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

by Nia Farrell

  “I would not have advanced anyway,” he says. “Not with the…debts of honour…that obliged me to leave.”

  I do not know that there was ever an honourable bone in Wickham’s body. Even as a child, he was mean, deceitful, and a consummate actor, managing to fool my father into believing he was inherently good when I knew better.

  The odd phrasing demands that I dig deeper and discern what he is not saying. I vow to have the truth before I leave.

  “Debts?” I ask, managing to sound rather innocuous, pretending to play along for now. “What of Miss Bennet’s father? He may not be very rich, but he would have been able to do something for you. Your situation surely would have benefited by marriage.”

  He shook his head and admitted that it was never his intention to take her to wife. “She was ripe for the plucking. Good God, man. You know her. You have seen her. She had been throwing herself at me for weeks. When time came to leave, she begged to come with me. I wanted company is all, which Lydia was willing enough to provide and more. But I must look elsewhere for a bride, one with the means to support me. Some other country perhaps. I have always wanted to see Italy. There are Englishwomen there who must long to hear their native tongue from a man who knows how to use his.”

  Jesus God. Spare me….

  Wickham finishes his drink and refuses to speak more this day. But I have found him. He knows he cannot hide, but he can drag things out, keep me dangling, bargain for more and hope that he gets it.

  We meet several times, each one riddled with more unfortunate revelations. He has debts, both monetary and personal. The debt of honour that compelled him to leave was due to some drunken experimenting done with Colonel Forster’s aide de camp. Wickham swears he did not lead him on, but the young man was infatuated and soon declared his love. Wickham, of course, did not return the sentiment and swiftly broke things off.

  Even before the aide’s attempted suicide, Wickham had effectually robbed Colonel Forster of his boon companion. He needed to distance himself from the situation, as well as from the creditors who were starting to hound his door.

  “How much?” I ask. We are at the same table for the third day straight, with everything yet to be settled. Part of me knows where this is going. London, Brighton, Meryton…God knows how far his debts extend beyond that.

  Unlike the other times, he deigns to answer me. “Two thousand pounds, more or less.”

  I suspect that he is exaggerating. He is not one to pass on a chance to rake me over coals where he can. “I will need a list of your creditors and the amounts owed to each.”

  He clears his throat and washes down his lie with a mouthful of ale. “I can have it for you in a day or two.”

  “Today,” I say. “As soon as we leave here, you will begin. You have until three o’clock this afternoon, when I shall return for the reckoning.”

  He moans in protest, but I refuse to yield.

  Lifting my glass in a silent prayer for Forster’s troubled aide, I acknowledge the recent past and contemplate the distant future. “You cannot return to Colonel Forster’s regiment,” I tell Wickham. “Have you given thought to a career? Where you will live? What you will do?”

  He arches a sardonic brow. “You mean, other than the parsonage at Kympton and the living that has gone to another?”

  By his own choice. “Yes.”

  Wickham signals for a refill. “Lydia loves a uniform. A commission in the regulars should satisfy everyone, don’t you think?”

  I don’t know what a commission costs, but Hugh can see it done, I am sure.

  “On one condition,” I say. “Marry her. Now. As soon as it can be arranged. And for God’s sake, let me deliver her to her uncle until the wedding and lend some semblance of normalcy to all this. Her family and friends have suffered enough.”

  George Wickham could not care less about others. He thinks only of himself. However, that afternoon, when he hands me the list of his creditors, I can see that he truly is hurting. He owes tradesmen, taverns, oddsmakers. He is so deep in debt, he has no way out of the hole that he has dug for himself. No immediate relief save the succor I will provide when he marries Miss Lydia Bennet.

  Wickham agrees to my terms. He has no choice, really. We return to the flat that he has rented and break the news to his bride-to-be. Once Wickham yields responsibility for her to me, Hugh and I leave her no alternative but to come with us.

  I order a guest room made ready and have her things brought into it, few though they are. She more properly belongs with her Uncle Gardiner (and I shall pass her over as soon as possible), but I wish to speak to him first, relieve his mind, and prepare him for what is ahead. Given his profession, he will want details of every point that has been discussed and decided.

  My first errand, however, is critical to the successful conclusion of this business. On behalf of the couple, I secure the church and a rector to officiate, who will read the banns this Sunday, two days hence. Once the ceremony is arranged, I go to break the news to the Gardiners.

  In Gracechurch Street, I am welcomed by a familiar face from the inn at Lambton. The Gardiners’ manservant—John, if I remember aright—remarks that his master is in with one breath, and he apologises the next.

  Mr. Gardiner has company. Mr. Bennet is here.

  Of all the damned luck.

  I cannot go in, not now. Mr. Bennet will demand to know Wickham’s whereabouts. If he finds him alone, with no witnesses to deter or placate him when passions run so high, bloodshed might well ensue. No, it is better to come once he has gone.

  Fortunately, I do not have long to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The next day, I am back in Gracechurch Street, this time with George Wickham in tow. He is ordered not to speak unless spoken to and to defer questions to me when possible.

  Thankfully, Mr. Gardiner is a thinking man—a valuable trait, given his profession. He bristles at Wickham’s unrepentant attitude but deigns to receive us both. He listens to what has been done, what is left to do, and what is required to make it so.

  Still too upset to look at Wickham, Mr. Gardiner shifts his feet on the library’s patterned carpet. He is full of nervous energy yet seems stones lighter, as if a crushing weight has been lifted from his shoulders. The wedding is arranged two weeks hence, on the last day of August. The banns will be read; the church and the officiating minister are secured. Hugh and I have combined his connections and my bank account to purchase Wickham a commission in a unit of regulars stationed far in the north. Given his proclivities and her disgrace, we felt that distance would benefit them both, making them depend upon and appreciate each other, which is how a marriage should be.

  While all this is true enough, there are other reasons that I shall not go into. Suffice to say, I want Wickham gone.

  Mr. Gardiner sees the logic in it. “Furthermore, Mr. Gardiner, I recommend that you keep the lovers either apart or closely monitor any contact between them.”

  Had he asked, I would have told him that neither one can be trusted. Miss Bennet has done nothing but whine, bitch, and cry since we separated them. I would not wish her upon my worst enemy—oh wait. I do. Of course I do. Seeing them legally joined in the bonds of holy matrimony and consigned to the purgatory that their marriage must surely be is my nearest desire; possessing her sister Elizabeth is my dearest.

  Neither can come too soon.

  “With your permission, I shall go at once and bring her here.”

  Mr. Gardiner shakes his head, still amazed by how well things are working out, now that Wickham has decided to be reasonable. “That is most generous of you, Mr. Darcy, after all that you have done. Are you certain that you do not wish us to fetch our niece?”

  “It is nothing,” I say. Comparatively speaking, moving her should be my easiest task for the day.

  Of course, it is not.

  When I reach home, I learn that Miss Lydia is indisposed. Further questioning reveals that she is abed with women’s complaints. Thank Go
d, no baby, then. I send word to her uncle that I shall bring her on the morrow, after breakfast. They will not have to wait upon her, at least.

  Unlike her early-rising sister Miss Elizabeth, Miss Lydia prefers to read novels by lamplight until the wee hours and rise when the morning is half done. She is a frivolous thing, quite enamored of Wickham despite his seduction and the loss of her innocence outside the bonds of holy matrimony. I would prefer that the next time he sees her is in front of witnesses on their wedding day. Until then, they cannot—at least, should not—be left alone. Thankfully, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner are agreed with me in this.

  When I took my leave of him, Mr. Gardiner was dipping his pen in ink and preparing to write Longbourn, to tell her family the “happy” news and put their minds at rest. Speaking on Mr. Bennet’s behalf, he has agreed to the terms that I pre-negotiated with Wickham and, on behalf of the family, has accepted George’s proposal.

  Mr. Gardiner is, of course, privy to much more than shall be in his letter. The reckoning of Wickham’s debts will remain between us for now. He will share only what immediately concerns Mr. Bennet—the official amount to be settled upon the couple: Miss Bennet’s portion of her inheritance, plus one hundred pounds per annum while Mr. Bennet yet lives.

  These are not unreasonable requests, but first, there is the matter of consent. Marriage by banns is only valid if her father does not expressly forbid it. Because Miss Bennet has not reached her majority, she must have her father’s permission to wed.

  He does not have to endorse it. Legally, his silence on the matter is enough. When marriage will salvage his daughter’s name and serve to repair her reputation, having willingly left with and lived with a man, I cannot imagine that Mr. Bennet will object to their union, but then I am not a father. How does a man allow his child to wed a known despoiler of virgins? Granted, he is not aware of Wickham’s history in this, and there is always hope that marriage will reform George, but I know that there is no magic cure.

  Dark hungers live in our shadow selves. Starve them, and they will demand to be fed.

  With Hugh gone and Miss Lydia locked in her room for the night, I lie abed, burning with lust, a man on the edge of immolation, my dark desires focused on the one who would not have me, making me only want her more. Jesus God, I crave her as I have never craved another. If she knew how much I want her…if she knew how I want her….

  Fuck.

  I fist my erection with one hand and cup my scrotum with the other, imagining her kneeling before me in service, paying homage with her fingers, lips, and tongue. Stemming the tide that threatens to flood her mouth, I order her to stop. She ignores me, naughty girl.

  And naughty girls need punished.

  In my mind, I make her crawl, enjoying the lovely heart-shaped arse that tempts me to do more than merely redden it. Perhaps later, after she has been properly disciplined. I imagine her at my mercy, bound to a St. Andrew’s cross, her naked form writhing with each stroke of a flogger, juices running down her thighs, the air thick with the scent of her arousal. She will be tight. So tight. I can feel her slickened walls gripping my finger, stretching when I add a second, resisting when I add a third.

  She will moan—she cannot help it—when I pump my arm and fuck her with my hand until my cock demands its turn. But where to put it? Mouth? Cunny? Arse? Hmmm.

  Her virgin state makes the choice easier. The sight of those gloriously red cheeks decides it. I stroke myself harder, faster, imagining what it will be like to own that arse…and own it, I will. She cannot deny the way that she responded when I spanked her in Lambton, how she arched to meet me, as if craving my touch. No, she will give herself to me, submit to me, trust me to give her what she needs.

  What we both need.

  Yes!

  My climax is a poor substitute for claiming Miss Elizabeth, but it takes the edge off enough to let me sleep, at least. Hugh joins me for breakfast the next morning; Miss Lydia breaks her fast in her bedchamber. I am grateful that I did not commit to a certain hour to take her to her uncle. It is nearly time for tea when I escort her to their door and see her safely delivered.

  Her aunt takes charge, ushering Miss Lydia to the bedroom that she will use until her wedding day. Mr. Gardiner and I retire to his study to discuss stratagems. I warn him about limiting Miss Lydia’s contact to immediate family who can be implicitly trusted. Harsh as it sounds, he must bear in mind that she has not been long in London, and that any so-called friends she may have made in such a rough neighborhood are not likely to stand up to scrutiny. I have told him of her single attempt to sneak out like a thief in the night, after which her door has been locked when she retires for the evening and opened when the scullery maid performs her early morning duties, emptying chamber pots and stoking fires. I heartily suggest that he should continue the practice. He has worries enough without adding to it, and Miss Lydia has proven that she cannot be trusted where Wickham is concerned.

  He assures me he will try. It rings perhaps a shade more true than when I tell him I should rejoin my friends at Pemberley. I should, but I will not. I cannot. Not until I have seen Aunt Catherine.

  With the youngest Miss Bennet clasped to the bosom of her extended family and a tailor arranged for Wickham’s wedding attire, I turn my mind toward Rosings. There is the matter of Hugh and Georgiana, the possibility of Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet, and now the scandal of Wickham and Miss Lydia. No doubt Sir William and Mrs. Lucas have heard of their “elopement”; in such a small social sphere, it must be expected. They would have immediately made it known to their married daughter, Mrs. Collins. She would have been obliged to tell her husband, who would have raced to Rosings with the news.

  Aunt Catherine knows.

  Jesus God, I do not want to go, but I must. Hopefully it will not take long to come to terms, but Catherine de Bourgh has an iron will and does not bend. Not easily, anyway.

  I will be taking Georgiana first to Pemberley. Mrs. Annesley, of course, goes with her. I consider taking Hugh but feel more comfortable having him here, in London, where he can keep an eye on things and act as my agent if a situation warrants attention. I would not put it past Wickham to distract himself with games of chance and at the end of the night, find himself without the funds to settle. I have given Hugh orders not to let him be killed before he marries Miss Bennet. After that, George is on his own.

  I send an express, which in all likelihood will not precede me by much, but I know better than to descend without warning upon my aunt. She may have guests. She may have students. Then again, it may simply be Aunt Catherine, my cousin Anne, her governess Mrs. Jenkinson, and me at the card table tomorrow night, with the possible addition of the Collinses, depending on the game.

  It is mid-afternoon when I arrive on Tuesday, after lunch but ahead of tea. My aunt has no other guests. She says nothing when she peers past my shoulder, but I have a feeling that she was expecting to see Hugh. “I came alone,” I tell her. “I felt it best.”

  She mmfphs and gives a curt nod. “Come, then, Fitzwilliam. Tell me why you are here….”

  *****

  I awaken the next morning, exhausted and plagued by a deuced neck ache from sleeping in poor form. I tossed and turned last night, troubled by unpleasant dreams of a future entwined with Wickham’s—the one man whom I can say I truly hate. How did it come from wishing him dead to seeing him wed and abed with a youthful Bennet bride?

  The Almighty’s sense of humour is edged in irony.

  As is my formidable aunt’s.

  She cut to the chase, of course. No sooner had we exchanged greetings, than she was enumerating every reason why Hugh and Georgiana should not be joined. Ultimately, she agreed to allow it, but she wishes it kept secret for a while longer, until both Hugh and Georgiana can come to Rosings, where she will make the announcement. The queen wants to hold court, and I am happy to let her, when it secures my sister’s future happiness, joined with a man who is my longest and dearest friend.

  As for the man
who ranks next in my affections, Charles may have permission to court Miss Jane. Aunt Catherine believes that the eldest Miss Bennet can be trained, but she prefers to instruct the two of them together.

  I am to arrange it.

  I shift in my seat at breakfast, struggling with how I presented the news of Wickham and Miss Lydia. I deliberately misled my aunt, allowing her to believe that my actions were done out of concern for Charles rather than myself. Describing his attachment to Miss Jane, I pointed out how impossible it would be for him to pursue a relationship with her, should her sister’s situation remain uncorrected. Wickham is willing to make amends. The wedding is set. A commission in the regulars and a post in Newcastle await.

  In the meantime, Mr. Collins needs reminded not to cast stones. I am not the one to do it, but that afternoon I am allowed to watch him twitch and grovel under the lash of Aunt Catherine’s tongue. He slinks away like a whipped dog, tail tucked between his legs.

  I leave on Saturday with mixed emotions. Hugh and Georgiana are as good as engaged. Charles and Miss Jane have a rare opportunity to take their relationship to the next level and beyond. The Bennet family shall not be ostracized for the sins of the youngest, once she has wed. But the shroud of shame that cloaks them will not lift until Lydia and George are Mr. and Mrs. Wickham.

  My future in-laws…?

  Jesus God.

  It is inconceivable, yet there it is. I want Miss Elizabeth. Want her enough to ignore her family’s connections, her circumstances, her lack of fortune. Want her enough to defy my aunt, if it comes to that. Aunt Catherine kept me two days longer than needed, in hopes of pairing her daughter with me, but my cousin will benefit more from someone closer to Mrs. Annesley, who would guide and nurture the child inside.

  Hmmm.

  Georgiana’s governess will be in need of a new situation once my sister is wed. I will not be free to discuss it with her until Aunt Catherine makes the official announcement, but she will be there with us. I do not wish to see Mrs. Jenkinson supplanted, but I do not think that she has it in her to give Anne de Bourgh what she needs. I will recommend Mrs. Annesley to Aunt Catherine, who shall not fail to recognize Mrs. Annesley’s nature and will hopefully capitalize on it, to her daughter’s benefit.