by Nia Farrell
Her dark eyes snap. “Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond. They are certainly not gone to Scotland.”
I know she is upset, but when she speaks a bit too sharply and lifts that chin to punctuate her words, I take issue with her disrespect. The next thing she knows, I have taken her in hand, sat in the chair she has recently vacated, and pulled her facedown across my lap.
“Oh!” she squeaks. “Mr. Darcy! What are you doing?”
“I am going to spank you,” I say, pulling up the hems of her skirt and petticoats to expose the linen-clad swell of her bottom. “Untie your knickers,” I order. “I need your arse bared to my sight, so that I can judge the efficacy of the punishment you have earned.
“What?” she protests, wriggling like a minnow. “I never. You cannot.”
“You did, and I will,” I tell her, smacking her once, hard enough to let her know that I mean what I say. “I am not your enemy. I do not deserve such rudeness as you heaped upon my head. That stops now, Miss Elizabeth. You will apologise and take your punishment. Now, your knickers need down. You can do it, or I will—but the effort will cost you five additional swats. Now, which is it to be?”
She trembles beneath my hands and reaches for the drawstring, untying it, then easing her undergarment just past the curve of her hips.
I can already smell her arousal.
“Now,” I rumble, “tell me, Miss Bennet, why you are being punished.”
“Because I was rude…and disrespectful,” she croaks, mortified at her situation. “I spoke harshly, and I am sorry for it.”
“Perhaps,” I say, “If you are not, you shall be.”
I rub the white globes of her arse, soft skin over toned muscle from the miles of walking that she does. The twin moons are the perfect canvas to paint with prints of red. I start slowly, warming her flesh, bringing her along, strengthening the blows until she is ready to fully receive. She cries and jerks, sobs and pleads, begs me to stop, to hurry, to finish before someone walks in.
I have not locked the door. The thought that someone might come in keeps her from being overloud and excites me all the more. My cock is as hard as a post and pushes painfully against the front of my fitted breeches.
I spank her arse, alternating sides, keeping my blows on the fleshy part of her bottom, admiring the handprints that form. She mewls and whimpers, begs and moans. Resistance is futile and soon melts away. Arching her back, she rises up to meet my blows. Aware that the Gardiners will be here soon, I trace her seam with my hand, wetting my fingers before easing one inside.
She stills for a moment and hides her head at the prospect of such an intimate touch. Jesus God. She is tight. Her walls grip my one finger. When the time comes, I shall have my work cut out for me, readying her for my cock.
“Shh,” I murmur at her gasp when I push deeper. “You have taken your punishment and earned a reward. I know you want it. I can feel your body’s response. How wet and swollen you are, Miss Elizabeth. Your nether lips are plump as pillows. Your wellspring flows, readying itself for my possession. Not today. Not yet. But if you will allow it, I can help you reach the pinnacle of pleasure and find the surcease that your body craves, the peace that you need to face what is ahead. Say the word, and I will give it. Say nothing, and we are done…at least for today.”
She shudders like a mare new to a bridle and saddle. I will not force her. Anything I give to her, she must first allow. There will be time enough to test her boundaries and tempt her to cross over and expand them. Unfortunately, we are on borrowed time, with her aunt and uncle due back.
She says nothing. Very well. But when I start to slip my finger free, she clamps my hand between her thighs, and whispers, not yes or as you wish, but please….
“Oh, please! I beg you!”
Thank you, God.
I push in, giving her what she needs: short, teasing strokes at first, testing her waters before diving in deeper. So wet. So responsive.
So close.
I can tell from her breath, from the rivulets of juices tracking down her legs, from the tension taking hold of her body. Fucking her tight little cunny with my finger, I find her clitoris with my thumb and worry it, circling, pressing, teasing, harder, stroking, rubbing, catching, pinching.
“Ngh!” She shatters, breath sloughing between clenched teeth, hips jacked, toes digging at the floor, desperate to find purchase. I do not think that she is even aware of her nails gouging into my flesh through the fabric of my breeches. Her grip on my calf loosens when her whole body goes slack.
She does not protest when I slip my finger from her and bring it to my lips, warm and wet and thick with her scent. I suck off her juices, comparing the tangy-sweet taste of Miss Elizabeth to my first in Hunsford’s parsonage—a memory that is certain to rank among my most pleasant when I am old and gray.
I pull up her knickers, help her to stand, and assist on restoring her appearance, grateful that the Gardiners have yet to make theirs. Settling her in a chair, I pour her a glass of water and make her drink.
“Now then, where were we?” My mind pulls at our conversation, unraveling its last thread. “They have gone to London, not Scotland. And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”
The water has helped ground her, allowing her to answer. “My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible.”
I agree. It is horrible. But unlike Miss Elizabeth, I know that Wickham has connections in London who may offer leads. I dare not raise her hopes, but as soon as I take her leave, I plan to pursue them.
She looks at me with a tormented gaze. Wishing I could erase the distress, the guilt, the fear that I see there, I begin to pace the floor, thinking, praying, hoping beyond hope that I can find the means to secure a happier ending to what so far is a tragic one-sided romance.
“When my eyes were opened to his real character—,” she laments, her contralto voice even lower than normal. “Oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”
She blames herself when she should not. This is Wickham’s fault—another sin to lay at his door, and rightly so. But his actions affect more than the one; they affect the entire Bennet family and cast a long shadow upon anyone who wishes to join with one of the daughters—Charles and myself included.
Miss Elizabeth knows this. I can read it in her eyes. She looks away, stricken, and buries her face in her handkerchief, mourning for us and the chance for a future that she believes to be lost.
Not if I can help it.
I want to gather her in my arms, comfort and reassure her. Proper etiquette dictates that I should not be here, alone with her, unchaperoned. I dare not touch her again, not when I have such a thin hold on my libido. The Gardiners have already seen my burgeoned self; they do not need to find me alone with their niece and sporting another erection. As it is, I have stayed beyond what I should, and apologise for it. “I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley today.”
She raises her face, brave girl, and manages half a tremulous smile. “Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.”
“I trusted you with my family’s secret; please know t
hat you may trust me with yours. Believe me when I say that I am sorry for your distress—would that I could spare you from it!—and wish for a happier conclusion than there is at present reason to hope. Your uncle and aunt should be here anon. It would be best if I were gone when they arrive.” It will hardly do to have them walk in and see me with a rampant cock, but seeing her tears, with her scent still in the air and her taste on my tongue, is testing the limits of my control. I need to leave before I am forced to hide behind my hat. “Please, give them my compliments.”
Taking leave of Miss Elizabeth, I hasten back to Pemberley. My mind is a maelstrom of various scenarios, none of them ideal and only one that provides any hope for the future.
Wickham must marry Miss Lydia Bennet.
But first, he must be found.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Do you understand?” I look at my sister’s face, her eyes clearer now that the shock is receding, replaced by anger, and sadness, and regrets. So many regrets.
She tucks her chin and nods stiffly. “Of course. You must go and I must stay. I am to say nothing of it to the Bingleys or to Mrs. Annesley or anyone else. Business in town has called you away unexpectedly. It is not the first time, but hopefully will be the last,” she adds meaningfully.
With luck, by the time I finish, any threat that Wickham poses will be forever neutralized.
“I do not know how long I shall be,” I warn her. When I reach London on Saturday, the Gardiners will be delivering Miss Elizabeth to Longbourn and I need her uncle’s clear head—not her father’s frantic one—to deal with what is to come.
“Do what you must, brother. However long it takes. Whatever it takes to satisfy Aunt Catherine. Like you, I do not wish for Miss Elizabeth to be the one who gets away. I like her. Very much.”
“As do I,” I confess.
Georgiana pats my arm. “You will find them. You will set things right, I know it. Do not be afraid to make Hugh—Colonel Fitzwilliam—help you. His uniform might well lend more weight to your inquiries than mere coin.”
I have already given that consideration. Wickham is (or was?) in the militia, and my cousin is in the regulars. Still, Hugh is a good one to have at my back in the unsavory parts of the city where Wickham is most likely to be found.
By the next day, I have spoken with a former Bow Street Runner and offered an anonymous reward for information leading to the discovery of one Mr. George Wickham. Find him, and I will find Lydia Bennet, I am fairly certain. There is no need to drag her name into this, at such an early stage, but if we do not get leads soon, I will be forced to expand the search to include her as well.
Hugh proves to be a blessing, keeping a calm head when mine threatens to explode. It is so very unlike me, to be angry. I occasionally get upset. Despite what the residents of Meryton might think, I am credited with having a pleasant, even temperament. I am in control—of my emotions, my thoughts, my body—most of the time, but this situation with Wickham has me in pieces.
If there is a goddess of discord and a god of chaos, the pair of them should be well pleased.
“Have you thought of asking Mrs. Younge?” Hugh lifts his glass and takes another sip of thirty-year-old single malt.
“Fuck, no. Jesus God.” I shake my head at having missed the obvious starting point. Wickham would need lodgings. Mrs. Younge lets them. Oh, I have kept tabs on her since her part in Georgiana’s abduction, almost hoping that she will slip up and make a mistake that is a punishable offense, but mostly to ensure that Georgiana never sees her again.
“When does the uncle return? Gardiner?”
“Tomorrow at best. From Lambton, they went to Longbourn, to deliver Miss Elizabeth and collect their children. Poor thing. Miss Elizabeth blames herself for it. She knew Wickham’s nature and kept Georgiana’s secret. A word of warning might have saved her sister.”
“Or not,” Hugh points out. “From what I have heard, the youngest two Bennet girls are mad for officers. Wickham knows how to turn on the charm and to lie convincingly. He would have convinced her it was all a mistake and painted himself the victim, as he did with Miss Elizabeth. Young and naïve as Miss Lydia is, she would have been easily persuaded of his innocence and swayed to his cause.”
“Doubtless.” I concur with his assessment. Wickham preys on innocent youth, but this time is different. He made off with Georgiana, intending to force a marriage. There is nothing to tempt him to marry the youngest Miss Bennet. Nothing. No connections. No money. No prospect of the inheritance that my sister enjoys. So why did he do it?
Something is not right.
The not knowing is beyond frustrating. Hugh refills both our glasses and we drink in sullen silence. The hour grows late. We go to bed, but I suspect that my cousin lies awake in his room too, both of us wondering what the morrow will bring. I only hope that we find Wickham soon, before word leaks out and a scandal ensues that cannot be hushed over.
The next morning, by the end of breakfast, Hugh and I have come up with a plan. I send for Higgins the Runner, as he styles himself, retaining the history of his connection with Bow Street even if he is no longer with them. Once we are agreed, the wheels are set in motion.
Hugh and I pay a call on Mrs. Younge, who lets lodgings in Edward Street.
She has changed in the time since I dismissed her from service, and not in a good way. She looks worn. Haggard. Aged beyond her years. I cannot help but take small satisfaction in it. She deserves to suffer, after the part she played with Georgiana and Wickham.
“You,” she says when she bothers to look up from the ledger book she’s bent over. There is a momentary flash of something—panic? guilt?—hidden just as quickly.
“Yes,” I say. “And you know why I have come.”
“Do I now?”
“George Wickham. I need to know where he is.”
She snaps the book closed and points her pencil toward the door. “He isn’t here. Now out with you. Both of you.”
“Have you seen him?” I demand, unyielding.
The quick flicker of her eyes tells me that she has, despite the denial that she spouts. “No,” she snips. “I have not. Now go, before I summon the police and have you forcibly removed from my property.”
The large house was bought and paid for with Darcy money, in exchange for her silence about my sister. But legally it is hers, and I know her well enough to understand that she does not make idle threats. Yielding to the greater wisdom, I leave with one final warning. “If you see him, tell him there is nowhere he can hide that I will not eventually find him. He had better pray that it is not too late when I do. Good day to you, Mrs. Younge.”
Hugh and I have done our part. Now it is up to Higgins to do his.
The hours drag by. Higgins finally comes, with news of note—although not what I was expecting. We had hoped that Mrs. Younge might try to contact Wickham and warn him of my threat. She went out, all right, but to an assignation with her lover, an older man with a taste for bondage and sodomy who finds her a willing partner. Not that there is anything wrong in my eyes with what they do, but the truth, if it were made known, would ruin several lives, including those of his wife, children, and grandchildren.
The threat of exposure is enough to make her buckle. She has indeed seen Wickham, and Miss Lydia.
“He wanted a room,” she admits when we call upon her the next morning. “I had none. Before I sent him on his way, I gave him names of those who might. I told you before, he is not here. I can only guess where he ended up, but I will write down the list, the same as I gave to him.”
Calling on the third name down, I bless Hugh’s presence, thrown out in advance, all scarlet coated and official sounding, looking for a deserter from the militia and threatening prison for anyone, knowingly or unwittingly, aiding and abetting one George Wickham. He is given up in the blink of a rum-reddened eye.
Miss Lydia is with him.
No ring on her finger. No shame in her address. The little slut is actually pissed th
at I have dared to discover their squalid love nest. She cares not a whit that they are cohabitating outside the sanctity of marriage. Indeed, she refuses to leave, exclaiming that she is sure they should be married some time or other. It does not signify much when.
Oh, the look on Wickham’s face. I can tell that he has been leading her on, feeding her lies. The bastard has no intention of marrying her, but he is not about to confess it in her company and risk losing her altogether.
When she declines for the second time to come with me, I leave Hugh in charge of Miss Bennet and order Wickham to accompany me to the public house across the street. He balks at going—less because of his situation with Miss Bennet, it turns out, but because he owes a bill there and has not the means to settle it.
I wonder how much more I will have to pay before the day is done.
The public house is poorly lit, incredibly filthy, and full of dregs. A couple of rough-and-tumble men, who might possess a full set of teeth between them, rise when they see Wickham but sit down quick enough when they glimpse the pistol butt hovering under my hand. Throwing coin enough on the bar to cover his account and then some, I order drinks brought to the far corner table.
George takes the seat beside me so that both of our backs are to a wall and we have a clear view of the entire room. I have had enough unpleasant surprises today. I’ll be damned if I let myself be caught unawares by one of this noisome crowd.
He quaffs a mouthful of rum. Says nothing. Downs another. When he bends his elbow for the third time, I seize his forearm and stop him cold. The look in my eyes is enough to give any sane man pause.
“Start talking.” I shake off my hold, feeling tainted from just touching him. He is disgusting. A seducer, debaucher, and rapist of under-aged innocents. So help me God, I vow to see that Lydia Bennet is the last virgin he despoils. “What were you thinking? A girl with a family, staying with a commanding officer who was charged to protect her? Why did you not marry her at once, man? Take her to Greta Green and make it legal? It is not too late to set things right, but you have ruined any chance for advancement in your unit.”