September Storm Relay Story Part 8

Thank you so much for all you’ve done to help those in need from Dorian. I think it’s time for another post, don’t you? This one is from me! 🙂

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Read part 7 here. Now, on with the show!

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Charles Bingley was having the most delicious dream. His angel, his Jane, lay curled behind him, her voluptuous breasts pressed to his back, and her breath (or was that her tongue) traced along the shell of his ear. What would soon make him completely mad was her fingers as they traced delicate patterns along his chest.

He moaned and took her hand in his, entwining their fingers and ever so slowly shifting her hand down . . .

Something wet landed upon his cheek. What was that? Had his angel drooled on him? Oh well, it did not matter if she had. He was certain it was the nectar of the Gods. He would bathe in it if he could.

Another drop of something landed upon his forehead with another that splashed quickly upon his nose, making him chuckle huskily. “Jane, dearest, you will soon drown me if you continue.” A loud harrumph filled the air followed by a feminine gasp, but not the pitch Bingley would’ve expected from his beloved.

A scream rent the air as a deluge rained down upon him, making him leap from the bed. “Aargh!” he bellowed, as his back slammed against the wall. His knees weakened once he’d lit a candle and caught sight of the figure who had actually been sharing his bed. That was when Charles Bingley screeched like a little girl.

“You are not Jane,” he said frantically.

“Mr. Bingley! How dare you enter a young lady’s bedchamber! I would have thought more of you after your deportment in the evening’s events!”

“Lady Catherine?” He blinked and glanced about the room.

“Yes, of course I am! Who did you expect?”

He gulped and tried more than once to speak before he could make a sound. “This is the bedchamber I was given to share with Colonel Fitzwilliam. He decided to pass the night in the library, so I was alone. It is you who have intruded upon me.” The last was practically a whisper as his knees violently knocked together.

Lady Catherine rose from the bed as water from the ceiling continued to rain upon them both. “Me? I have done no such thing! I have been celebrated for my upstanding character and sincerity. I was told this was Miss Kitty Bennet’s room, and how was I to know any different. You both have such lovely golden hair.” Her eyes glazed as they roved over his curls to his chest before they snapped back to his face.

“Mr. Bingley,” she continued, her voice louder. “Why are you wearing a lady’s nightgown?”

“I am not.” He put on as stern an expression as he could muster. “Why would I wear a lady’s nightgown?”

“Then you are in the habit of having what appears to be roses embroidered on your clothing?”

Bingley peered down to the soaking wet shift, now clinging to his chest and hurriedly crossed his arms over himself. The thin material was nearly translucent. After the manner in which Lady Catherine was eyeing his person, he didn’t want her to see his man nipples!

The older woman pointed to his clothing. “To whom does that belong?”

He cleared his throat. “This was all that remained once the men were given Mr. Bennet’s banyans.” His eyes stared at the water still dripping from the ceiling while he avoided Lady Catherine’s beady gaze.

“Mr. Bingley!” the woman yelled. “That is not the answer I seek. I am not accustomed to subterfuge much less waiting. To whom does that rag belong?”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me, Mr. Bingley,” said Lady Catherine, her voice becoming louder and more imperious with every word. “I asked to what lady that nightgown belongs?”

He squirmed in his place. “Miss Jane Bennet,” he squeaked. Of course, he wasn’t going to mention that when the valet let it slip that he’d placed Mr. Bennet’s banyans atop Miss Bennet’s clean laundry, Bingley had immediately grasped the simple white shift for his own.

The valet had stumbled when he hurriedly explained—in a quite embarrassed manner—how he then moved the clothes for the men while Jane Bennet’s nightgown tagged along for the ride—like an act of providence. Bingley could never allow the colonel or another man to wear his angel’s precious clothing!

“Another of those artful Bennet girls! She is seeking to trap you as that little harlot Elizabeth Bennet is seeking to entrap my own nephew! I came here intending to carry my point, and I shall not tarry another moment!”

Before she could march through the door, it swung open, revealing Mr. Bennet standing in the doorway. Bingley gasped and pointed at the man’s tastefully tailored black banyan and matching cap. “What is going on here?” he said, his eyes angrier than Bingley had ever seen—especially with the candlelight causing them to glow as they did. He really appeared almost evil. “I would care for some sleep this evening, yet as I am about to succumb, I am subjected to such screeching and yelling from this room. Explain yourselves.”

Lady Catherine drew herself as tall as the woman could. “Your daughters—” she began before Mr. Bennet put up his hand for her to stop. The imperious woman’s head hitched back a fraction in insult, but before a word could come from her gaping mouth, Mr. Bennet pointed at Bingley’s drenched nightgown.

“Mr. Bingley! By all that is holy, how have you come to be wearing my daughter’s clothing?”

“Papa?” Miss Elizabeth appeared beside father with Darcy behind her, his purple banyan—a color that reminded Bingley of irises—practically glowing in the light from the candles.

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