by Lauren Lane
What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in Robert’s style of living or of talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much; — and if Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.
Elinor’s marriage divided her as little from her family as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It was now her darling object. Precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all.
With such a confederacy against her — with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness — with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else — burst on her — what could she do? Ever since she had been bestowed with the magic of Colonel Brandon’s kiss, she could not think of anything else. With each day that passed from that moment, he became a bit handsomer, a bit kinder, a bit more perfect. And that he had not mentioned the kiss since it had happened, and that he seemed keen to provide her all the time and distance she required in order to reach this conclusion by herself, raised him even higher in her esteem. He did not wish to rush her into anything she was not ready for — which, combined with the obvious fact of his unrelenting love for her, proved he cared more about her feelings than he did his own. All of this in turn evidenced him Willoughby’s polar opposite — a truth which made Marianne more optimistic than she could have ever predicted.
Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another! — and that other, a man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too old to be married, — and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!
But so it was.
She went to the mansion-house one early one morning, before anyone else had awoken, determined to speak with him privately, away from the prying ears of her mother and sisters. Upon seeing Marianne in his home so unexpectedly, Colonel Brandon could not help but feel a surge of great hope. She looked so perfect standing there in his parlour, her face bright and healthy and beautiful, her smile radiant, as if the house were made for her. She was meant to be here. She was meant to be with him.
“Colonel Brandon,” she said softly, curtseying.
“Miss Marianne,” he replied.
“Forgive me for arriving here unannounced — ” she began, but he cut her off.
“Please,” he said. “Do not apologize. You are always welcome here. I must say, your visit is a surprise of the happiest kind.”
She smiled, taking in his honest, open expression, the way he leaned toward her involuntarily while clearly trying to remain the proper gentleman that he was. She knew then, looking at him, that she had done the right thing in coming here. There was no need for words — they were on the exact same page. So, instead, she stepped toward him, took his hand, delighted in the slight catch of his breath, and pressed her lips lightly to his. Instantly, he reacted, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her body close to his, and deepening the kiss.
They remained like that for a long moment, mouths exploring, hands roaming, swaying on their feet. Marianne could not believe that a connection this perfect had been right in front of her all this time and yet it had taken so long, and so much, for her to realise it. And judging from the bulge rubbing against her belly through the Colonel’s trousers, she had been wrong about something else as well — he was certainly not too old to make love to her properly. And if his kisses were any indication, he definitely knew what he was doing.
Eventually, Colonel Brandon broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against Marianne’s, the pair of them breathing heavily. “Marianne,” he murmured, “I have tried to be patient out of my unwavering respect for you, but I fear I cannot wait any longer to tell you how I feel.”
She giggled. “Tell me. Please.”
He kissed her once more, pulled her tight against him, and then said, “I love you, my dear Marianne. I always have. I always will. If you do the honour of becoming my wife I swear to spend the rest of my life earning your affection.”
She pulled back just a little, so their hips were still touching but their eyes could drink each other in, and whispered, “You already have my affection, Colonel. To become your wife would make me the happiest woman in the world.”
Colonel Brandon grinned. “So is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes.”
The Colonel lifted Marianne up off the floor and swung her around, the two of them laughing with joy.
“Take me to your bedroom,” she whispered against his lips.
His breath caught once more. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He whisked her up the stairs and within seconds they were lying on his grand bed, the door locked behind them, their mouths all over each other once more. They undressed each other greedily and swiftly. Gazing at her reverently, Colonel Brandon trailed his fingertips across Marianne’s bare skin, leaving a path of sizzling heat everywhere he touched. He rolled her nipples between his fingers, bringing them to firm, ripe peaks, and took one, then the other, into his mouth, sucking with just the right amount of pressure to bring her to the edge.
“You’ve done this … before,” Marianne gasped through her moans of sheer pleasure.
“Not for a very, very long time,” he replied, leaving her breasts and kissing his way down her belly. When he reached the apex between her legs, he did not hesitate — his tongue flicked out and he stole a taste of her delicious nectar. It was heavenly.
Marianne gasped and bolted upright. “What are you doing?”
Colonel Brandon’s face coloured. “Forgive me, I … I just wanted to … make you feel … ”
Marianne reached down and cupped his cheek. “No, don’t apologize. It feels wonderful. I just … I was told … I didn’t know men could do that to women.”
In a flash, Colonel Brandon knew exactly who had told Marianne such lies. “Well, my dear, I’m afraid you were misinformed.” He paused, searching her face. “Do you wish for me to continue?”
Marianne stared at the Colonel, suddenly realising that perhaps Willoughby wasn’t the perfect lover she’d believed him to be. This here was just more evidence that he was selfish in every way, and cared more about his own needs than her own. The man who was between her legs at this very moment was, just minutes into their first encounter, already more giving and loving than her former lover had been. And he was asking what she wanted. Maybe she could finally live out her fantasy of telling her lover what she wanted and needed, just as Fanny had always done during those moments Marianne had been eavesdropping. Feeling bolder, excited, Marianne nodded. “Yes.”
Colonel Brandon buried his face in
her once more, spreading her legs wide and using both his hands and mouth to bring her more pleasure than she’d ever known to be possible. She reached her completion in a frenzy of tremors and screams, and floated back to earth in a daze of exquisite delight.
Colonel Brandon kissed his way back up her body, and Marianne kissed him deeper and more passionately than ever before, vowing to never let this man go. “I need you,” she whispered softly. “I need you inside me now.”
But he just inched his fingers back down to the curls between her legs and began to tease her down there once more. “No, my love. To-day is all about you. There will be plenty of time for that after we marry.”
Marianne stared at her fiancé, mouth agape. “You mean you don’t wish to enter me?”
Colonel Brandon chuckled. “My darling, I wish it more than you could possibly know. But I will not do that with anyone who is not my wife.”
Marianne’s mind raced to keep up with the sudden turn of the conversation. “Are you saying you’ve never … ”
Colonel Brandon nodded. “That is what I’m saying. I’ve seen what can happen when men take advantage of women in such a way. I respect you too much to put you in the position of being with child before you are wed.” He smiled. “But in the interest of being perfectly honest, I must confess I do not know how much longer I can wait — would a brief engagement be acceptable to you? I wish you make you my wife as soon as you shall allow me.”
Marianne threw her arms around him. “Would to-morrow be soon enough?”
Colonel Brandon threw back his head and laughed, more happy in that moment than he’d ever been in his long, solitary life. “To-morrow would be perfect.”
Marianne then crawled down his surprisingly toned, youthful body and took him in her mouth, encircling his hardness with her tongue, and exulting in his answering groans. “Marianne, no,” he gasped, protesting as severely as he could. “I wish for to-day to be all about your enjoyment.”
“Well then to-day is your lucky day, my dear Colonel,” she murmured against his delicious, perfect shaft, “because I enjoy this very much.”
Some time later, when they’d both achieved a state of bliss several times over, they lay naked in one another’s arms, perfectly content.
“I love you, Marianne,” Colonel Brandon whispered into her hair, his voice filled with all the roughness and emotion of a man deeply in love.
“I love you too, my dear Colonel Brandon,” she responded. And it was the truth.
Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion which held no real substance apart from the benefits of carnal delights, instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on, — Marianne found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village. And on top of all of that, her marriage was filled to the brim with love and a passion neither she nor her husband had ever experienced, and they relished the moments where they got to teach each other things, and experiment together, bringing each other over the edge again and again.
Their honeymoon night was perfect in every way, the two lovers finally coming together as one, uniting their bodies and their lives forever.
Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him, believed he deserved to be; — in Marianne he was consoled for every past affliction; — her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became even more devoted to her husband than it had once been to Willoughby.
Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted; — nor that he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended on — for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour, and almost always willing to cater to his every whim in the bedroom, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity.
For Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her loss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.
Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed to have a lover. She considered the marriages of her sisters her model for achieving love and passion, and she eagerly anticipated experiencing a romance — or two — of her own.
Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate; — and among the merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.
THE END
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
(From Together Again by Peggy Bird)
Instead of the peace and coffee she’d been looking for before boarding her plane, Margo Keyes’s latte came with a side order of idiot-on-a-cell-phone. Anyone within twenty feet of the man in the blue blazer heard some of the conversation. Where she was sitting, it was in Dolby digital surround sound.
It figured her trip would start like this. She’d been apprehensive about it from the get-go. Not that she had a fear of flying. It was the landing — or rather, what was waiting for her after she landed — that was the problem.
Her chance for quiet acquisition of caffeine courage diminishing by the second, she glared at the man in the blue blazer, hoping he’d take the hint and shut up. Too intent on his call, he seemed to miss what was, she was quite sure, a stunning look of disapproval.
“Are you interested or not?” he yelled. Allowing no answer to what was apparently a rhetorical question, he continued, “If you don’t want what I’ve got, I know someone who does. So, what’s it worth to you?” After he paused, presumably for the response, he said, “Good. I’ll let you know what the bid is after I talk to my other customer.” He ended the call, shoved his phone in his pocket and glared back at Margo before storming off.