PRIDE AND PUNISHMENT by Nia Farrell is an erotic retelling of a Jane Austen classic.
Characters that you thought you knew…well, they’re ready to reveal their secret selves. Mr. Darcy is a Dominant. Miss Elizabeth Bennet is submissive. Jane Bennet might be the only “handsome” woman in Meryton, but puppy-like Charles Bingley needs a Mistress with a firm hand. Mr. Darcy believes that Jane lacks steel in her corset and separates the couple.
His growing lust for Miss Elizabeth leads him to confess his desire to dominate her – a proposition that she mistakes for a proposal. Already accused of less-than-gentlemanlike behavior, Darcy must find a way to win the submissive heart of a woman who abhors him.
The original dialogue has been kept intact when possible. Passages modified to fit this retelling are rife with subtext and laden with innuendo. The basic timeline is essentially the same as Pride and Prejudice, but the characters populating the pages now include Darcy’s bisexual cousin Hugh, his dominant Aunt Catherine/Mistress Cat, his “little” cousin Anne, his submissive sister Georgiana, kinky defiler-of-virgins George Wickham, lesbian switch Caroline Bingley, and militiamen who see more action in their bunks than out.
This erotic Regency romance includes MF relationships, MFM ménage sexual congress, and BDSM activities and is written for adults only.
Kindle edition ISBN-10: 0-9853145-8-3/ISBN-13: 978-0-9853145-8-3
Goodreads link: http://bit.ly/26d1xon
It is said that you can tell how a person makes love by how they can dance, and dark-eyed Miss Elizabeth is known for her dancing. Hmm….
The ball is as I feared. The same sea of faces. The same calculating gleam in the eyes of matrons who view me as marriage mart material for their daughters. The younger women with dance cards attached to their wrists look either relieved or disappointed when they spy my walking stick. Of ebon wood topped a hallmarked silver knob, it was a gift from my Aunt Catherine, who instructed me to employ it well. The stick, however sees little use in Room 366, where crops, rods, floggers, tawses, strops, belts, and canes abound but are seldom employed. Unlike Hugh, I prefer ropes to rods, and blindfolds to bits. There is nothing like a willing woman in bondage.
And if said woman needs disciplined, or punished for pleasure, I prefer the use of my hand, and the feel of flesh upon flesh when counting out the blows.
The Bennet family arrives shortly after we do. Mrs. Bennet leads the way, a hen with five chicks trailing behind her. The younger two peel off as soon as they spy a clutch of red-coated officers by the punch bowl. Bingley makes a beeline for Miss Jane and converses briefly with her mother before luring her away with the excuse of a beverage. The middle daughter – the one who plays piano – darts her gaze and clutches her reticule, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else than here.
I know the feeling.
But Miss Elizabeth Bennet, with her dark eyes and last season’s dress, looks excited. In her element. Ready to take on all comers brave enough to request a space on her dance card. She greets a female friend who appears closer to my age than Miss Bennet’s. Their two heads press together as they walk and talk, taking seats on the side of the room opposite the banquet table where Charles is serving Miss Jane a cup of punch.
And by serving, I mean that in every conceivable way, God help us.
The need to dominate rises in me. I wish to order Charles to cease, to desist, to resist whatever pull he fancies himself experiencing. If I could, I would separate them. As it is, I am forced to watch a potential disaster in the making, like a massive wave barreling toward the shore that will either lose its power and fade to nothing or smash whatever stands in its way.
Sir Lucas notes the craftsmanship of my walking stick and remarks upon its beauty. He is too polite to inquire why I have it. I am no military man, wounded in battle, but I am a horseman and more than one rider has been left with a limp. Fortunately, that is not the case with me, but I say nothing and allow him to keep guessing.
Charles dances every dance. Two of them are with Miss Jane Bennet. He dances once with her sister. Miss Elizabeth, with her throaty voice and dark eyes, may not have her oldest sister’s beauty, yet watching her dance, I cannot help but notice her grace, her lightness of foot, her ability to execute perfectly the most intricate of steps. She is the perfect partner when she allows Charles mislead her, following his missteps when she clearly knows better.
No. A thousand times, no!
I cannot risk the distraction that she poses. I cannot allow myself to envision what she would look like, stripped, naked and kneeling at my feet or bound to a whipping bench with her derriere glowing with red handprints and her mouth at the perfect height. I must keep my faculties sharply focused on my mission. It is not enough that I see the deficiencies in Miss Jane’s nature, where Charles is concerned; Charles must see them too. It must be his decision to break things off. His decision to quit this place. His choice to not renew the lease on Netherfield Hall when the year is through.
The problem is, Miss Jane Bennett is a pleasant person. She greets everyone with unfailing politeness. No cross words escape her lips. Caroline and Louisa may pick other women apart likes harpies, but Miss Jane disparages no one. She dances with any man who approaches her, allowing the most ill-favored to enjoy her company for the length of a pair of dances. She seems to like Charles well enough, but then she seems to like everyone. It occurs to me that she does not particularly show him favor. Rather, he is one of many. There is nothing in her behavior that marks him as more.
Flexing my hand on the ornately patterned knob top of my walking stick, I press my fingers into its intricately chased silver, feeling the cool metal warm beneath my grip. Caroline Bingley eyes my hold and looks at me curiously.
I allow her half a smile. She is, after all, desirous of the same end result – although not quite as concerned with how well it ends, so long as it ends. Amicably or badly, it makes no difference to her.
“And how is your evening?” I ask, all politeness.
She sighs dramatically and wrinkles her nose behind her fan. “Dreadful,” she whispers. “I pled fatigue with the last fellow, but I cannot put them all off. For my brother’s sake, if they are bold enough to ask for a dance, I am obliged to accept. Just so you know, Charles has accepted an invitation to Sir William Lucas’s assembly next Friday. Thank heavens, it is a private affair. The caliber of company should be improved – perhaps enough that you can be prevailed upon to abandon your cane and dance with me. Are you certain that you cannot be tempted?”
I slant a look down at her, examining her guileless face. Guileless, except for the calculating gleam in her eye. Like most women her age, Caroline looks to the future and how best to provide for it. Marriage to a man of my income, she would lack for nothing – including maidservants whom she might prevail upon, who would willingly submit to her and feed her need for control. Or she might install Patrice as a permanent guest and look no further than the door across the hall to assuage her natural desires. It is her marriage bed that would be unnatural. I cannot imagine that she or her husband would find happiness in it, merely duty fulfilled, some pleasures of the flesh while engaged in the act, with the intent to procreate.
“No,” I tell her, looking across the dance floor where Miss Elizabeth Bennet moves like a goddess among mortal men. “No. I cannot be tempted.”
I will not be tempted.
Not by Caroline, and not by her.
Nia Farrell has been writing for pleasure since junior high. Now that she writes about pleasure, she can share the fantasy worlds she visits and introduce readers to characters who remain with her long after their tales are told.
When crafting a story, Nia draws upon a rich diversity of life experiences, which include singer/songwriter, prize winning needle artist, private pilot, Reiki Master/Teacher, crystal healer, psychic fair reader, jewelry maker, physician’s assistant, factory worker, waitress, genealogist, period reenactor, and children’s author. If this life isn’t enough, there are plenty of others to choose from. Otherwise, she devotes hours of research to subjects outside her realm, determined that her stories ring true.
Nia lives on a farm in Southern Illinois (far, far from Chicago, in the heart of “Little Egypt”). A seventh generation Illinoisan, she is descended from Mayflower Pilgrims, American soldiers from the Revolutionary War to World War II, and Scottish nobility. She enjoys playing in the past and visits Ren fairs and historical reenactments in period attire, sharing her love of history and her passion for music. While her husband and two grown daughters may only read her nonfiction work, she appreciates their support in pursuing her dreams, one of which is being published in erotic romance.
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