Thanks to some early morning hijinks between the newly-minted husband and wife, the Earl and Countess of Grantham hurriedly checked out of Claridge's and barely made it in time to board the Golden Arrow, the luxury boat train of the Southern Railway that linked London with Dover.
"If we hope to start the second part of our journey," the breathless husband had said to his equally-breathless wife as his hands moved over her quivering body, "we need to get moving."
"I don't know how you can expect me to move with any sort of speed after that exhibition," Mary replied, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
"Are you saying you'd rather stay here than start the second part of our journey?" asked Matthew, his brows moving suggestively.
"Considering there isn't a surface in this suite on which you haven't had me, we might as well move on to new territory, I suppose," she said as she untangled herself gingerly from the mussed sheets of their once-pristine bed. She scarcely was exaggerating, for they had made good use of the suite's furniture, walls, and floors.
"I beg your pardon, my love. I believe you had me in a number of places as well." Matthew smirked, remembering Mary's particular ingenuity with one of the suite's tufted ottomans. "However, we have reservations, not to mention expectations, so let's see if we can sort ourselves in time to catch the train to Dover."
"Dover? What's in Dover?"
"Oh, white cliffs, old churches, Roman ruins…"
"Matthew! Be serious."
"Well, there's also a ferry port…"
"We're going to Calais?" The tone of her voice revealed her amazement.
"Perhaps," he said casually. "The sooner we get going, the sooner you'll find out."
After Matthew and Mary stepped off the ferry in Calais, he directed her gently to the waiting motor which was to take them to Gare Maritime de Dieppe, the train station where the next leg of their journey would begin. When they arrived, Mary's eyes grew wide, for there before her on the train tracks sat a line of gleaming blue coaches, their gold trim shimmering in the sunlight. "Oh, Matthew, Le Train Bleu? We're going to Côte d'Azur?"
"Eventually, after the train picks up passengers in Paris, Lyon, and Marseilles. Why? Don't you want to go?"
She threw herself into his arms, quite forgetting proprieties and knocking his hat to the ground in the process. "Oh, Matthew, you darling man, the French Riviera! I can think of no more perfect place for us to spend our honeymoon. I've always dreamed of going!"
He took advantage of her embrace, pulling her close and murmuring into her hair, "I hoped you'd be thrilled. We'll have four glorious weeks." He grinned as he felt her lips brush his neck. "Now, let's get on board and settle in. Our adventure awaits."
Holding Mary's pliant body in his arms, Matthew lay in the berth of the spacious private suite as the train rolled and rocked over the French countryside. The cabin was dark, lit only by the moonlight that flickered through the windows of the fast-moving train. He looked at the sleeping beauty in his arms and marveled as her naked body snuggled into his. She was draped across his torso, her cheek on his shoulder. He could feel her soft breasts pressed into his side, and her left leg rested between his legs. And there was no mistaking the slight bump that pressed into his hip. Their lovemaking that evening had been sensuous, carnal, searing, delicious—leaving them both gasping for air. What he had been imagining all those years didn't come close to the passion he felt when he held her in his arms. Loving her was like coming home—she filled his heart and mind with such desire it frightened him sometimes. From the moment he met her, he'd craved her.
Damn the circumstances that had kept them apart!
But now they were traveling together, married, headed towards four weeks of sunny bliss. He'd had mixed emotions about returning to France for their honeymoon, his memories of that country associated only with the war, the devastation he'd witnessed, and his injury. His decision to plan the trip to the Riviera had everything to do with giving Mary the honeymoon of her dreams, his own memories be damned, and her reaction at finding out their destination was worth everything to him. He had avoided looking out the train's windows too much that afternoon although the route to the Riviera skirted the battlefields he still remembered vividly. Still, catching sight of poppy fields and cemeteries gave him pause. Mary had sensed his reticence and looked at him with eyes so full of understanding he hardly could speak.
As he lay listening to the train's steady rhythm, it occurred to Matthew that fifteen years was a long time to wait for one's heart's desire, and the contentment he felt lying there with his love in his arms corresponded directly with the pleasure he experienced every time he touched her. As his hand ran up and down and toyed with the skin on her arm, he thought about all the elements of his life that had led to that moment.
He remembered…
being beguiled by her frosty welcome when she strode into Crawley House the day he and Isobel arrived at Downton
kissing her for the first time over sandwiches and strawberries
feeling bereft as he rode the train away from Downton—and from her—on his way to war
seeing the hurt in her eyes the first time he brought Lavinia to the Abbey
sensing that the touch of her hand could bring him back from the abyss of his injury
watching her recoil from Richard Carlisle when he got too close
believing she was lost to him forever
aching, always aching, for her.
He leaned down and placed his nose in her hair, smelling the scent that clung to her like some kind of harbinger of all things lovely and promising. She sighed in her sleep, and her warm breath hit his shoulder. They had been married a little over thirty-six hours, and he realized he never would forget the way his heart stood still as he watched her come down the aisle to him. She hadn't told him of her intention to walk alone part of the way, so when he heard the onlookers stir, he turned to see her, a vision in white, walking confidently towards him.
As always, she took his breath away.
When she paused momentarily, he couldn't help moving to her, leaning in to whisper "All right?" and seeing her nod, taking her hand, walking with her the rest of the way up the aisle, not as her escort but as her partner. In his mind, it was a perfect moment, for being by her side for the rest of his life was something he'd dreamed of for so long. There was no forever without her.
As he continued to hold her close, he conjured up the vision of her in their room at Claridge's—how her alabaster body writhed against the mahogany table, how her eyes shone with desire when he held her against the shower wall, how her hands moved over his body as she explored and tasted and teased, how she responded so passionately when he found his haven in the velvet between her legs, how she smiled when he professed his love for her and their child. The room was a wonderland for the senses—sight, taste, touch, smell, sound—and he knew only that he never would want for anything as long as they were together.
He smiled recalling the sparkle in her eyes when she saw the blue train cars that afternoon in Calais. They'd boarded the train, settled their things in their suite, and returned to the dining car for luncheon. The train left on schedule but was delayed for an hour and a half in Paris because—they found out later—the train was being held for the Prince of Wales, Mrs. Dudley Ward, and their entourage, who also were traveling to the Riviera and were running behind schedule. He found himself annoyed at the delay, but Mary cajoled him out of his displeasure by providing quite an intoxicating diversion in the privacy of their compartment.
He flushed at the memory.
He looked down once again at her sleeping form. Her face was composed, perfect; her lashes swept the tops of her ivory cheeks; her mouth, so expressive, now rested in a perfect bow. He ran his thumb down her cheek, remembering his pride when he escorted her into the train's lounge. He knew she turned heads when she entered a room, and today was no exception. Once the train was underway again after the delay in Paris, he and Mary joined other travelers in the lounge, and several English couples, who also were headed to the Riviera, looked at them admiringly. After they had socialized for a while, Matthew decided his fellow travelers were a rowdy bunch for English aristocrats, even if they were on holiday, and he found himself coveting some peace and quiet. He and Mary were forced to endure a barrage of well-wishes once the group learned they were on honeymoon, and they found themselves on the receiving end of several dinner and party invitations as a result of their disclosure. Once he revealed their destination—a private villa in Juan-les-Pins, just outside of Antibes—the group insisted that he and Mary "simply must" attend the New Year's Eve celebration at Château Grimaldi, Matthew agreeing readily, not disclosing he already had made plans for him and Mary to attend.
Mary hummed and turned her body further into his as he recalled more of the day's events. She had wanted to rest before dinner, and the other travelers raised eyebrows and grinned knowingly as Matthew and Mary thanked them for their kind invitations and, pleading exhaustion, retired to their suite, promising they would see the group in the salon-bar after dinner for drinks.
"That was an interesting group," he said as he loosened his tie and stretched.
"Yes. I suppose our status as newlyweds means we have to deal with a certain amount of innuendo. Did you notice how Lord and Lady Raines snickered when I told them we spent last night at Claridge's?" Mary's lips were pursed in annoyance, remembering how Lady Raines made a point of staring at the visible sign of her pregnancy.
"I did, indeed, and I also noticed the way Lord Jameson couldn't keep his eyes off you. He seemed rather enamoured—and rather a scoundrel."
"Hmmm. He's harmless. You're one to talk, though. What about Lady Robelard? The way she kept pawing you, I thought for a moment she might have been an old lover of yours."
"That was odd, wasn't it?" Matthew replied, shaking his head. "I've never seen her before in my life."
They had enjoyed a sumptuous dinner, every bit as impressive as anything produced in the finest London restaurants. The dining car's mahogany paneling, green trim, and Venetian mirrors exuded luxury, and they enjoyed dining in the company of fellow travelers Winston and Clementine Churchill, who were on their way to Nice—the Chancellor of the Exchequer and his wife proving to be most engaging dinner companions. Since being at Lords, Matthew had been rather in awe of the Chancellor's profound wit, so dining with him and his wife was quite a treat. It was apparent "Clemmie" was a woman of lively intelligence, and Winston readily admitted she often stopped him from making many political blunders. Matthew's lips curled into a smile as he recalled Clementine's calling her husband "a bloody old fool," and Winston's winking at him and Mary, telling them the sun should never set on any of their arguments: "Just obey her commands, old chap, and all will be rosy."
The train whistle blared, and Mary's hand moved down Matthew's chest, settling just above his hip. He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes. Meeting the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Dudley Ward in the train's salon-bar had been interesting. Their relationship was an open secret among the aristocratic set although Mary had assured him the Prince was a notorious womanizer and doubted if they were exclusive. Matthew had seen members of the Royal Family a few times but only from afar, so he was fascinated to watch Mary conversing with the couple so comfortably. When the Prince expressed his hope that Mary would continue to host her annual party at Painswick House during the London Season, saying how much he had enjoyed her parties in the past, Matthew's brows rose. That was something they'd yet to discuss. Mary was noncommittal, telling the Prince only how honored she'd been by his attendance.
When the train groaned and shrieked over a particularly hilly part of the terrain, Matthew felt Mary stretch in his arms, and she cleared her throat, raised her head, and asked drowsily, "Hello, darling, can't you sleep?"
"My head seems to be full of all sorts of things."
"Like what?"
"Oh, I suppose mainly I'm just looking forward to our home away from home."
She ran her fingers through her hair and then settled back into his arms. "Tell me about it. You haven't said much."
"Well, it's called Villa St. Louis and is directly on the water in Juan-les-Pins just outside of Antibes. It has a staff of six, the furnishings are said to be quite fine, and we'll have a Renault coupe at our disposal so we can explore to our hearts' content. And you'll like this, my darling: It's the villa Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald always rent; in fact, they departed Juan-les-Pins just four months ago."
"Really? How thrilling! Knowing how you love it, I've brought Gatsby along. It will be lovely to enjoy a novel in the home in which the author lived."
"I don't know if this is true, but supposedly from our terrace, we'll be able to see the lighthouse that inspired the green light on the dock described in the novel."
"My goodness. We'll have to make a point of looking for it." That was one of her favorite elements in the novel. Picturing Gatsby longing for Daisy as he watched the green light blink reminded her of how she felt about Matthew when they were apart. "What else?"
Matthew pulled her closer and stroked her neck. "Well, the villa has a large terrace and a private beach."
Mary's foot moved up and down Matthew's shin as her hand moved to his chest and played with the soft hair scattered there. "Mmmm. It will be lovely to bask in sunshine, won't it?"
He turned her onto her back and leaned over her, his ardor kindled by her movements. He punctuated the litany that followed with soft kisses to her eyelids, forehead, nose, and lips. "We'll have fresh seafood…and olives…and bread…and cheese."
"Yummy," she whispered.
"Indeed," he replied, as his mouth covered hers.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding along her lower lip. She sighed against him, her body suddenly lit from within, her arms tightening around him, drawing him closer. A moan rose in her throat, which was answered by a groan that rumbled up through his body. He pressed his hips against her, his erection driving into her belly, and she arched into him. Her skin was warm and soft and supple against his, her scent captivating, her moans alluring. He rose to his knees between her legs, put his hands on her shoulders and slowly, gently trailed his fingertips down her skin to her breasts. Her body glowed in the moonlight, causing Matthew to take a deep breath before continuing. "You're so beautiful, Mary," he whispered. He then lowered his lips to her right nipple and sucked it gently, intensifying the pressure gradually as she sighed and took his head in her hands. He took her hands in his and held them next to her shoulders. Then he moved to her other nipple, sucking, teasing, licking until her breathing quickened, and she began to writhe against him. He released her hands and moved side-to-side down her body, leaving a trail of kisses and heat as she raised her torso in response and pulled his shoulders to bring him back up and onto her body.
He pressed a whisper of a kiss across her lips.
She responded in a voice so soft, he strained to hear it.
"You...always. Now. Please…Matthew."
She could feel him smile against her neck as her hands moved over his body, touching every crevice and muscle that defined him; she was more than happy, beyond happy, filled with a blissful headiness. Her insides were swirling, and she felt a raw, primal hunger surging through her body as Matthew's hand moved to her core. She was ready for him, as she always was, and as he swept his fingers over her sex, she trembled in anticipation. Her heart beat wildly and desire swept through her veins. Her eyes were alight with lust and need, and she reveled in his strength and his gentleness, what he could do to her body and how he responded to her.
"Enjoy it…feel it," Matthew whispered as he rocked himself into her. "Just let me love you." Thrusting hard and long, slowly and deeply, he buried himself inside her. Her body clenched and sucked him deeper. "Open your eyes…I want to watch you…I want to feel you," he pleaded, and she caught a glimpse of the storm within his eyes. He continued to plunge into her, stoking the fire, causing her nerve endings to quiver, bringing her to the edge of ecstasy, until he was throbbing as her inner muscles contracted, and they soared and fell, groaned and cried, their passions unleashed, tongues clashing, breaths electrified, bodies shuddering.
Their bodies and their souls and their hearts and their minds fused.
Euphoria reigned.
"You're insatiable, Your Lordship," she murmured, stroking his face gently.
"Only for you, Countess," he whispered.
After several stops along the coast, the train finally reached Antibes in the late afternoon, and Mary and Matthew disembarked and were immediately approached by Lord and Lady Raines, who reminded them of their promise to attend the New Year's Eve celebration the following evening at Château Grimaldi. Assuring the couple they would be there, Mary and Matthew continued to the greeting area where they found a dapper Frenchman holding a hand-lettered sign emblazoned with Crawley.
"I am Nicolas Desrosiers, your chauffeur and guide, at your service," his supercilious manner amusing rather than annoying. "Right this way, s'il vous plait."
Matthew attended to the baggage handlers, and once their luggage was sorted, the honeymooners settled in the back of the touring motor, and Nicolas drove towards Juan-les-Pins, pointing out sights as he drove out of Antibes.
"The Greeks settled Antibes more than 2,200 years ago," he announced proudly as he pointed to a structure. "Cathédrale Notre-Dame-de-la-Platea d'Antibes was built on the site of an ancient Greek temple. You might like to visit Jardin botanique de la Villa Thuret, a renowned botanical garden located on the grounds of the Villa Thuret." The motor continued down narrow cobblestone streets, Nicolas talking almost non-stop. "There's an old port and markets and villas and beaches…"
"Thank you, Nicolas. I'm sure we'll find many sites of interest." Matthew smiled and grasped Mary's hand tightly. "For now, we'd just like to get settled into our villa. How much farther to Juan-les-Pins?"
"Nous sommes ici, Lord Grantham. We are here. Villa St. Louis is just there. By the way, just above is le château de Juan-les-Pins, a property rented often by dignitaires such as Valentino."
"Really?" asked Mary, intrigued, "Is he here now?"
"I do not know, Madame, but I'm sure I can find out."
Matthew looked askance at Mary, and she grinned.
When Matthew and Mary arrived at the villa, they were greeted by René Villeneuve, the villa's long-time butler, a tall, thin mustachioed man who greeted them in perfect English, albeit with a French accent. He led them into the middle of the main living area and stood quietly as they took in their surroundings. He then introduced the house staff, who scurried away after their introductions.
The pictures Matthew had seen of the Villa St. Louis did not do it justice, for it was all he had hoped for and more. The structure itself was a glimmering white, its dove-gray shutters pristine against the long façade. The interior was filled with bright light from the half-moon windows, and the three marble arches in the wide, grand lounge opened directly onto the terrace overlooking the shimmering Mediterranean and from which a long stairway led down to the sea. The garden featured a pergola surrounded by rose bushes, irises, and begonias, the colors bursting in the temperate sunshine and complimenting the azure of the sea that stretched behind the property. The villa's polished, white stucco interior walls served as a backdrop for works of art by Picasso, Matisse, and Cezanne that depicted the local landscape. The furniture throughout the villa was rustic and comfortable, with overstuffed sofas and chairs made more for lounging than for sedate sitting.
Mary was spellbound by her surroundings, saying to Matthew in a whisper as she clasped his hand, "It makes me want to take off my shoes and traipse about barefoot."
"There's no reason why you can't, my darling," he replied with a laugh. Truth be told, he was looking forward to a much more casual way of living during the month they would be there.
"René," Mary said, "I believe we'll have some tea after we freshen up a bit. Would you direct us to our suite?"
"Madame, I was unsure which suite you would prefer. There are two on this level and one on the second level. Would you like to see them to compare?"
"Which one has the best view?" asked Matthew.
"I would say the one on the second level, sir," replied René. "It has a wall of doors that lead to a private terrace. Of course, there really is no bad view from any of the rooms."
"I'm sure; nevertheless, I believe we'll take the second-level room." He turned to Mary. "Is that all right with you, darling?"
Mary nodded, and they followed René up the marble staircase to a set of double doors. He opened them with a flourish to reveal a high-ceilinged bedroom unlike any they ever had seen. The walls were a light azure with white moldings, and all the furniture was a crisp white with gold embellishments. A deep azure duvet embroidered with flowers and vines covered the four-poster bed, and the upholstered furniture echoed the same design. French doors led to a private terrace housing two chaises adorned with pillows and separated by a handcrafted metal side table. As it was downstairs, the view was breathtaking. A door on one side of the room led to a sitting room complete with a gramophone, a wall of books, and access to the aforementioned terrace; on the room's other side was a marble en suite bath with dressing rooms on either side.
"This is spectacular, René. Just what I expected," said Matthew as his arm snaked around Mary's waist.
"Yes, it's lovely," added Mary. "When we come down for tea, you may send someone up to finish unpacking."
After René departed with a bow, Matthew took Mary into his arms and asked, "What do you think, my love?"
"I think you've outdone yourself, and I should thank you properly…" He leaned in to kiss her, and she placed her hands on his chest, adding, "…right after I bathe off the dust from the train."
"I'm dusty, too, you know," he said piteously.
She brushed his shoulders. "So you are…"
Mary tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and allowed the warm water to flow over her face. The rivulets continued down her neck, past her breasts, over her bump, and disappeared down below. Matthew moved behind her and reached for a sponge and soap. Her eyes followed his movements, and her breath caught as he moved the sponge across her breasts and down to the bump, swirling, caressing, cleansing. He then sat on the marble bench that was built into the shower and had her raise first one leg, and then the other, washing each foot, each calf, each thigh gently, lovingly, as her hands rested on his shoulders. She took the sponge from him and had him rise. She alternated her hand and the sponge as she soaped his body back to front. When she raised her arms to adjust the shower head, she suddenly stopped, her hands moving quickly to her middle.
Matthew grabbed her arms, saying, "Mary? What is it?"
She looked up at him and smiled. "It's the fluttering again. I wish you could feel it."
He placed his hand on her bump, rubbed gently, and kissed her. "I wish I could, too. Is this the first time you've felt it since the wedding?"
"No, I felt it last night when we…we were…"
Matthew chuckled and raised an eyebrow, "Really? Interesting." He continued to rub her bump as they stood together under the cascading water. "Why don't we see if we can't get him or her to flutter again?"
She smiled into his kiss.