by Nia Farrell
She shudders slightly. “Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”
“My letter. Did it—” I pull her from the path and into a cool bit of shade “—did it soon make you think better of me?”
Feeling as she did, she was likely plagued with guilt from being aroused by my spanking and climaxing under the guidance of my hand. She had not fought me. She had not said no. But at that point, she had only Wickham’s word against mine, and she was leaning heavily toward the former.
“Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”
“I did, Sir,” she admits. “Your words excited such contrariety of emotion, my feelings as I read were scarcely to be defined. Convinced that you were wrong, I began with a strong prejudice against everything you might say. I read your account of what happened at Netherfield—read it with an eagerness which hardly allowed me the power of comprehension. My impatience to know what the next sentence might bring rendered me incapable of attending to the sense of the one before my eyes. You believed that my sister was insensible towards Mr. Bingley; I instantly resolved your belief to be false. Your objections to the match were worse, because they were—and are—indeed real. You were unapologetic and I was angry, too angry to have any wish of doing you justice where my sister was concerned. But then I read your account of Mr. Wickham, which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, my feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed me. But no matter how much I wished to discredit it entirely, as I read, and reread, every lingering struggle in Mr. Wickham’s favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of you. Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, asserted your blamelessness in the affair; that however I might have perceived your manners, I have never, in the whole course of our acquaintance, seen anything that betrays you to be unprincipled or unjust—nor anything that speaks of irreligious or immoral habits. Among your own connections, you are esteemed and valued. In the end, I was forced to admit that I was wrong. About Wickham. About you.”
It hurts her to admit it, but for our sake, she does. My sweet, brave girl.
“I knew that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary.” An awful thought causes my throat to tighten. Fuck. “I hope you have destroyed the letter.” Please, God. Please, please, please…. “There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.”
“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”
She has not destroyed it, but she will.
Thank God. I can breathe again.
“When I wrote that letter, I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
She came so beautifully beneath my touch and then summarily rejected me. At the time, I thought it harsh, but it was more devastating than I realised.
She places her gloved hand upon my chest. I cover it with mine and press it tightly against me, willing her to feel the beat of my heart.
“The letter,” she says, “perhaps began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote it, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”
“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind,” I say. “Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life,” I confess, “in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretentions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”
“Indeed I had.” I almost cringe to think of it. “What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”
It is her turn to cringe. “My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure you. I never meant to deceive you,” she swears, “but my spirits might often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after that evening!”
“Hate you?” I shake my head. “I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction.”
“I was almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?” The upward lilt in her voice makes it a question to be answered.
“No indeed.” One corner of my mouth lifts in a curious smile that she would even think so. “I felt nothing but surprise.”
Her hand moves, drawing small concentric circles over my heart. “Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive more than my due.”
I stroke the silken curve of her cheek. “My object then was to show you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”
“Jane’s letter.” She pauses, thinking of the havoc that was wrought. “I am sorry,” she says, tripping on the words. “I am so ashamed. Lydia. Wickham. Knowing what he did before…to think that you must share my family with him….Tell me, does your sister know?”
“She does.” I tuck a wayward strand of chestnut hair back beneath her bonnet. “But she wants my happiness above all else, and she knows that my heart’s desire is a woman who challenges me to be a better man. You are not without your own pride and prejudices, Miss Elizabeth Anne Bennet, but you can trust me to meet your every future need. We may favour different authors and occupy opposing sides in a philosophical debate, but in our private moments, I shall be your lord and Master, pledged to provide and care for you. To give you not what you want, but what you need. I pray that you trust me to understand the difference, hmm?”
“I do,” she swears. “Oh, I do!”
“My sister will be happy to hear it. She was delighted to make your acquaintance and disappointed at its sudden interruption. I was loathe to leave her but had already resolved to help locate your sister before I quit the inn.”
“You were so serious,” she says. “I feared that it was me. Something I had said or done.”
“No. No! My gravity and thoughtfulness were on what needed done to discover them. I was resolved to follow you from Derbyshire, but I knew that I would not think clearly around you. You are too great a distraction, my dear.”
&nb
sp; Even now, my body is responding to her nearness.
“Come,” I mock-growl at her. “Let’s get you home. Any more, and I shall be forced to explain why we are so very late.”
I needn’t have worried. The Bennets left behind are speculating as to what has become of Bingley and Miss Jane.
What indeed.
Miss Elizabeth notices my quirking grin and pulls me outdoors again, into her garden. We look at each other and laugh. Well, she laughs. I chuckle.
“Bad man!” she teases me. “You are incorrigible.”
“Me?” I lift one brow in mock consternation. “I am not the one leading your sister astray.”
“At least they are engaged,” she sighs, clearly thinking of her youngest sister.
“Yes, they are. I was delighted to hear it.”
Angling her head, she adopts an attitude of quiet speculation. “I must ask whether you were surprised.”
“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would happen soon.”
She smiles softly, knowingly. “That is to say, you had given your permission.”
I exclaim at the term, though she has the right of it.
“I guessed as much,” she says.
“On the evening before my going to London, I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”
I do not explain how Aunt Catherine—Mistress Cat—will help them secure it. For now, their training remains the couple’s secret.
Miss Elizabeth smiles at my admission. “Did you speak from your own observation when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”
“From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.”
She glances at her gloved hands. I am tempted to bare them. I long to touch her naked skin. It is scandalous behavior, though not when compared to the scene two hours ago, when I was balls-deep in her perfect arse.
She notices the change in the fit of my pants and clears her throat. “And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him.”
“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine made everything easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.”
My darling girl curtsies and dances to the side, where a dramatic rose bush is heavy-laden with fat, fragrant blooms. She tells me the variety, its Latin name and history, then proceeds to do the same at random as we make our way back to the house.
Bingley and Miss Jane have come while we were gone. “My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” Jane asks—I suspect to deflect having that very same question directed at her.
Miss Elizabeth’s cheeks bloom as red as her rose. “We wandered about,” she said, her voice a noticeably higher pitch, “till I was beyond my own knowledge.”
I nearly choke at the double entendre.
The look that I level at her promises a blush on her bottom as soon as the opportunity affords.
The evening passes quietly. The acknowledged lovers talk and laugh. Miss Elizabeth is oddly quiet. Eyeing my flexing hand, she hides her face behind a fan and says nothing, rather than reveal the cause of her trepidation. Eventually the hour grows late enough, we are compelled to leave or risk overstaying our welcome.
Bingley is giddy. Positively giddy. Neither of us are ones to kiss and tell, but his time spent walking with Miss Jane has left him with fond memories. My walk with Miss Elizabeth, of course, yielded memories as well. The feel of her mouth on my cock. The delightful swell of her breasts. Her dark rose, plucked while her hymen remains intact.
I masturbate to the remembered sight, scents, sounds, and feel of her. When Bingley goes to Longbourn the next morning, I go with him, an uninvited guest, risking her mother’s displeasure for the chance to see Miss Elizabeth—and hopefully “walk” with her—again.
Jesus God. I am hard, just to think of it.
Bingley sees my state. He smirks a bit but says nothing, sympathetic to my plight. I manage to master my libido before our carriage arrives. As we disembark, he promises to see what he can do to further my cause.
My stomach clenches with thoughts of all the disastrous ways that this could go. Bingley heads straight to my darling girl when we arrive, shaking her hand a bit too warmly, soliciting her enthusiasm even before things are settled. Soon afterwards, he asks Mrs. Bennet if there are more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again today.
Bingley’s euphemism is blessedly lost on her.
“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view.”
“It may do very well for the others,” Charles replies, “but I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?”
She eyes him oddly. Uncertain how to respond, she settles for the truth.
She would rather stay home.
Thank you, Jesus.
I tap my chin and look meaningfully at Miss Elizabeth. “I profess a great curiosity to see the view from the Mount.” Her mount, with its glorious peak to be conquered, after my tongue traverses the slope below, slick with the dew of her arousal.
Speechless, she nods her unspoken consent. And so it is settled. We are to walk out, alone.
Miss Elizabeth goes upstairs to change. Mrs. Bennet follows her. Naturally, I wonder why she should do so. Does she seek to warn her away from me, or encourage her to cultivate an acquaintance with her future brother-in-law’s best friend?
The answer lies somewhere in the middle. As we walk toward Oakham Mount, I order Elizabeth to tell me all. Embarrassed by her mother’s ill manners, she confesses that her mother apologised to her.
“‘I hope you will not mind it: it is all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to him, except just now and then,’” she repeats verbatim, finding little humour in her mother’s observation.
I, on the other hand, find it slightly diverting and strangely prophetic.
“What use is conversation, when our bodies speak a language of their own?” I take satisfaction in the darkening of her eyes, the tongue that darts out to wet her lips, the telltale quickening of her breath. “Yours tells me what brings you pleasure. My body does the same. At times it is better to show each other and stay quiet, but there are times, I will need words. I will need to hear you tell me what you want, how you feel. Ask and receive. Trust and obey, hmm?”
I tease and titillate her, keep her ardor stirred without boiling over, until we are on the way home. I pull her into a different copse of trees that I have determined the best of all the places passed this day and find the perfect spot.
A weathered rock formation juts from the earth. One large boulder angles up, like a pagan altar ready for a sacrifice. I turn my coat and spread it, then order my darling girl to recline upon it.
She takes the hand I proffer and accepts my help to climb onto the granite bed. “A bit more,” I say, judging the distance as she inches backward. “There. Perfect. Now, lie down, on your back.”
I remove her bonnet but I do not have her strip. I do not have her kneel. Today I take pleasure in preparing her for me, starting with a kiss.
“I love you, darling girl.” I whisper against her lips, brushing them with mine. I tease her with a touch, light as a feather, increasing the pressure, finally claiming her mouth with my own.
Swallowing her moan, I plunder the depths of her mouth with my tongue, exploring every facet, delighting in her responsiveness. Her hips buck, restless. I loosen the top of her dress and slip it off her shoulders, catching the layers underneath to expose her naked breasts. I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of night-blooming jasmine that wafts from her skin.
Her breasts are lovely. Lovely. Small but beautifully shaped, tipped with rose-coloured nipples that are erect with her arousal. Reaching, I squeeze one breast and mold the pliant mound of flesh with my hand before capturing her nipple and rolling it between my fingers. I lower my head and suckle her other breast, teasing the tip, catching it between my teeth, then flicking it with my tongue.
I slide my other hand south, over the planes of her chest, her midriff, the soft swell of her stomach. A string of kisses follows suit. Her hems come up. She wears no drawers today.
“Miss Elizabeth,” I rumble, threading my fingers through the delta of chestnut curls. “What have we here? Did you think to entice me? Seduce me? Did you hope that I would want you? Do you know how much I need you? Badly enough, I fear I would have ruined any drawers, ripping them off of your body.”
She wants me, too. Her nether lips are ridiculously swollen. Moisture slickens my way when I slide a finger between her silken folds and dip into her cunny. So wet. So tight. So Goddamn tight. My cock is hard as oak, remembering the feel of her.
I have to taste her.
I must.
Repositioning myself, I part her legs and come between them, nuzzling her thatch of curls, memorizing the scent, then the sweet, salty-tangy taste of her. I lick her seam. Lick again. Longer, firmer, deeper. I dip my tongue into her wellspring and drink from her living waters, restoring my soul as I do. This hour, this day, her body is my temple and I worship in it, delight in it, render my offering—the strokes of my fingers, the lap of my tongue, the thrust of both. I catch her pearl between my teeth and fasten my mouth over it, binding us together in a blaze of searing suction.