past my aunt to give me such an offering.
The blush brightens. “My rose,” she admits, her voice deepening and dropping to almost a whisper.
Hmm. She forbids only blades and blood. As for claiming her arse, well, we will see.
She waits, naked and wordless, maintaining perfect form while I take off my coat and roll up my sleeves.
“Hands and knees. Follow me.”
She needs no leash, although a collar and lead would enhance her appearance and make her feel more pet than slut. Tonight, though, I want the slut that I sense she can be, if she but trusts me enough to let herself go.
I sit on the edge of the fainting couch, legs spread, and point for her to come between them. Along the way, I’ve pulled free the tail of my chemise d’homme, undone my fall, and pulled out my cock to speed things along. Rolling up the hem of my shirt, I tuck it under my vest, out of the way, giving her a clear field in which to play.
“Kiss my stomach,” I murmur, wondering why more men do not begin this way, to feel the way she uses her lips, her teeth, her tongue. Her breath whispers against my hair-dusted skin when she presses her lips to a point above my navel. A chaste kiss, lips only, not exactly hesitant but still somewhat shy.
“Again,” I say. “Hands behind your back and kiss me like you mean it.”
She clasps her wrists and leans in again, this time licking, nipping, parting her lips and fastening her mouth on my skin, her soft moan vibrating against the ridged contours of my abdomen. My cock responds, unfurling to half-mast.
“Suck me,” I growl. Fisting her ginger head, I push her face into my lap.
She takes me in. All of me, to the root—a relatively easy swallow at this stage of the game. She has a clever tongue and is not shy about showing the oral skills that she has mastered, but she has not trained with anything my size and eventually is challenged. When her gag reflex kicks in, I reposition us, aligning her head and neck in a manner that will allow her to take me deep into her throat. The crown of my erection presses against her palate as I push further inside, further yet, pulling out to let her breathe then diving in again.
“Cup my testicles,” I order when it has gone on long enough. “We are nearly there. I am going to come in your mouth. You will swallow every drop, or be punished for waste.”
A few more pumps and I am there, jacking into her throat, coating her tonsils with my release. She swallows, and swallows, and still some escapes. She lifts her hand from my sac to catch it an
d I tsk.
“Bad girl,” I say sharply. “I did not give you permission to remove your hand or to wipe your mouth. Disobedient chit. Now you must be punished.”
Chapter Seventeen
It is a long night. My aunt’s submissive in training is a brat who delights in misbehaving and is a painslut to boot. By the time my arm is tired, her backside is beautifully welted, her mouth is swollen from the last facefuck I gave her, and her arse is plugged with a ginger fig for tempting me to take her there when I vowed that I would not.
Cheeky girl.
In some ways, she reminds me of a rounder version of Miss Elizabeth, a plump partridge built for a man’s comfort. With my aunt’s training, she will make someone a boon companion, I have no doubt. It will not, however, be me.
Punishing her last night assuaged my appetite but a whit. Breakfast sees it return full force, and Reverend Collins’s arrival is perfectly timed to see where it leads.
Hugh and I follow him back to the Hunsford parsonage that borders my aunt’s estate. The Reverend rings his own door bell—an oddity, save they do not keep much in the way of staff, he explains. He does it to alert his wife that she has guests.
We leave our hats by the door and follow him into the drawing room, which seems to have been taken over by the women. Books, knitting, needlework, a drawing tablet, a sewing basket and darning egg—such things are strewn across every table in sight. I pay my compliments to Mrs. Collins, as does Hugh, before looking at Miss Elizabeth, who curtseys without saying a word.
Hugh, sensing my preoccupation with the object of my so-called obsession, engages our hosts in conversation. When the Reverend dominates the speech, hardly allowing anyone a word in edgewise, least of all his wife, I feel compelled to contribute and remark upon the house and garden to Mrs. Collins. My next remark I direct to Miss Elizabeth, inquiring after the health of her family.