Paris: June 1919
XX
Her hand made lazy circles around his nipples. Goose bumps forming along his torso. Hair standing on end. An easy, deep chuckle from the depths of his larynx. Fingernails moving, sliding down his chest towards his groin. Tracing and shaping his vault shape on either side of his abdomen.
He moved closer. She felt him tremble.
"You're ticklish." Said in his ear, making his skin flush.
"I'm happy." He said, moving his eyes to meet hers.
"Is that a good thing?" And she could see it was true. The sad eyes of yesterday had been replaced by a jovial twinkle.
"I don't know." He mused. It's different for sure. As my mum said, 'laughing always turns to crying.'"
"But you're willing to risk being happy?" She wasn't so sure she was.
"For now." He licked his lips and looked away then back at her. "For you."
Her smile wicked. "You're only saying that because I let you take me three times today."
"Shameless." He snuggled closer, kissed her deep, then got serious. "I enjoyed the privilege. You are a remarkable woman."
"I know." She laughed. "But I also see what you mean." She leaned up on her elbow, brushing strands of hair against his chest. "I don't trust happiness. It's dangerous. Makes you vulnerable."
"And you don't like that?"
He held her hand up to the ceiling. Tracing the dip and curl of each finger. He paused at the third finger. Saw the depression where a ring had been.
"You were married?" He asked.
"Yes." She replied, moving to grip his hand into hers. "Is that a problem?"
"Not at all." He puckered his lips. "Was it happy? Did he die in the war?" Along with all the other faceless ones. The ones with only names now. Names that haunted his dreams sometimes.
"Not particularly." She risked it. "Was yours?" She felt a slight distance grow between them.
"It should have been." He admitted. "But no, no it wasn't. I wasn't ready for marriage. For responsibility. I was a bad husband."
She doubted that. He was, even in anonymity, one of the kindest, most tender men she had ever met.
"I'm divorced." Finally answering his question.
He continued to rub the palm of her hand with his finger. Brushing it.
"She died of the flu. I wasn't there at the time." He swallowed his guilt.
"The bolter and the widow." Her voice became cutting. "Sounds like a bad music hall revue skit."
His laugh only slightly embittered. "Do you not have a heart for a poor bereaved soul in torment?"
"Some would say I don't have a heart?" She sat up. Looked down at his beautiful face. He reached out to her and laid her down chest up against his body. So she could feel his hand move across her breasts and touch her beating heart.
"I think it's there." The rise and fall, the thumping and beats he liked to think a bit more quick because of his hand. Because of his touch. "And you?" He kissed the nape of her neck as it lay against his shoulder. "Do you think you have a heart?"
"I really don't know." And turned so that they could once again embrace and forget the world existed.
XX
"Let's go to Biarritz." She said. Feeling cooped up suddenly. The sun was hot against the window. Shining. A perfect day.
He had returned from the showers down the hall. An admittance he knew the aristocratic lady that had accepted his bed was more than a little put out by. She wanted a room of their own. One with running water preferably. After drying off he began to button his shirt. She tried not to notice it was worn around the collar.
Neither were willing to let go just yet. Not yet.
"Biarritz?" He shrugged. "Why not. I have a car." He was pulling on his shoes.
She liked that. Not so poor after all.
"But it has no petrol." He looked up from under his eyelids. "Bought it with the remains of my army pay. The shortages though make it pretty useless."
That would not stop her. She had already left him earlier that day to clear things up at a nearby hotel. Things she would not tell him specifically. He did not ask. She had returned with a bag.
Neither of them ever asked. Who are you? Why are you with me?
It was not important.
They were here. In this. This. Whatever it was. Consuming each other's body was quite enough. Healing, or pushing away, their troubles. Neither cared.
"If you drive," she compromised. "I will pay for the petrol."
"And the hotel?" He did not want real world intruding into their privacy. But he did have his pride.
"We'll find somewhere." She sat in his lap, feeling the rough tweed against her skin. Oddly thinking, I'm not used to seeing him dressed.
"I expect you'd want to stay at the Hotel du Palais." The former residence of Napoleon III and his bride. Where her set usually holed up when on weekends away.
"Oh no." She replied seductively moving her hand in between and splaying his hips aside. "I need somewhere much quieter."
He let her believe that. He suspected it was so that her society friends would not see her with him.
But as he too wanted somewhere private, somewhere they could be together without questions, he nodded agreement.
His own bags packed and thrown in the back of the two seater, he opened the door for her. "Your chariot awaits." He said with a chuckle. Then frowned as the door wedged and would not close. He slammed it shut after she took her seat. Shrugged his shoulders in disregard. "It just sticks a bit."
"It's very snappy." She slyly smirked. "Just as I like it." Reached out and felt his face. He leaned down and kissed her on the street.
He took the driver's seat and off down the street. Taking the scenic coastal roads and staying one night at a roadside inn they arrived early the next day. He had used up all his cash on the inn. The petrol was bought using her money.
"Let's find a place. I need a bath." She said, as they drove into the center of the town. She could see the Rocher de la Vierge. The lighthouse in the distance. The fancy hotel of Empress Eugenie dominating the skyline.
They chose a small coastal maison d'hôte. Accepting a private room in the back. They could not see the Atlantic, but could smell and taste the salt.
"Come with me." She had said, paying cash to the concierge and leading him to the room. And the en suite bath. "Hot water and all." And made a show of slowly taking off every piece of garment. Shoes. Hat. Travel skirt. Blouse.
"What are you waiting for…." Leaving a trail of these clothing items behind her as she sauntered into the bath. And left the newly purchased brassiere on the ground as she turned on the taps. His last glimpse was of her naked rear shimmying as an offering up.
He needed no further invitation.
Later the sounds of street musicians wafted into the room. They retreated downstairs and after purchasing two glasses of wine, sat them down on at a table and he took her hand out onto the sidewalk. His hands sidled down her waist and he pulled her close. Face to face. Cheek to cheek.
The violins reaching into their bodies and vibrating their souls.
They moved quietly, softly, seductively in time to the music. No one knew them. No one asked anything of them.
They asked nothing of each other but to just be there. Touching. Kissing. Caressing.
The jazz tune, straight from America came next. Along with the singer. First in French….
Ne dis pas que nous devons nous séparer
Alors que tu ne briseras pas mon cœur endolori?
Then in English, the sultry voiced singer reaching into the dancers hearts and making them think of the day they would part….
Some day when you grow lonely,
Your heart will break like mine and you'll want me only,
After you've gone, after you've gone away
His lips met hers in a crushing, brutal kiss. "Let's go upstairs." His voice raw, inflamed.
They ended up on the balcony. Listening to the music still. The room hot, stifling. The air outside cool.
She knelt down against the balustrade. He came up behind her. She could feel him. His need for her. His desire. She melted against him. Wishing she was bolder.
He was.
His hand snaked around her waist. And down. In the darkness of the evening, just enough light so he could see the effect his actions had on her face. Her eyes closed in anticipation. She threw her head back against his shoulder, encouraging. One hand loosened her blouse and he felt for the hooks of the brassiere. Unhooking, allowing his hand to slip back around and touch her nipples. Feeling their hardened peaks in his fingertips. His other hand lifted her skirt, pushed the newly purchased lace slip aside. His fingers reaching between her slightly separated hips and up. Opening her up completely to him. She gasped and stumbled slightly against the balcony.
"Should I stop?" He asked.
"No." Ragged, sharp response.
He longed to taste her. But dared not. At least not yet. His fingers caressed her wet, slick insides, driving his fingers with just the right amount of pressure to make her weak, make her crumble. Small moans of pleasure his only reward.
She dared not scream aloud. She bit her lip instead, some red drops actually forming as her teeth grinded as she held against him for dear life. Her muscles tightened.
She longed to kiss him. Early on, what…she realized only a few days previous… they had not kissed. Had resisted that intimacy even as they drove each other to sexual frenzy. Almost too intimate, it was agonizing. His lips had danced against her mouth once or twice then withdrawn. Instead he pleasured her with his lips. His tongue. His face between her hips, working his tongue into her most private of spots. Thrusting and darting in and out she writhed in pleasure and bucked against his mouth. His actions sending waves upon waves of pleasure upon her body.
Eventually they had kissed. With their mouths. Feeling the other's palette. The other's teeth. The other's throat. Small quick kisses, long lingering kisses, deep erotic kisses.
Nothing was now beyond the pale of their desire.
She let his hands, his fingers roam free all over her body. Feeling more alive than ever. The bliss like a drug she could not get enough of.
His fingers then slackened, and grazed. Touching lightly. Making her even more mad with desire. Need.
He moved his hand away from her wet opening and back around to caress and massage her rounded derriere.
"We should go inside." His own voice now cracked and ragged with desire. He wanted to rip her clothes and take her. And that could only be done in the privacy of the room.
Even his lust had limits of stretching decorum's rules.
She was allowing him all this evening. The darkness their protection against the world. Their boldness their own rebellion.
She was so beautiful. He didn't deserve this much happiness.
His own skin grew hot, sweaty.
They returned to the room, and disrobed quickly. Taking to the bed she laying on top. Her breasts against his hot skin making him shudder. His eyes fluttered in anticipation.
She moved inside him, the length of his arousal making her sink deep into him. The shuddering turned to quick thrusts of action. His back curled up to grab her again. Pull her down against him. Pushing. Powerful thrusts of rocking action. Nothing to stop them. Her nails digging into his shoulders. His making bruising marks on her rear. He lost all sense of control as his climax over came him. Shattering him.
She grunted and felt her own waves subside. He had filled her body, her mind, her soul.
How was she to leave him? To let go of this?
But she must. Her mother had been put off long enough. Her family would be worried.
His hand, still sweat soaked from their exertions, touched her skin. And she pushed such thoughts of leaving aside once again.
The music wafted into their room on the breeze. The whole night was still before them.
XX
Downton Abbey: July 1919
Mary's swift, statement making departure from the room took Matthew but a moment to recover.
He turned on his heels and followed her out. Grabbed her arm to make her stop.
She shook herself free and glared at him.
"Are you mad?" She said, "They'll all know something is up."
He looked at her with a cold eye. "I doubt that." His voice was pitched so low that even she barely heard. "After that little performance, I'm quite sure you will stage a magnificent reentrance."
His anger was palpable. Seething. Just under the veneer of polite regard he had screwed on to meet Lord Grantham's family. But with her. With Mary… the name still one he had to get used to. He let it out.
"Are you ashamed of it?" Matthew asked suddenly. "Now that you're back here." And he thrust his hands around the grandeur of the saloon. "Ashamed to tell them you spent the last month holed up in a grubby Parisian hotel with a total stranger? Because you weren't then."
"How dare you?" The aristocratic tone now unmistakable. "There is such a thing as discretion."
"And there's such a thing as giving someone the benefit of the doubt." He spat the words out.
"Do you think I wanted to come here? To take your money? And your title? Like some counter jumper ready to take advantage of a death in the family to move up the food chain?"
Matthew tightened his grip on the bowler. His face now red with righteous irritation. "Well I don't want it. So calm down."
He reached out for her. More gently this time. "I don't want your money. I came to tell Lord Grantham that. I was just about to ask to speak to him privately when I saw you on the settee."
She sought his eyes to see if he was telling the truth. All the time they spent together in Paris, in Biarritz, she grew most to trust those eyes. They held his soul. She did trust him.
"I…I'm sorry." She accepted his proffered hand. Led him to a more private alcove so they could speak more freely. "I jumped to conclusions. I was so startled to see you there. I thought…" She hated what she was had thought. That he had taken advantage of her to find out information about her family. To use for his own means.
"I know what you thought." His manner calmer now. "It's understandable in the circumstances. You thought I was pushing in. That I might even expose you for my own underhanded benefit. Oh Mary…" He used her name for the first time. The very first time. "Mary… how life has made you so distrustful I'll never know. I would never, could never do that to you."
She leaned in. "I know that now. Can you forgive me."
"Of course." He looked to see if anyone was around. Lifted her chin and kissed her lightly. "You…our time in France… was the best thing that ever happened to me."
That made her smile.
But then he said, "If truth be told, I think I preferred it when you were anonymous." His voice turning melancholy.
She shuddered at that. Better off as some anonymous lover? "Because I was just an easy object for you to use? That I mean nothing to you?" The cold calculating Lady Mary reasserting itself.
"No." Matthew responded gently. "I … used poor phrasing there. You are the very opposite of nothing. Your leaving me left me bereft. Like a part of me was missing."
Mary was not sure how to take that. She always prided herself on self-possession. She did not know how to give herself away like that.
"Indeed," Matthew continued. "You are the only reason I am still here. I was about to tell your father he could keep his money and his bloody pile of stones and bricks of a castle. That I did not want it. As a matter of fact I think it may have cursed my family."
The bitterness, the unsaid accusations made Mary wary of him for the first time. She had never seen him so angry, so agitated.
"That's nonsense. What do you mean? You're the next heir is all? Papa's lawyers looked into it all after Patrick died."
"That's just it." Matthew's voice turned to a biting whisper. "What your father did not say when he introduced me was that I was not supposed to be the heir at all. My father was. Until three days ago that is. Murray's letter was addressed to him. In Manchester. I was still in Paris."
"Then what?" Mary was now quite perplexed. "What is going on Matthew?"
His eyes beetled back and forth as he tried to be succinct. "Three days ago I took the ferry back to England. I was summoned to Manchester by the police. I was needed at home. No explanations. I got to my parents' home, to find it also full of policemen and detectives." He stopped, his voice now raspy with pain. He bit the inside of his mouth but continued. "My father had shot himself. Put his old service revolver to his mouth and pulled the trigger."
Mary instinctively reached out to him, but he pulled away. "The letter from the lawyer in his hand."
He looked her brutally in the eye. "So it seems, for some reason I have yet to fathom, my father would rather kill himself than be heir to Downton Abbey."
XX
Well… you did say to continue this story… tell me what you think. We're going to take canon and twist it on it's head…
[Oh...and I've not forgotten the other stories... a very happy George and Matthew go on an adventure is next up for Three Strikes...maybe by the weekend? I'm under a lot stress at the moment...and fan fic writing keep me from fretting... so I might have time this week to pursue much happier topics]