From This Day Forward
Part 4 of 5
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 34,523 (this part: 7,812)
Rating: M / R (Note: this is a very strong M / R.)
See Part One for details. Also, a reminder: see LiveJournal for links and images (in all parts).
The day itself: conclusion
It was a joy to watch Bridget looking out below at the countryside with the thrill of a child as she tried to discern exactly where they were heading. Instead of the hour-plus car trip it would have taken, they were descending to land in the English countryside in what felt like no time at all. The moment she saw the grand façade of the manor they had vacationed in the previous year, when she had so suddenly taken ill after returning from Thailand, she turned to him with a grin. "This is perfect," she said, shouting a little to be heard over the sound of the rotor. "I can finally luxuriate like I wanted to then."
"Absolutely, though we're here for just a night," he said. "This isn't our final destination, love."
"It's not?"
He shook his head, smirking. "Nope."
The helicopter touched down in a field relatively close to the place and once again powered down, the pilot explaining that he did not wish to send the bride into her honeymoon all wind-whipped and bedraggled, which she appreciated. After the blades stopped moving, he was lifting her down from the fuselage and they were greeted by a smiling youth dressed in his bellhop livery.
"Welcome back, Mr Darcy, and the new Mrs Darcy," he said, bowing politely at the waist. "Let me get your bags." The pilot handed then down to the boy. "Just the three bags, then?"
"Yes," said Mark, having visions of the multiple bags Bridget would have brought if he hadn't packed for her.
"Right this way, then," he said, leading them to a deluxe little golf cart that looked more like a miniature vintage car than anything, in order to take them to the hotel proper.
"Did you get the same room?" she asked, leaning into him as the little cart rode over the smooth grounds.
"Sadly, I did not," said Mark, watching disappointment flit over her face before adding, "I thought the occasion warranted the honeymoon suite."
"Well, in that case, I think I might manage just fine," she said, looking up to him, then continued in a quieter tone, "You know, Mark, you haven't kissed me since we cut the cake. That's far too long a time between kisses on our wedding day."
He chuckled and was about to oblige when the cart came to an abrupt stop. "Sorry," said the bellboy with profuse sincerity. "The brakes are a little touchy since the service. We're here."
Mark smiled. "In a bit, I will more than make it up to you, I promise," he said, then got down from his seat in order to help her down too.
There was something unreal, something almost out of time itself, about ascending the stairs as they did, arm in arm, he in his formal suit, she in her breathtaking dress, then being greeted by even more of the liveried staff, who respectfully bowed as they passed by. The smiles that other guests bestowed upon them made him proud to have her on his arm. The concierge—amazingly, the same man from the previous year—smiled as they approached. "Mr and Mrs Darcy. Welcome back to our humble establishment."
"We're very glad to be back."
"Congratulations on this happiest of days," he said, beaming at the two of them. "And may I compliment you, ma'am, on what an absolute vision you are."
Bridget flushed pink. "Thank you very much. This is the happiest of all my days."
"Roger will show you up to your suite. We hope you find it to your liking," he said, "and may your stay with us, while much shorter, be memorable for much better reasons this time."
Bridget laughed. "I hope so, too."
They followed the young man, Roger, to the lift amidst continued appreciative looks and congratulations by others they happened to pass by, which they politely thanked these strangers for. After a short ride to the top floor, he then led them to a door at the very end of the hall, and set the suitcases down. He handed Mark the key and said with a grin, "It's all ready and waiting for you."
He watched Roger enter the lift once more before he turned back to Bridget, looking at her intently: even though it had been a very long and very tiring day, she still looked as beautiful as she had when her father had first drawn her veil back, soft waves framing her face, pearls encircling her pale neck, and that tiara glittering like a galaxy of stars in her hair.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
He realised he had been standing in silence for far too long. "Not in the least," he said. "Just wanting to remember this moment in every detail."
She smiled.
He reached forward, unlocking the door and pushing it open. She looked in and her eyes got wide as she saw the enormous four-poster wrought-iron bed, ivory décor, broad window with a vista of the entire park. "Mark, it's—Ah!"
At that moment, he bent down to sweep her into his arms—one around her waist, one under her knees—before carrying her over the threshold into the room, then kissing her thoroughly, striding across the room to set her on the bed. As he stood, she looked up at him with unmistakeable adoration as she took his hand in hers.
"Let me get our bags," he said quietly, "and close the door."
She brought the backs of his fingers up to her lips then nodded.
Quick as he could he went into the hall to get the suitcases and set them just inside, then closed the door, but not before hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob. He was then free to be back at her side, and he sat next to her, raising a hand to run fingertips along her jawline.
"Hello, Mrs," he said quietly.
She only smiled, gazing as deeply into his eyes as he was into hers; he leaned forward to press his lips to hers, then covered her mouth with his, giving her those kisses he owed her, cradling her head with the palm of his hand before sweeping it down along her neck to her shoulder.
When he broke away, he pressed his cheek to hers and said unsteadily into her ear, "You look so incredibly beautiful in this dress… but I think it's time we got you out of it."
He heard her chuckle in his ear. "You're kind of overdressed, yourself."
He pressed a quick kiss into the hair by her cheek before rearing back. He brushed his hands from her shoulders to the top edge of her dress, running his fingers over the brocade on the bodice just over her breasts, then around to find the zipper that was very discreetly hidden under the seam on the side.
"Mark, wait," she said, almost apologetically. "I have something special to wear for you."
He stopped, meeting her eyes again, then smiled and nodded, understanding. It was certainly not their first time, but it was the first time as a married couple, and he knew she wanted everything to be perfect, that she might want to freshen up a bit after their long day.
"Let me at least help you with your hair."
"Okay."
Carefully, almost reverently, he reached up and pulled out hairpin after hairpin; the veil was freed and he pulled it from her hair, holding it by its delicately beaded top edge. He then pulled out a few more before lifting the tiara up and off, then set it off to the side on the bed along with the veil. As a result of his efforts her hair had fallen down from its coiffure, and she looked even more devastatingly gorgeous with those dishevelled waves around her face and on her bare shoulders. He could not resist running his fingers down through her hair then reaching forward to kiss her again.
She reciprocated, then began to chuckle as she pulled away. "Let me tidy myself a bit. I'll be right back, I promise."
"I know."
He watched her walk to where the bags were, grabbed her smaller toiletries bag, then shoot a coy look to him as she entered the en suite bathroom and closed the door behind her. It took more willpower than he liked to think about to resist following her in there, but he managed it. Instead, he got to his feet and slipped out of the jacket, folding it in half then resting it over the chair. Carefully he took the stick pin from his tie, resting it, the veil and the tiara carefully on the nightstand. He undid his tie, then folded the long strip of silk twice along its length before setting it deliberately beside their jewels. It felt like it took him forever to undo every one of those vest and shirt buttons, and he cursed each one more than the last.
After slipping out of his trousers, folding them and his boxers, then resting them on the chair with his jacket, he remembered that the brochure had mentioned two bathrooms, one smaller with basic amenities, and a second, more deluxe one with a large two person bathtub in addition to everything else. He saw the second door, and took his own suitcase to what he assumed was the small bath, but was surprised to find it was in fact the deluxe one. It was everything they had promised and more, half the size of the main suite and sumptuous in every detail: candles lined along the edge of the large tub and waiting to be lit, a bowl of rose petals set on the tiled edge, piles of fluffy cotton towels on the settee beside it. He looked forward to drawing a bath for the two of them later.
For now, he washed up quickly in the stall shower, patted himself dry with a towel then returned to the main room of the suite. She had not reappeared yet. He closed the larger bathroom's door, hoping to surprise her later with its existence.
It was then he saw what else he had missed upon their arrival: a bottle of chilling champagne and two tall flutes, as well a platter of Belgian chocolates. He smiled, then popped the bottle open, pouring them each a glass, then bringing them and the chocolates back to the nightstand. He drew the drapes to dim the room, lit the pillar beside the bed and switched off the lights before slipping beneath the sheets, awaiting her return.
At last the bathroom door opened, and she appeared, looking radiant yet a little shy. She was dressed in ivory, a lacy robe tantalisingly covering what appeared to be more silk beneath, both of which went modestly to her ankles, the lines of the ensemble fairly straight and not flared at all like her dress was. He smiled, hoping to encourage her from this sudden bashfulness. "Come here, darling," he said, sitting up, reaching his hand out to her.
She took a seat beside him on what had long been her side of the bed, where he had folded the corner back for her, and reached to kiss him quickly. He leaned over to the nightstand to his left and took the flutes in hand, handing one to her.
"Now that we're alone," he said, engaging her eyes with what he knew was his most intense gaze, "I want to offer another toast." He held his glass ever more slightly up, and she followed suit, clearly waiting to see where this was going. "To the woman who changed my world when I was least expecting it to be changed; to the woman who taught me to loosen up and have a little fun; to the woman who showed me that love could be well worth the risk, the vulnerability. On this, the very best day ever, I toast you, Bridget, the love of my life; I dedicate myself to loving you, to making you happy, and to being the man you think I am."
As he spoke, he watched her eyes get glossier and glossier with tears until they spilled down over her lower lids. He reached up and wiped them away, then brought his flute close to hers to touch them then took in the flute in one swallow. She did as well.
Collecting the glass from her fingers, he turned to set them on the table, then back to her, intending on divesting her of that lovely robe, but she still looked very serious, pale brow ever so slightly furrowed. "What is it?"
"Still can't figure out what I did to deserve you," she said, attempting a light tone, but she was still very obviously choked with emotion.
"Well," he said, hoping to at least make her smile, "there's that lovely thing you do when you kiss me, when you swirl your tongue 'round…"
She not only smiled but laughed, then reached over to kiss him again. The kiss quickly deepened; he leaned her back onto the copious pile of pillows as she treated him to that very same lovely thing.
He pulled away to look down at her, enjoying the way her lids had closed and her mouth had parted in that moment before she looked up to him with glittering sapphire eyes. "This is very beautiful, what you're wearing," he said, running his fingers along the lace collar.
"It's from my mum," she said as his hand went to the tie at her waist; it was fairly loose already and easily came undone in his fingers. He pushed the edge aside to reveal her body was swathed in the softest, sheerest silk he had ever seen, clinging to her body and legs, more delicate embroidery along the hems and a row of tiny pearl buttons from the vee of the neck all the way down the front to the bottom edge.
It hit him then just how much he had missed having this intimacy with her, how much he wanted her body pressed up against his, how delightfully responsive she always was to the touch of his fingers, how perfect they seemed to fit together in every way. With a much greater insistence he kissed her once more, his fingers going to her thigh. He took hold of the silk, attempting to raise it by millimetres when she broke the kiss. "Oh, Mark, no."
He was bewildered. "What?"
"The buttons. Undo the buttons."
The line of buttons seemed at that moment countless and formidable, the task impossible, especially considering he was resting on one elbow, leaving him with one hand to work with, and not even his dominant hand at that. "Darling, there's a million of them—"
"Mark, you'll never get this gown off me otherwise. Please."
He could not refuse her any gentle demand, especially since he very much wanted that gown off of her, so he reached for the button at the collar, and flipped it open with some effort and concentration on his part, made even more of a challenge after having just downed a glass of sparkling wine. The second, however, came a little more easily; the third, easier still. He pushed himself up a little to follow the seam and by the time he got to the lower hem, he had the button-flipping down to a science.
"There."
In the end, it had been well worth the effort, as the act of opening the buttons, his fingers lightly touching her skin with each flip, seemed to cause her breath to go ragged, her lids to get heavy. He watched her take her lower lip between her teeth as she regarded him with piercing blue eyes, challenging him to continue.
He pushed that lovely silk aside to find she was wearing yet more beneath that; while her breasts were beautifully bare, she was clad in pants of a very skimpy nature made of the same silk, with the same embroidered pattern, and yet two more buttons, one at each hip.
He smiled, fixing his gaze first to her eyes, then to follow where his fingers trailed as they traced a pattern along her sternum, over her breast, to her waist then to her hip. "My beautiful, beautiful Bridget," he said quietly, opening the penultimate button then running the pads of his fingers on the crease of her leg and over the silk of the pants. He paused for a moment before continuing to the other button; she made a soft sound as he did. "What I wouldn't do for you," he whispered in her ear as the final button came undone, as he reached again for that triangle of silk and pulled it down. She lifted her hips just enough for him to pull the pants away completely.
He then noticed on her thigh the real garter, a broader silken band than the other, with a similar dark ribbon along its middle, gleaming blue in the low light. This one also seemed to have a little token attached to it, a little pouch that seemed to have a coin within; undoubtedly the bridal sixpence, as Bridget was one to cover all of her bases with regards to the old traditions. He raked his fingernails over her thigh to the band, continuing to trace his fingers over the velvet of her skin.
She made a breathy, soft sound.
He pulled slowly on the band until got to her knee, her leg perfectly bare and still as smooth as earlier; she raised it to send the garter falling to her foot, which she lifted up off the bed. He slipped the garter off, set it with the other mementos of their day, then ran his hand up her shin to her knee and over her thigh again.
He then brought his hand to her hip and leaned over her to kiss her once more; as he did he felt her hands rise to touch his chest, to circle around and graze along his back before determinedly pulling him forward. The feather-light touch, the feel of her body beneath his, fanned the flames of his desire, and his hand moved from her hip to her waist to her breast as he shifted himself more completely over her. "How I've missed you," he said in a gravelly tone as began kissing her jaw and neck, she arching her head back to better receive the attention, before he moved down to capture her nipple gently between his teeth and tease it into a hard point.
She gasped and made a little moaning sound. "Missed you too," she said in a rasp, her hips moving beneath him. "Bloody Jude."
He held in a chuckle, instead descending on her breast again with a little more insistence, eliciting yet another soft sound. He ran his fingers with deliberate slowness over her skin, breast to stomach to hip to thigh as she moved beneath him in response, as he placed open-mouthed kisses along her jaw again. He wanted her badly, could have easily driven forward and completed their week-long-denied union, but he also wanted to sustain her pleasure, knowing that it would yield exponentially more satisfying results for the both of them in the long run.
It also gave him an opportunity to enjoy the way her pearl-tipped fingernails grazed along his skin, raising bumps and setting nerve endings to blazing in their wake, across his back to his hips and down to his backside, where she seemed to like to keep her focus. He teased her in response by stroking the skin of her inner thigh, causing her breath to stutter, causing her to arch up into him.
It was the feel of those nails just below his arse, her fingers grasping and urging him forward, the feel of her desperate mouth seeking the skin of his throat, the sound of her incoherent pleas for more, that caused him to finally relent and thrust into her.
The throaty moan this drew from her encouraged him to rear back and thrust once more; he could feel the tension in the muscles of her legs as she pushed up to meet him. He buried his face in her neck, kissing her along where her pulse hammered just beneath the skin, determined not to go too fast too soon, but quickly losing that determination at the feel of her responding beneath him; her fingernails pressed into his upper then lower back, hearing the gasps and sounds of pleasure she was making as she took his hips in her hands and grasped firmly to pull him into her.
Her cries continued to escalate as he moved faster and faster. He felt that telltale tightness building around him… and then he felt himself lose it completely, going taut as wire as he drove forward one more time, arched his head back and came with a great shuddering groan.
It was not completely simultaneous, but his climax seemed to trigger her own, so he continued to move in her, feeling wave after wave of her release until she let out a long, satisfied sigh, encircling his neck with her arms, and drawing him into a kiss.
He rolled to his side so as not to keep his weight on her, holding her close to him so as to not yet break their connection, and lavished more long, languorous kisses upon her, this most cherished of women, his Bridget, his wife. He sighed too, running fingers through her tousled locks, touching her face, her neck with the reverence he had for her.
"Not that I want to advocate long periods of deliberate abstinence in future," she breathed after some moments of hazy, peaceful silence, "but, ohhh. That was very good, indeed."
He laughed low in his throat, turning so that she laid upon him, so that he might run his hands over the soft curve of her bottom. She gazed down at him, rosy and satiated, then lowered her head to plant delicate, loving little kisses on his mouth before stroking his face with the pads of her fingers.
"I'm going to have to have words with your mother," he teased.
"Why?"
"Presenting me with a frustrating, Russian-nesting-doll of a lingerie set on my wedding night… that's either pure genius or pure evil."
At this she laughed, then settled down to rest on his chest, to nestle in his neck, tracing her fingers over the mat of hair.
"Today really was the best day of my life," she said quietly. He placed a kiss into her hair; he could still see the bright summer sun peeking in along the edges of the drapes, but the excitement of the day then the exuberance with which they had just consummated their marriage caught up with him all at once; he felt himself losing the battle against slumber, and only replied with an affirmative sound before he could no longer keep his eyes open.
………
The sun was still glowing from behind the drapes, though at a much different angle, when he awoke; instinctively though he knew it was not the next morning. Bridget was still asleep, curled around her pillow, the covers up to her chin; he was spooned up against her, so delicately he extricated himself from the bed and went into the bathroom. Splashing a little water onto his face, slipping into one of the robes on the back of the door, he realised he had no idea what time it was but figured it was about time to start thinking of dinner. The wedding breakfast (or rather, lunch) seemed an eternity ago.
He went back to sit on the bed beside her, brushing wisps of hair from her face then bending down to placing a kiss on her temple. She roused awake, looked up at him, and smiled. "Mmm, was having the best sleep I've had in months," she said groggily. "Now that everything's over and done with… I feel free as a bird."
He chuckled. "Well, my darling little bird, I wanted to see what your thoughts were on supper. Dressing up and dining downstairs in grand style, or room service?"
She clearly looked torn. He loved taking her out and she knew it; he knew she loved when he took her out; but the thought of lounging lazily in robes and eating in their suite…
"Room service. I did the fancy dress up thing once already today," she said at last, then added, "if that's okay with you."
"That's fine with me," he said. "I was rather hoping you'd say that."
She smiled sleepily.
He thought about that bathtub, and suddenly wanted to see her reaction at its mention. "Then after that, after we've had a chance to digest, perhaps a long soak."
"Oh, Mark, I hate to disappoint you," she said, sitting up and looking very sombre, "but the bathroom is a bit on the spare side. There's no tub to speak of, only a shower, a toilet and a sink. Strange, really, that the honeymoon suite has a smaller loo than our other room here."
Amused by her expected misapprehension, rather than tell her, he decided to show her; he stood again, pulled back the duvet and sheets and extended his hand to her. With a quizzical look on her face she took it, pulling the open robe and nightie tight around herself, and followed him.
As he swung the door open, she took in a surprised breath as she saw the grandeur of the main bath. When she saw the spa-style bathtub, she turned to look up at him with a beaming smile.
"I'm sure given your normal curiosity," he said, "you would have found this bathroom if you hadn't been so otherwise distracted upon our arrival."
She giggled, then took his left hand in hers, looking at the ring on his hand. "It's a little weird, seeing this."
"I thought it would some getting used to," he said, "but already it feels like it's been there all my life."
"Mind you, I like it," she continued. "And I like that it's there for me."
He pulled her into his arms. "How hungry are you?"
"Should be starving, but am not."
"What do you say to bath first?"
Bridget looked thoughtful. "How come we can't do both at once?"
"They might get a little cross if we got food in their bathtub." He released her from his embrace, suddenly struck with a thought. "Hm. Have a better idea." He went to the tub, put the water on full tilt, poured in some bubble bath then went back out to the bedside for the Belgian chocolates, the remainder of the champagne, and the flutes.
"Where did those come from?" she said, seeing the box as he set it all down on the side of the tub.
"Came with the champagne."
She grinned impishly as she slipped out of her lacy robe and silken nightgown. "Chocolate, champagne and bubble bath for two. How decadent is that?"
"Pretty damned decadent," he agreed; she was not intending for her disrobing to be anything but a prelude to stepping into the bathtub, but he found himself unable to look away from her.
"What, Mark?"
"Just basking in your beauty," he said playfully, realising maybe he had been staring a little too long, "and loving how you look wearing nothing but your rings."
He swore she blushed, but then she asked, "Oh, should we take them off?"
"Darling, they're platinum," he said, reaching for the bowl of rose petals, then sprinkling a handful over the foamy water. "They'll be fine."
She smiled at him one last time, climbed into the rising bathwater and sighed with pleasure as she sank into it. "Oh, heavenly," she said. "Temperature's perfect."
He slipped out of his robe and into the water beside her; it was immediately soothing, between the temperature and the pleasingly light scent of the bubble bath. After turning off the taps, he immediately reached to pour her a second glass of bubbly as well as one for himself, raising it for another toast.
"Oh," she said. "I think it's my turn to toast you." She smiled, lifting her chin in a mock-haughty manner. "As you well know, I'm not good at public speaking, and also not good at keeping what I'm thinking from falling out of my mouth. There's one thing, though, that I hope I never bite my tongue on, and that's how much I love you. I've never known anyone as good or as solid as you are, and I'm thankful not only for your love in return, but that you help to centre me and keep me focused."
He felt suddenly emotional, and moved to cup her face in his hand for a kiss.
"Mark," she said just as he was about to plant one on her lips. "We haven't toasted yet."
He chuckled and pulled away, then touched the rim of his glass to hers. Together they took in a sip of champagne, then he reached forward to claim that kiss, brief but no less meaningful.
"Oh, wait," he said. "Let's not forget."
He turned back to the bathtub's ledge, and plucked a chocolate dusted with pale brown cocoa powder up out of the box, then held it up for her to eat. They weren't large chocolates, but instead of taking a delicate nibble off of the edge of the square, she took not only the whole chocolate into her mouth, but most of his finger as well. Slowly she pulled back, grazing her teeth over his fingertip as she did, then sat back in the bath, smirking impishly as she chewed.
At times it amazed him, the simple things she did that completely and irrevocably flared up his desire for her. He grabbed another chocolate and held another out for her; she leaned forward to take it from his fingers when he said, "Ah, wait. It's my turn for a chocolate."
"Thought you didn't care for chocolate."
"I don't crave it the same way you do," he admitted, "but as the means to an end, absolutely."
She smiled, apparently catching his meaning; with her mouth dropped open, he set the chocolate between her teeth, which she then held firm. He leaned forward and proceeded to take a bite off of the chocolate, his lips brushing against hers, reflexively triggering a passionate, chocolate-infused kiss.
He pulled her forward to straddle his lap, placed one hand on either side of her face, and continued the kiss despite the chocolate. She broke away and teased, "Very good chocolate. Practically melts in your mouth. In fact, I'm not sure which I like more: the chocolate or the kiss."
"Maybe this'll persuade you." He wrapped his arms around her waist, and tugged her forward and up against him, his hands firm on her hips as he covered her mouth with his.
There was quite a lot of sloshing of water after this, quite a few more chocolates consumed, until Mark reclined back in the tub with Bridget resting on his chest, hair now soaking wet and hanging around her face. "Mmm," she said, snuggling into him, sounding very smug indeed. "Best dinner ever."
"That," he murmured, combing her locks back, "was not a proper dinner."
"I'm filled to bursting and that's all that matters."
He laughed low in his throat, planting a kiss into her dampened hair.
After lying together for quite some time in each other's embrace, Mark noticed the water was growing cooler, the bubble bath disappearing, the rose petals sinking, and suggested they get in the shower to have a proper washing-up. "I love you, darling," he said, "but your hair is drying quite mad and stiff with styling product, not to mention that it tastes terrible when I kiss you on top of your head." She gleefully agreed. He delighted in washing her hair for her as they shared the giant marble-lined stall, delighted in soaping her up with rose-scented suds and skating his hands along her skin to better assist the stream of water in rinsing away all lather.
He patted her dry with one of those plush towels, then wrapped her snugly in the cushy robe, tying the sash at her waist. "Now," he said, facing her wearing his own robe, combing her hair back and out of her eyes, "we shall have a proper dinner. What would you care for?"
She reached up and pulled some wet locks free so that the shorter bits hung down over her eyes. "Something that doesn't require a lot of effort. I'd frankly be happy with finger food."
He reached up and combed it back again. "You're at a world-class country getaway and you want pizza or fish and chips?"
"Yes." She raised her hand to muss her hair again, but he caught her wrist.
"Leave it," he said. "I want to see your radiant, glowing, beautiful face."
She pursed her lips, but he could detect the smile at the corners. "Laying it on a bit thick there, aren't you, Darcy?" she said, cocking an eyebrow up. "I already married you."
He pulled her closer, took her in his arms, then smacked a kiss on the top of her head. "Mm. Much better."
She giggled, wrapping her arms about his own waist.
They stood there in a silent embrace, no words needed, and he pressed his lips to the top of her head again.
"I want every day to be like this," she said softly.
He knew she didn't mean plush robes and bubble baths, champagne and chocolates, roses and rose petals. "If I have anything to say about it… it will be." He pulled back to meet her eyes to his. "And if you want fish and chips on your wedding night, you can."
She laughed, looking down shyly, tendrils of drying hair swinging and brushing across her cheek, which he reached and pushed up again. Their gazes were locked and he found his desire for her building all over again. "Get that call in," she said huskily, "otherwise we may never eat again."
………
The day after
Dinner, as it turned out, had served as only a temporary reprieve from the favoured activity of a honeymooning couple, and they'd stayed up much, much longer than they should have; Mark rationalised that the nap had given them both renewed energy. Not that he was one to complain.
Nevertheless, Mark was up at his usual early hour, preoccupied with the events of this day: embarking on the second leg of their honeymoon. He phoned down for an order of coffee and a breakfast of strawberry fruit crepes, then returned to the bed to rouse her awake.
Blinking sleepily, she looked up to him. "Wha?" she asked.
"It's morning."
"What time is it?"
"Six-thirty."
Her mouth dropped open. "Are you mad, waking me at this hour?"
"You'll get used to it," he said with a grin. "I've ordered breakfast."
"I'll what?"
"Get used to it," he said teasingly. "It's your wifely duty."
She looked horrified, but the way her eyes were smiling, he knew she was not serious. "Is it too late for take-backs?" she said with mock solemnity.
"Nope, sorry," he said. "You're in for life." He strode to the windows and swept open the blinds. Another glorious day.
"Ack!" she said, yanking the covers back over her head. He went to the bed, sat beside her, and tried to pull them down again, but she resisted. "Bugger off! It's too bright."
He managed to pull the sheets down enough to reveal her face, every bit as beautiful as yesterday. "Not even for this?" he said, then moved to kiss her.
"No!" she said playfully, turning her head away.
Foolish girl, he thought, as he dove instead to kiss her neck, eliciting a sound belying her pleasure; she released her hold on the covers enough to allow him to pull them down enough to rejoin her.
"You're a tactical genius," she said breathlessly.
"I learned from the best," he said into her ear, raising his hand to run his fingers over her soft skin, down along her leg and to her knee, thinking briefly that one aspect of married life he would never have to fear was losing the fire of passion in the bedroom. "Ready for another wifely duty?" he asked huskily.
"Think I can—oh—bear the burden," she replied, relenting at last and kissing him on the mouth.
Mark was thankful for the delay in the arrival of breakfast, for they were only basking in the afterglow when a brisk knock sounded on the door, followed by a call of "Room service."
He kissed her on the forehead. "Be right back."
He slipped into a robe and padded to the door.
"Good morning, Mr Darcy," said the young lady, wheeling a cart just into the room bearing a domed tray, a carafe of coffee, cups, cream, sweetener and a single red rose in a crystal bud vase. "Breakfast."
He lifted the silver dome to see two plates of the strawberry fruit crepes, topped with a strawberry sauce cleverly shaped into the form of a heart, which was then outlined by whipped cream. He grinned. This would do very well indeed. "Thank you."
She bowed politely and retreated, pulling the door closed behind her with a knowing smile.
Bridget sat up in the bed and smiled at seeing the cart of food, shyly pulling the sheets up to her chest as she arranged all the pillows up against the headboard for them to rest back on. He fixed her coffee, then lifted the dome again, arranged her plate, her coffee, and the rose on her tray. She giggled at his setting the tray over her lap. "Oh, this is lovely. Strawberry hearts. How sweet of them."
He put together his own tray, then brought it around to his side of the bed, slipped out of the robe, back under the sheets and reclined back with her. "Looks delicious, and really puts me in the mood for our next destination." He cut the edge off of the crepe, then brought it to his mouth, trying to remain the picture of nonchalance even as she whipped her head around to look at him.
"Where? Where?"
"Patience, my love," he said, sipping his coffee. "Eat your breakfast. All will be revealed in good time."
"You're cruel," she said with a pout. "I'm dying to know."
"You would deny me the pleasure of seeing you figure out the surprise on your own?"
She smirked in that adorable way she had when she didn't want him to know she really, truly agreed with him in her heart. "I suppose when you word it like that… I would not want to be thought of as your heartless, cruel wife." She popped a bite of crepe into her mouth, looked absolutely orgasmic as she chewed. "Oh, lord, this is amazing. I hope you really do like me curvy, because if we're in store for more food like this…"
"Don't worry," he said, continuing to eat, continuing his nonchalance. "I do really like you curvy, but I also have every intention on helping you burn off all of those extra calories."
She had been in the process of sipping her coffee, but sputtered on it as she laughed at his last line. "Trying to knock me off already?" she joked as he lightly patted her back.
"Sorry," he said, though he wasn't sorry she hadn't noticed she'd dropped her sheet, which he purposefully did not point out to her.
After another few minutes, after a few more bites, she did notice, and shot him a look, covering herself again.
"Darling," he said in his own defence, recalling their vows from the previous day, "if I'm to worship you with my body, I prefer to have a clear view of yours."
She giggled but turned adorably pink.
He would have liked to continue to worship her body well into the afternoon, but they had places to be (and, more importantly, a plane to catch), so instead he carried on eating his breakfast and encouraged her to do the same. She wanted to take a quick shower, and honestly, he did too.
"It's going to be another busy day," he said enigmatically as he finished his food, "so being as fresh as possible at the start certainly doesn't hurt."
She leaned forward to put her tray at the foot of the bed, then leaned back against him. "Mmm. Half wish we were just staying here."
"Sadly," he said, "our car will be here at ten."
"Our car?"
"Well," he said. "Have to get to the airport somehow."
She lifted her chin up to look at him. "So are you saying I would regret it if I instead pinned you down to the bed here all day and we missed this flight to our mystery destination?"
"Absolutely," he said, "and knowing your fondness for doing so, that's saying quite a lot."
She laughed, then leaned forward and kissed him. "Mmm," she said again, taking his lower lip between her teeth and slowly rolling it between them, before kissing him once more. "Really is too bad," she added breathily.
He raised his hand, brushing his palm against the peak of her breast. "Well," he said. "It isn't quite eight yet."
………
"Since you packed my bag for me," said Bridget, "and I haven't the faintest where we're going, you're going to have to pick out something appropriate for me to wear."
She stepped out of the shower, towelling herself dry as he was finishing up his shave.
"Already know exactly what you're going to wear," he said.
"Do you now?" she asked, slipping into the bra and pants she'd pulled out from her toiletries bag. "And what's that?"
"A new dress I bought for you."
She looked surprised.
"Well, it isn't as if I haven't done it before."
"Oh, don't doubt it won't be gorgeous," she said, "but my goodness, you're going to spoil me."
"And your point is…?" he asked with a grin, patting away the extra shaving cream.
She dried her hair then applied her makeup as he slipped into his own clothing—casual but dignified—then found the dress he'd bought for her: the perfect shade of blue to accentuate her eyes; the short, blousy sleeves; the light gauzy cotton fabric; the slight flaring silhouette of the skirt, which came down to her knees. It was a style that was very flattering to her figure, and she smiled as he handed it to her.
"Wow, Mr Darcy," she teased as she held it up, "you missed your calling as a fashion consultant."
He chuckled. "You finish getting dressed, I'll get your gown together."
"My gown!" she said with a gasp, turning to him, lowering the dress down. "What are we going to do with it?"
"The staff will be shipping it back to London for us."
"You think of everything," she said.
"No, actually, they did," he said in response.
She pulled the dress carefully over her head, pulled the more fitted waist of the dress down over her chest, then smoothed the flaring skirt down. The dress looked every bit as gorgeous on her as he hoped it would, and as she looked up for him for his reaction, he smiled broadly to convey his approval.
He left the bathroom, then headed for the telephone, called down for someone to come and get not only their bags but Bridget's bridal gown. They advised they would come up with a garment bag then take care of everything from there, and he went for the gown as well as the jewels, which he put in the tiara's velvet pouch, and set them down on the bed. With a small smirk he looked at the rumpled sheets; a lingering modesty caused him to right the pillows and pull the corners taut.
She emerged from the bathroom, her makeup, hair, and clothing complete, carrying her repacked toiletries bag. "All I need is my shoes."
"Ah. One moment." He reached into her suitcase and pulled out a pair of what he knew to be her favourite shoes, her beloved black kitten heels, and presented them to her. "Here you are."
"Hm. I'd prefer the ivory ones," she said with a smile.
"I didn't bring the ivory ones."
"What?"
"Well, these are your favourites. I packed light. It's either these or your trainers. I'm sorry."
She sighed. "Not the end of the world."
"It looks really nice," he said, hoping to make amends for his faux pas.
She offered a half-hearted smile. "Thought I'd trained you. Maybe being married will make it stick at last."
He went to her and pulled her in his arms to kiss her, when they heard a knock on the door. He chuckled. "Time to go."
Mark opened the door, found another young man in hotel livery, accompanied by a familiar-looking young woman bearing a garment bag and a smile. "Good morning," he said.
"The dress?" asked the woman.
"It's over there."
"Thank you." She looked at Bridget, bowing politely. "Congratulations."
Where he had failed to recognise the woman, Bridget did not. "Oh, hi!" said Bridget. "I remember you—you came in for the linens when we stayed here the last time."
"You have a good memory," she said. Now that Bridget had pointed it out, he realised the woman with the garment bag had been one of the chambermaids who'd come in and swapped out the bed sheets during her illness, the one with the auburn hair who'd called her 'ma'am'.
"No, it's you who has the good memory," said Bridget, as she watched the woman fold her bridal gown with great care into the garment bag. "You must see hundreds of people a month."
"Your last stay here was quite memorable," she said.
It was subtle, but Mark caught it: the clouding over of her features, the expression on her face, undoubtedly recollecting her illness and the unpleasantness she experienced as a result. He smiled and went over to her, putting his arm around her shoulder, pressed a kiss into her temple.
She turned and looked up at him, her smile returning.
"There you are," she said, zipping up the bag. "We'll take care of sending this back to London for you."
"Thank you."
"Enjoy the next leg of your honeymoon," Red said, then with a smile, picked up the garment bag, then made to retreat. "Have a long and happy life together." She bowed again. "Good day."
Mark brought the other suitcases around and set them near the bellboy. "Our car should be here any moment."
"Your car is here," said the bellboy.
Bridget beamed. "Hurrah," she said.