Bennet, Pride Before the Fall (Love, Austen #3) Read Online Anyta Sunday

Categories Genre: Contemporary, M-M Romance, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Austen Series by Anyta Sunday
Series: Love

Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62958 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Bennet, Pride Before the Fall (Love, Austen #3)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Anyta Sunday

Book Information:

“I want someone to want me for who I am. No changing my appearance or philosophies or principles. I need a partner to be proud of me—in public and beyond—and proud of themselves.”
“Think you’ll find it?”
Bennet had always dreamed of love. Of finding his Mr. Right. Hell, he’d even settle for Mr. Righteous.
Who he won’t fall for, not ever? Mr. Downright Pride-less.
It’s Pride and Prejudice, complete with scumbaggery, anguished declaration of desire, meddling villagers, Karaoke, Scrabble, and Pride.
Books in Series:

Love Austen Series by Anyta Sunday

Books by Author:

Anyta Sunday

It’s Pride and Prejudice, complete with scumbaggery, anguished declaration of desire, meddling villagers, Karaoke, Scrabble, and Pride.


Bennet Keene: Hero. Principled. Striving to create a safe, proud environment for his brother. Judges too quickly.

Lyon Keene: Crass-mouthed fifteen-year-old who tests his brother daily.

Darcy Tilney: Local landowner, taking time in the country to reflect.

* * *

Caroline Bingley: Head over heels for Darcy and does her best to capture his interest.

* * *

Charlie: Level-headed friend who cautions Bennet not to judge too quickly.

Wiremu: Charlie’s dad, runs local pub and loves karaoke.

* * *

Henry: Darcy’s son, with whom he needs to repair some bridges.

Cameron: Darcy’s son’s boyfriend.

Georgie: Darcy’s daughter.

* * *

Olivia Collins: Costumier at Ask Austen Film Studios, kind-hearted, wants children.

Will Wickham: There to stir up shit.

* * *

Caesar: A cute dog Darcy befriends.

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single, openly gay man must lust after every male in his vicinity. At least in the close-knit, conservative universe of Cubworthy, that is.


Sure, he was out. Sure, he flirted for fun. Sure, he liked no-strings sex. But ultimately Bennet Keene was searching for deep, meaningful love.

It would take more than just any man to tempt him.

He moved in his firm leather saddle, ass rolling against the cantle as Doll, his borrowed white mare, cantered powerfully under him.

Movement across the paddocks caught his eye. A horse, galloping hard up a mirroring hill. The rider—male, by his form—sat comfortably straight-backed as he halted his stunning black steed and contemplated the view of the gossipy village below.

Something about the authority in that figure made Bennet’s—

Brilliant. He was a monumental cliché after all.

As if he felt curious eyes on him, the rider turned. Bennet offered his friendliest nod and received a stiff inclination of the man’s head.

They moved toward the river and, once they hit flat land, Bennet pressed his legs into his mare’s flanks and spurred her on. “Come on, Doll. Let’s show off.”

Grass ripped behind him as they rode.

The stranger caught on and encouraged his stallion into a canter. Adrenalin thumped through Bennet as he allowed the man to line up before urging Doll forward with exuberant determination. Her stride lengthened into an entirely flirty gallop and a flash of black appeared in Bennet’s peripheral vision as the stranger followed suit. Smooth, graceful, confident. Yes, look at you ride.

Overcome by the joyous rush to beat him, Bennet grinned into the wind and fixed his sights on the riverbank two paddocks ahead, lungs keeping pace with the pounding of hooves.

The man glanced back, and Bennet laughed, enjoying the silent yet cheeky interchange.

Sheep bleated in the near distance against the drone of a tractor. Ahead, the last hurdle before the flower-carpeted riverbank.

The fence crouched at the paddock’s edge, posts bent after decades of bracing against the wind. Weeds choked its rotting legs; they were more naked wood than white paint. The top rail sagged in the middle like a smirk.

Bennet usually rode around it, but that would take too long. His thighs tightened around his steed.

He’d grown up riding horses—showjumping, dressage. He had the tight, slim build for it, and the stamina. It’d been twelve years, though.

He hadn’t jumped since the morning he’d escaped for university.

He could do it. He could—

He pulled the reins and sat back in saddle, lurching to a mortifyingly panicked halt. His breath puffed out hard, chest heaving. A stunning display of performance anxiety.

The stranger rode full throttle to the riverbank and turned triumphantly in his seat.

A picture of fine form against a haze of yellow dandelions, he scanned the paddock for Bennet, found him, and stared. Too long.

The kind of too long that made Bennet hope they’d meet again.

Bennet breathed in the charming scent of the country—hide, manure, and upturned dirt—as he walked Doll around the front of the rust-red barn.

From his vantage point on the overhang, fifteen-year-old Lyon quickly shoved his school bag aside and lounged nonchalantly, staring back at Bennet, affecting boredom. Like every morning, Bennet looked into those big blue eyes—so like his own—and wanted to reassure his brother he had absolutely no idea Lyon cared about school . . .

Or that he hadn’t accidentally seen Lyon’s essay on what family means to him.

I don’t care about Bennet. He left for university when I was a toddler. He never visited—not that mum or dad wanted him to—and he only called on my birthday. Bennet is practically a stranger, foisted into my life because we share the same DNA and our parents died. I’m better off taking care of myself! The only thing we have in common is we’re both gay as rainbows. And we share a questionable penchant for long showers . . .

Bennet swallowed back the tenderness and swung out of the saddle, riding boots hitting the ground with a squelch. “Morning.”

“You got beat,” Lyon said.

“Would we call that beat? Not atrociously pummeled?”