Pleasured By Her Officers (Mrs. Wickham’s Upstanding Officers #1)

Chapter 1

“Gentlemen, many of you have flirted with Lydia. Now, you have the chance to do more than merely flirt with her.”

George Wickham, an ensign in the regulars who was currently surviving on half-pay, a good deal of credit, and a full snifter of brandy, gestured to his wife of four years.

“She was once known for her high animal spirits, her ebullience,” continued George, swirling his glass and looking at Lydia dispassionately. “Took me an age and an ostensible elopement to Gretna Green to get under those skirts.”

He chuckled darkly, as did some men ringing the dark room.

“You needn’t work so hard for her. I’ve already broken her in, and she’ll be a perfect, compliant…companion for you.”

Wickham licked a drop of brandy from his lips with relish.

“Unless you prefer a fight.”

The observers at the back of Meryton’s only inn laughed and leered.

Lydia had made a terrible mistake. In truth, she’d made so many that they all now seemed to blend into one disaster categorized as Wickham.

She’d thought that marrying George and staying by his side would make her respectable and admired.

At sixteen, when she’d said her vows, she reveled in the idea of being a married lady and rising above her sisters in precedence. How silly she’d been! What a fool!

She clutched the fine fabric of the dress her husband had tossed at her earlier that night, implying that they would attend the local assembly ball, without ever saying as much.

By the time they made their way to the inn, Lydia was looking forward to dancing — only for her hopes to come crashing down when George had squired her into a smoky room with no space for a cotillion. She should have known better.

“Maybe she’s only good for you, Wickham,” called a man who was puffing on a cheroot while studying Lydia skeptically. “We’re not all handsome young devils, at least not anymore.”

“Here, here,” said another man, leering at Lydia’s neckline. “That little kitten might have claws.”

The man nearest Lydia trailed a hand over her hip and tried to grab her arse before she jumped away. It wouldn’t do for her gown to get damaged tonight, not when it was her first new clothing in years. The dress hadn’t even come from Wickham.

Lydia studied her white glove — the only one remaining of the two that had been sent to her — and attempted not to notice men looking her way with unmistakable hunger. She recognized them from the town, even from church. But she saw no friendly faces, only expressions of naked lust.

“You’d like to sample the goods before entering the game?” asked Wickham, his elegant eyebrows arched as if in surprise. “I’d have thought you’d take my word as a gentleman.”

The room was so still that Lydia heard a soft huff of disbelief from the back.

“I have nothing to hide,” said Wickham, his arms open wide. “It seems you doubt my offer. The offer of my wife to the winner.”

One of her trembling hands, the one not encased in a fine new glove, found its way up to Lydia’s face without her even noticing. She pressed a cool palm against her scorching cheek and tried to calm her breathing, biting the inside of her mouth to hold back tears.

In truth, she’d done this to herself. Over and over, she’d chosen wrong.

Six weeks ago, Wickham had wagered Lydia for the first time and lost. The winning men — three army officers she’d known as a girl in this very town — had sent her clothes and a carriage before pleasuring her for one ecstatic night. Then they’d offered her the opportunity to stay with them.

In the end, she’d fled and returned to George Wickham, once again chasing the respectable married life he seemed so delighted to deny her.

Only for him to deal this fresh new public humiliation, the likes of which she couldn’t have imagined before tonight.

It was one thing to discover she’d been privately wagered and lost; it was another to be trotted out for inspection and humiliated publicly by her very own husband. He was more brazen than ever.

“I’m surprised the men of this fine town doubt me,” said Wickham.

“You owe Mr. Hobson, the butcher, a good sum of money,” said one voice from the back.

“Say nothing of the tailor,” muttered a man closer to the place Wickham had Lydia standing, illuminated by lamplight. “This man can’t satisfy his debts; who is to say that his wife can satisfy them for him?”

This drew chuckles. Wickham was well on his way to losing the crowd — and his scheme to raise funds.

Wickham looped an arm around Lydia’s waist and pulled her nearer. It was the first time he’d touched her in ages, and she instinctively recoiled. He held her more firmly.

“Steady now,” he said in a warning tone before addressing the hecklers. “I can assure you my wife is more than prepared to entertain the winning gentleman. I’d have thought that a flirtatious girl from a good family would tempt those who prefer a more refined sort of woman.”

When Lydia saw men gazing at her with skepticism, she studied the floor.

This night was humiliating enough, but being assessed so openly and with such disdain by the middling citizens of Meryton was too much to bear.

She’d once enjoyed their eyes on her when she’d flirted with six officers at a time, but this was a far cry from the amusements of her youth!

“Until recently, my wife had entertained only one man in that manner,” said Wickham, casting a superior glance about the room. “Her husband.”

Her husband had seduced her four years ago with ruthless efficacy, but it had all been for sport, the pursuit of winning a bet with their mutual friend.

That may have been the most shocking of the things Lydia had learned six weeks before.

Had Wickham ever liked her? Or was she always a means to besting others and lightening their pocketbooks?

A man lifted one finger to signal that he had a question. “Until? You see, most of us could find a missish wife at home. With no need for a wager.”

Wickham shifted against Lydia’s side, clearly attuned to something in the crowd. Some new opportunities for perfidy.

George’s fingers pressed into the underside of Lydia’s breast. His message was clear: allow him to talk, play along.

“I see your point, Mr. Fuller, well taken,” said George, his mood lifting suddenly. “I should tell you that Mrs. Wickham recently entertained three men.”

All chatter in that dark room ceased.

“Three men in one night. Officers. Men of experience and taste. I begged her not to go, but what rights does a husband have in these sorry days?”

When Lydia gasped, George’s fingers dug into her flesh most painfully. He had wagered her. He had lost. And she’d gone to the officers — after years of neglect by her husband — and then trotted home despite their very tempting offer to stay under their protection.

She’d returned to being George Wickham’s wife and drudge only to end up more humiliated and exposed than ever before.

“What rights doesn’t a husband have?” Lydia whispered under her breath for George’s benefit.

“You could divorce her for that, you know,” said a man who spat on the rough floor in disgust.

“Nothing but a slut,” muttered another man, whose tone suggested that he liked the idea in spite of his words.

George cast a baleful look about the room, Lydia still well in hand. “But you see, gentlemen, I cannot renounce her, as I love her dearly. Some parts more than others,” he added with a leer.

It was a lie. All lies. George didn’t love her, and he never had.

As for enjoying her favors? He’d left off so much as a friendly touch since just before their wedding.

A visit from Mr. Darcy just prior to their hasty nuptials appeared to have turned Wickham off from Lydia for good.

That didn’t stop him from romancing other women, though; Lydia wasn’t unaware of her husband’s affairs.

“You must treasure Lydia, my dear wife,” said George, giving her a rare admiring glance. “I cannot control her — you know how women are — but she can at least contribute to the maintenance of the household in other ways…she refuses to lift a finger for domestic chores, the uppity bitch.”

Lydia turned, ready to give her husband the set-down of his life.

He spewed many lies about her, but claiming that she hadn’t taken over the labor performed by a maid-of-all-work when theirs left after going unpaid was too much.

It was far too much, since her hands were callused and cracked from washing and hauling water.

“Perhaps a man here might test the goods,” said Wickham, squeezing Lydia’s breast painfully, “and report back on whether she’s worth the wager.”

“How much?” shouted one man before Lydia could launch into a diatribe.

Wickham made a show of surveying her body, his fingers over his mouth as if in consideration of her value — but mostly to hide a smirk of delight. Lydia had been humiliated by George’s public affairs and indifferent service in the regulars.

But openly selling her at Meryton’s inn? She’d never been laid so low by this man.

“How much indeed…” mused Wickham. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to one of you fine men staking me in tonight’s game. Use her as you wish, but do not stick a cock in her. We must leave something for the lucky winner. How does that sound?”

There was a disturbance at the back of the room. Lydia couldn’t bring herself to look up and see what fresh new humiliation approached. But she felt the force of whatever drew nearer; it was irresistible and terrifying.

She pinched her knees together and tried not to consider how she might suffer twice over this night.

In her younger years, she might have screamed for help or justice, but she knew none was coming, not for Lydia Wickham.

She’d hitched herself to George at all of sixteen, and she’d spend the rest of her days regretting that mistake.

Shoes clicked across the floor, moving decisively towards her. Lydia felt a tear escape her eye.

“You need someone to back you in the game, do you, Wickham?” drawled a familiar voice. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“Well, that’s very good of you—”

“Come along, Lydia,” said the man, his aristocratic accent sharper than ever before. “It seems I’ve bought you. For a time.”