Mary awoke in Matthew's arms their first morning in the villa. He slept spooned against her back, his arms holding her close and his legs tangled with hers. Gingerly, she extricated herself and sat on the edge of the bed before donning her wrapper and moving into the en suite bath to find her overnight kit that held a small supply of salted biscuits. She was suffering from a bit of nausea but was relieved that this bout of sickness was mild. Much to her relief, her morning sickness recently had begun to wane, and she was hopeful the worst was over. She had been nibbling religiously on Mrs. Patmore's special biscuits to stave off any nausea that might hit her in the mornings, so she had packed enough tins to ensure she'd have plenty at her disposal while on her honeymoon. To her immense relief, she had been sick only once since her wedding day, and this round of nausea seemed to have passed.
Once she finished her morning ablutions, she tiptoed back into the bedroom where Matthew still slept soundly. The sight of his mussed hair and boyish, composed face made her smile, and she didn't have the heart to wake him. She debated whether to rejoin him in bed, but the tantalizing scenery awaiting her outside the villa was too tempting to resist. The morning light was filtered by the gauzy curtains that covered the French doors, and the private terrace beckoned, so she opened the doors and immediately was struck by a cool, salty breeze. The pale eastern light danced on the water, and the sky was filled with varying shades of pink and orange and blue, which were reflected in the crystal-clear, turquoise water below that lapped against the bone white of their private beach. Mary found herself transfixed by the beauty of it all as she stood before the stucco wall. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for the scenery in front of her—she considered herself well-read, but no description possibly could do justice to the scene that stretched before her. Certainly, she never had experienced such beauty first-hand.
Spellbound, she didn't hear the French doors open as Matthew emerged to join her on the terrace. He stopped to take in the view but soon found himself entranced by a view of a different sort. Mary's wrapper—a lustrous, diaphanous, tissue-silk confection—was blowing about her body, revealing curves and skin and quite captivating him. He watched silently as she stretched her body to look over the wall, the wispy, multicolored flowers on the garment dancing as the breeze swirled about her. She smiled when she felt his arms move around her waist, and as he leaned into her, his head on her shoulder, she said softly, "Good morning, my darling. Isn't it beautiful?"
"Mmmm. Beautiful," he replied as he nuzzled her neck. "The scenery is, too."
She turned in his arms and kissed him gently. "Flatterer."
"It's truth, my love, not flattery."
Mary turned towards the sea once again, her back against Matthew, his arms crossed over her chest, his hands on her shoulders. "It's the perfect place for lovers, isn't it?"
Matthew whispered into her ear, "Which is what we are."
"Yes."
As Matthew and Mary were finishing breakfast on the lower-level terrace, the sun was shining down on the sea, coating it in warm yellows and oranges, and the uninterrupted vista allowed them to see the lighthouse to the west and a small spate of land to the east. Birds whistled in the trees while an occasional sailboat dotted the sea's azure surface. In spite of the scenic beauty, once again Matthew found himself staring at his wife. She was dressed in fashionable beach pyjamas—a stylish, striped sleeveless jumpsuit with a wide belt and striped-edge hat—that were the epitome of Riviera chic. A matching jacket hung on the back of her chair.
She had been surprised to find several pairs of beach pyjamas in her closet that morning, calling to Matthew, "What have you done?"
When he entered her dressing room, he laughed and promptly looked chagrined. "Well, you obviously didn't know where we were going on honeymoon, so I contacted Coco for fashion advice."
"Did you now?"
"Yes, and she was adamant that you'd require all sorts of these…these…types of outfits. I trusted she knew of what she spoke since she seems to spend so much time here…"
Mary's eyebrow shot up. "And how do you know this?"
"I read the papers, too, my darling. Anyway, I just asked her to sort out some things for you, Miss Mercier hid them away when she brought your gown and trousseau to Downton, and Sybil and Anna managed to pack them without your knowing. I will admit I was unsure whether you'd like wearing such things, but evidently, they're de rigueur for the Riviera."
Mary laughed and said, "I'm sure Sybil was thrilled to be in on the secret, knowing how she loves them. Coco's been trying to get me into pyjama-style trousers for years, and I've put her off because there never seemed to be an appropriate venue for my wearing them. She'll be beside herself that I'm wearing them here."
"You are?" Matthew made no effort to hide his delight.
"Of course, darling. You went to a lot of trouble, so it's the least I can do to show my appreciation. You may be sorry, though, because according to Sybil, they're quite comfortable. I may be wearing them around the village in future." She grinned as she riffled through the hanging clothes and pulled out the navy-and-white-striped garment. "Do you suppose this will do for today?"
"Very nicely, I think."
"Good. Now, go down to breakfast while I dress." She looked at him tenderly as he hesitated and walked to him. "Thank you for being so thoughtful, Matthew." She fell into his embrace, realizing once again that she had married the most marvelous man.
They spent the better part of the morning exploring the villa and its grounds, discovering all sorts of delights both inside and out. Mary was particularly intrigued by the artwork. Having grown up surrounded by the works of Old Masters, she found the Matisses, Picassos, and Monets quite appealing and enquired of René where she and Matthew might find the locations depicted in some of the paintings. She was thrilled to discover that many of the sites were close by, including the Château Grimaldi, where they were to attend the New Year's Eve celebration that evening. René told her Claude Monet had lived and painted in Antibes in the late 1880s—depicting the village from many angles—and Auguste Renoir once had his home and studio in nearby Cagnes sur Mer. He also suggested they travel to the historic fortified village of Saint Paul de Vence, situated half an hour's drive inland, telling her its sleepy, winding streets and stone farmhouses in the surrounding hills, which looked down to Cap d'Antibes in the distance, were inspirations for a number of the pieces hanging in the villa.
Outside the villa, they found a number of things of interest, as well, including trails through the pines that surrounded the villa, fascinating statuary, beautiful plantings, and, to Matthew's delight, a collection of bicycles. Taking off their shoes and stockings, they walked arm-in-arm along their private beach, occasionally stopping to pick up and inspect an interesting shell or two. The afternoon heat was pleasant, and Matthew suggested they wade out into the shallow water for a bit. Mary balked, unsure of the water's temperature and not wanting to risk getting wet, but she finally gave in when Matthew assured her she could avoid the latter by pulling up her pant legs and securing them under her belt. His pants already rolled up to his knees, he moved towards her with the intention of helping her.
"Wait, I'm not sure about this, Matthew. What if someone sees?"
Matthew sighed and replied, "Mary, it's a private beach. There's no one here but me to see you. Surely, that won't bother you."
"What about René or Nicolas or one of the other servants?"
Exasperated, he said, "Mary, they've plenty to do without standing around watching us. Besides, you'd show more wearing a bathing costume."
"Well, since I have no intention of wearing a bathing costume in this weather, your argument lacks merit."
"I realize it's not warm enough to swim, but that shouldn't stop us from getting our feet wet at least."
Shaking her head, she gathered the jumpsuit's fabric in her hands and tucked it under her belt. She walked determinedly into the gentle surf, turned to Matthew, and said, "Well, aren't you coming?"
Momentarily stunned by the vision before him, Matthew nodded his head and joined her in the water. He nearly was breathless watching the way her shapely legs moved through the clear water.
"See? I knew you'd like it," he called.
"Don't be so smug, sir. Exhibitionism is not something I'm fond of."
He approached her and took her in his arms. "Yes, but you're fond of me, aren't you?" Their time in the sun already had brought out the freckles on her nose, and he couldn't resist placing a kiss there.
"I suppose," she replied, "but only because I like having you around most of the time."
"Most of the time?!" He bent down and grabbed her hips and threw her over his shoulder, which caused her to shriek with laughter.
"Matthew! Put me down! I mean it!"
Saying, "Oh, you want me to put you down, eh?" he made as if her were going to throw her into the water. Shrieking again, Mary struggled in his arms, which caused him almost to lose his balance. "Be careful, Mary, or we'll both get drenched," he warned, laughing. "Now, what were you saying about having me around?"
"That I love being with you every minute of every day. Now, please, put me down."
"Very well, then." He cradled in his arms bridal-style, kissed her, and set her down carefully. A devious look came over her face, and before he could stop her, she placed her hands on his shoulders and shoved him backwards, causing him to fall into the chilly water.
She almost had made it to the beach before he caught her, tackling her into the surf, and sending them both into paroxysms of laughter. Their clothes sodden, they crawled to the beach and lay panting on their backs in the sand. Matthew rolled over onto his side, pushed the wet hair away from Mary's face, and stared into her shining eyes. "God, I love you, Mary. Being here with you is a dream come true."
"And I love you—every minute of every day. Promise me you'll never doubt that."
"I promise," he said, kissing her softly. "Now, I suppose we need to clean up if we're going to get out this afternoon." He stood and helped her to her feet. Shivering, they both began to wring out their clothes, as they ran back to the warmth of the villa.
They took the Renault into town and spent the afternoon hand-in-hand strolling around the resort, eating a lunch of fresh fruit and seafood at a little outdoor café, and enjoying the gentle climate. They both looked the part of stylish aristocrats—Mary in another set of beach pyjamas and Matthew in a sailor jersey, cap, and white duck pants—and blended in with other couples on holiday. Fascinated by surroundings that were so different from those with which they were familiar, before heading back to their villa to rest, they resolved in future to explore the many galleries, gardens, and shops that dotted the shoreline.
When they reached the villa, they were greeted by René, who informed them refreshments awaited them on the terrace outside their bedroom. He also told them he had placed a electric cast-iron space heater they might wish to use on the terrace if the air grew too chilly and told them not to hesitate to call on him if they needed anything else. Thanking him, they made their way upstairs and found a repast that included sandwiches, fruit, and macarons. The terrace was comfortably warm in the late afternoon sun, and a gentle breeze blew in from over the water. Plopping down on one of the chaises, Matthew remarked, "It seems the Mediterranean climate lends itself to lethargy and gluttony, for now that we're here, I'm going to find it difficult to move from this spot." He popped a macaron into his mouth and reclined on the chaise, stretching and closing his eyes.
Mary sat on the end of his chaise and removed her hat. "Have you forgotten that tonight's New Year's Eve and we're expected at Château Grimaldi?" she asked with a smile.
"Not at all," he replied. "Once I get my second wind, I'll be ready to ring in the New Year happily with you by my side. In the meantime I plan to loll about here and enjoy time alone with my wife."
Mary rose, and as she passed him, he took her hand in his. "I'm going to change," she said. "I'll be right back." She entered her dressing area and pulled out a raspberry and blush beaded silk dressing gown with an Oriental motif hand painted on the wide sleeves. She didn't bother with slippers, preferring to feel the cool marble under her feet, and walked back out onto the terrace where Matthew lay propped on the chaise, his hands behind his head. His eyebrows rose when she appeared, and he whistled appreciatively. She poured two cups of tea and placed them on the table between the chaises, but before she could sit on the other chaise, Matthew reached for her hand.
"Come sit with me," he said in a voice teeming with desire.
She situated herself next to him on the chaise, her head on his shoulder and his fingers in her hair. They lay together, both of them enjoying the warmth of both the Globar heater and the sun. Matthew had untucked his shirt once they had reached their room, and Mary's hand moved under it, caressing his chest gently. "I love the feel of you," she whispered, as she moved her hand from his chest and placed it flat against the zipper of his trousers. He hardened at her touch as she angled herself more towards him and kissed him passionately, pulling his shirt up and over his head. He raised his hips when her hand went to the waistband of his trousers, unzipped them, and slipped them and his drawers down his legs. He reached into her dressing gown, surprised to find her naked underneath it, and moved his hands to her shoulders causing the garment to fall to the terrace floor. Neither of them ever had been naked out of doors, and they found themselves only momentarily hesitant to remain so—the thrill of such an unorthodox act quite overwhelming their sense of propriety. It was exhilarating and forbidden and arousing, and they craved each other as a result.
As Mary stretched out beside Matthew, she trembled uncontrollably when his fingers found her center. He directed the wetness over the source of her pleasure, and she felt her body flush and electrify as a result of his touch. Repositioning her so that she now was reclining, he loomed over her, his knees on either side of her hips. Starting with her mouth, he began to paint her body with his lips and tongue, kissing, sucking, licking, nipping down her throat to her breasts to her belly to her inner thighs, making her blood sing and her heart pound. His hands grasped her hips, and his tongue and fingers repeatedly stroked her throbbing core as her hands cradled his head and held him in place. She keened and cried out her release as his tongue played and tormented and lapped her most intimate flesh. Moving back up her body, he held her close as her aftershocks subsided, saying, "Everything…you are everything, my love."
She turned on the chaise, and he maneuvered her until she was straddling his body; he cried out and her head fell back as she slid onto him, relishing the sensation of fullness their joining created. His breaths came quickly until he was fully sheathed inside of her. Neither of them moved for a moment, staring at each other in heated longing, unwilling to disturb the connection. She remained still when she captured his mouth, mumbling into his lips, "So good."
He raised his hand from her hip to the nape of her neck, and their tongues began to move as he raised and lowered his hips, causing her hips to undulate in response. A clenching ache built in her belly as she broke the kiss, sat up, and ran her hands down his chest and over his stomach, savoring his strength. "I need to feel you, all of you," she whispered. She deliberately slowed her movements, savoring every thrust, until they were kissing again, his hands traveling down her back, to her thighs, and back to her hips. They began moving languidly, reveling in each other, his hands covering her breasts, her hands lacing through his hair, neither of them able to stop the soft moans that seemed to come from the depths of their souls.
Still leaning back against the chaise, he bent his legs, which allowed her to recline against his thighs, a wanton act that nearly sent Matthew over the edge. "Goddamn, Mary," he gasped, "I could devour you." He watched with hooded eyes as Mary held his wrists and directed his hands over her body—caressing her neck, moving over her shoulders, running across her collarbones, fondling her breasts, finally stroking the bump that protected the culmination of their love. The intensity of his touch was riveting, and she reached forward grabbing his shoulders, bringing him forward into an embrace and then forcing him back against the chaise. Her legs trembling with her efforts, she moaned as Matthew continued to pump into her, his face at her breasts, his hands grasping her buttocks, leading her, teasing her, causing her to lose all control, sending her into the throes of an orgasm so powerful that she collapsed onto him quaking and pulsing and throbbing as he immediately cried out and went over.
Out of breath and sated and covered in a fine film of salty perspiration, they held each other, not moving, not speaking, barely able to move. Her hands grasped his hair; his hands played up and down her spine.
"Can we stay like this forever?" she asked in a throaty whisper.
"We may have to," he replied with a chuckle. "I'm not sure I ever want to move."
"I love you, you know."
"I do know, Mary, and I love you, so very much."
"That's good because you'll never be rid of me."
"And I'll be with you always."
By the time Matthew and Mary arrived at Château Grimaldi, the New Year's Eve party was in full swing. The music provided by Emilio "Don" Barreto and his Cuban Orchestra filled the air with a mix of swing melody and Cuban rhythm that flummoxed some dancers and thrilled the rest. Barreto had introduced the rumba to Parisian nightclubs, so his appearance at the party was considered quite a coup. Thanks to flowing champagne and plenteous bottles of fine liquor, spirits were high, and the room was filled with a cacophony of laughter and boisterous voices and general revelry.
One of the hostesses led Matthew and Mary through the raucous crowd to their table where party hats and noisemakers lay strewn about like so much flotsam after a storm. Once they were seated, Matthew ordered champagne for himself and sparkling water for Mary, who had decided to limit herself to a single glass of champagne at midnight. He leaned toward her and raised his voice, saying, "This is quite a celebration."
"It certainly is," replied Mary as she reached across the table to inspect two garish party hats. "It's rather a contrast from New Year's Eve at the Abbey. If I remember correctly, the loudest it ever got there was the chiming of the clock as it struck twelve." Looking about the room, she rather liked that the evening permitted the kind of pleasure-seeking behavior she'd only heard about second-hand.
Matthew laughed and nodded. In years past New Year's Eve meant a quiet, staid celebration—even copious amounts of champagne didn't raise the level of gaiety beyond the accepted limits of upper-class socializing within the Abbey's confines. As he watched the merrymaking around him, it occurred to Matthew he'd never really "celebrated" the incoming New Year. Even in Manchester in his pre-Downton days, New Year's Eve consisted of a quiet drink with his mother or a few friends, so he now looked forward to a different sort of celebration.
He glanced over at Mary and saw how her flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes caused her whole face to glow with excitement, and he realized that they both were entering a realm with which neither was particularly familiar. Oh, of course, they had enjoyed parties in the past, and, certainly, their time in London nightclubs had proved quite stimulating, but there was something about this atmosphere that seemed both alien and invigorating. Perhaps it was because they were well away from the restraints that governed their lives or because they were newly-married or because they were moving forward into uncharted territory—whatever it was, Matthew found himself relaxing and open to all the possibilities for enjoyment a night such as this offered. Just as he was preparing to invite Mary to the dance floor, Lord and Lady Raines, along with several other couples from the train, swooped into view and immediately overtook the table.
"Lord and Lady Grantham, why aren't you dancing?" howled Lady Maud Raines, obviously unaware of the volume of her voice, which had risen several decibels thanks to one too many cocktails. "It's a night to celebrate!" Letting go of her husband's arm, she plopped down beside Matthew and called to the rest of her party to take seats around the table. Pulling the bottle of champagne Matthew had ordered out of the silver bucket beside the table, she proceeded to pour herself a glass, ignoring the drips that trailed across her lap and onto the tabletop. "Isn't this party the cat's meow?" Her husband looked on dozily as she leaned towards Matthew and added in a voice she intended to sound sultry but which only confirmed her drunkenness, "And you're looking quite spiffy if I do say so myself." Reacting to Matthew's obvious discomfort, she added with a wink, "I take it you're not used to being around fast women!" and proceeded to announce to the table, "Everyone, doesn't Matthew look spiffy?" The rest of the female interlopers readily agreed, including one Lady Robelard whose eyes narrowed at the prospect of yet another conquest. She and Lady Raines exchanged knowing glances as their compatriots continued their revels—drinking, chatting, laughing, and generally enjoying the festivities—and they each recalled their earlier conversation on the train.
"He's quite beautiful, isn't he?"
"He is, indeed, Flo. But she's likely to be a problem. Besides, I thought you had your sights set on Sir Lionel."
"A girl's allowed to change her mind—he's too delicious to pass up. As for his wife, I'm sure she can be distracted."
"And how do you propose to distract her?"
"Not me, darling, you."
"Me? Oh, no. The last time I performed that task I ended up with a bruise that didn't allow me to show my face for two weeks."
"Not to worry. By the time we get to Antibes, I'll have a plan that will ensure you are unscathed."
"Honestly, Flo, are you sure he's worth the trouble?"
"Oh, yes. Without a doubt."
Florence Robelard was a twice-divorced woman with too much money and no moral compass. She used her good looks and loose morality to amass what could be termed a stable of lovers throughout France and Italy. Few men had the inclination to ignore her obvious willingness to explore the seamier side of sexuality, seeing that she promised debauchery and discretion. Of course, if push came to shove, she wasn't above using a little well-placed blackmail to achieve her objective. She always was on the lookout for new challenges, and Matthew's good looks and newly-married status appealed to her baser instincts. Judging from his obvious devotion to his new wife, she knew better than to pounce immediately. In his case subtlety would be the key—a slow and steady seduction seemed to be in order, for she believed he knew little, if anything, about the reputation that preceded her. Even if he weren't amenable to her advances, she had a repertoire of tricks and skills that usually served her well
Matthew looked helplessly at Mary, who did her best to look unfazed by Lady Raines's antics, but before she could respond to the goings on, she felt someone grasp her elbow. It was Lord Jameson from the train, one of the train's passengers she and Matthew had written off earlier as a scoundrel. "Lady Mary," he said roguishly, looking at her glass, "don't tell me you're a bun-strangler."
"I beg your pardon," she replied, confused by the slang term, unsure whether to be insulted; however, his leering gaze led her to believe she should be.
"I mean, it's New Year's Eve, and you're nursing a glass of water?" he asked incredulously. "That just won't do." He reached across the table to grab the champagne bottle, his sleeve brushing through the trail of water left by Lady Raines's earlier efforts. He attempted to grab her glass, which she quickly moved out of his reach.
"Thank you, sir, but I must refuse."
"Aw, c'mon, Lady Mary," he insisted. "It's almost the New Year. You don't wanna miss the fun, right?"
Before Mary could reply, Matthew took the bottle from him and said between clenched teeth, "You heard my wife, sir. She chooses not to have champagne right now." Turning to Mary, he said quietly, "Let's dance, my love," and he escorted her to the dance floor.
"Thank you for rescuing me, darling," Mary said as they moved smoothly across the floor to the strains of the rumba. "He obviously doesn't know how to take 'no' for an answer."
"Especially when he's had too much to drink," Matthew replied. "I suspect it won't be long before he's under the table, however."
They continued to dance to the pulsating rhythm, moving forward and backward as the music flowed over them. Matthew held Mary close, their discreet, expressive hip motion achieved by bending and straightening their legs as their weight moved from one leg to the other. They moved sensually as one entity, absorbing the music, feeling the tempo, lost in the connection forged by the Latin beat. Anyone who paid attention would recognize the intensity of their love, see how they fit together perfectly, realize how the music seemed to adjust itself to their timing rather than the other way around.
Florence stood near the dance floor, her body partially obscured by an immense potted palm. Blinded as she was by her prurient obsession, Florence saw nothing but the perfection of Matthew's form and movement. For a moment it felt as if she were in his arms, and she found her breath catching each time his hips moved just so. Yes, she thought, he'll be well worth the effort.
Their dance at an end, Matthew and Mary stood in hold for a moment, each pair of eyes locked into the depths of the other's until, finally, they broke and walked back to their table. It was nearing midnight, and the table was all but deserted. Lord Raines sat slumped in his chair, his chin on his chest, his left hand still clutching the stem of a champagne glass perched precariously on the edge of the table. His wife was long gone, no doubt in search of a partner with whom she could greet the New Year. Two women whose names Mary and Matthew could not remember sat huddled together, laughing raucously at nothing while Lord Jameson sat unmoving, his head resting in a puddle of some unidentifiable liquid that had been spilt on the table.
The noise level in the room increased as midnight approached. Frenzied dancers no longer limited themselves to the dance floor but spread themselves throughout the room, including on the tops of some tables. Matthew and Mary laughed at the efforts of a particularly effusive gentleman who lurched around the room attempting to sell kisses to anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross his path. Matthew managed to procure a bottle of champagne from a harried waiter who had been almost hogtied with streamers, and he hid it beneath the table lest someone wrench it from his hands.
"This is madness," laughed Mary. "People who normally would abhor this sort of behavior are willing participants." She ducked just as a woman's legs barely missed her head, the result of her being carried off to parts unknown by an over-eager suitor.
"It is madness," replied Matthew. "Do you suppose we'd be acting this way if we had imbibed more and danced less?"
"I doubt it," she replied. "Neither of us would allow the other to behave so outrageously. I suppose because we've been so well-trained."
"Oh, I don't know," he mused with a smile. "You weren't particularly restrained this afternoon."
She leaned into him and caressed his face tenderly. "I'm only unrestrained in your presence, my darling. Making a public spectacle of myself just isn't in the cards, I'm afraid."
"I can say with all honesty that that's one of the reasons I love you."
"Hmmm. You may tell me the other reasons when we get back to the villa," she replied, raising her eyebrow and smiling seductively.
"I thought I already had, but I'm perfectly willing to communicate them again."
Suddenly, the crowd began counting down the final minute, so Matthew poured two glasses of champagne, handing one to Mary and taking the other for himself. The gong sounded, noisemakers blew, balloons fell, the crowd cheered, and the orchestra struck up a stylized version of "Auld Lang Syne." After each took a sip of champagne, Matthew's arms went around Mary's waist and hers encircled his neck as they kissed deeply. "I love you," they uttered simultaneously, each smiling at their shared sentiment.
The next moment they found themselves being pulled into a circle around the dance floor, joining hands with other revelers who were singing the familiar lyrics at the tops of their lungs. They looked at each other, shrugged, and joined in, enjoying the experience. Mary found herself holding hands with the aforementioned kiss-seller, who leered at her before being jerked to attention by his wife who obviously was perturbed by his behavior. She looked over to see whose hand Matthew was holding and was surprised to see Lady Robelard standing there holding Matthew's hand against her chest, for she had not seen her since much earlier that evening. Once the final verse had been sung, the revelers moved outdoors for the fireworks display, and Matthew took Mary's hand and led her to an empty space on the terrace.
Kaleidoscopes of color, columns, and swirls burst in the sky, and when Matthew turned to look at Mary, he saw her eyes were glowing. Detonations resounded, matching the pounding of his heart as he gazed at her. Sensing his ardor, she turned to him and for a moment, she lost her breath. They came together in a blazing kiss as a crescendo of white lights tumbled and exploded across the sky.