A Chance Encounter

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 14,973 (Part 3: 5,166)
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

After a few hours and many dances, the food buffet was replaced by the dessert buffet, and all manner of sweets, including mini éclairs, cheesecake squares with fruit sauces, chocolate cake, petit fours and other biscuits, were hauled in along with carafes of fresh, strong coffee and water for tea. As late as it was in the year, the sun was already setting at the relatively early hour of four o'clock, and some of the guests with longer drives were starting to depart.

The delight with which Bridget's eyes had scanned over the platters of treats, a delight she tried mightily to conceal, amused him and endeared her to him even more. He tried to imagine his ex-wife or Natasha choosing a single piece of dessert, let alone four, and could not conceive of such a thing.

He had directed her to take the dessert plates and nab a couple of seats for them while he fetched the coffees. Hers was light and sweet, his was black, the sight of which made her go a bit pale. "And here I gave you that milky sweet crap at my flat," she said, horrified, "when you prefer it black."

"I told you it was fine," he said. "I only hope I got the right amount of sweet for you."

She took a sip and closed her eyes, clearly savouring the taste. "Perfect."

"Good."

She grinned lopsidedly at him. "Is there anything you don't do well?" As the words leapt from her mouth she looked like she wished she could immediately take them back; she covered her mouth with her hand. "Sorry."

"Plenty of things I don't do well," he said, sipping his coffee, trying to smooth over her tiny, slightly suggestive gaffe. "I cannot play the flute. I can't sew a stitch to save my life. I have never been able to cook a decent soufflé—and I have never been able to speak well from the heart to a girl I fancy."

She was giggling at his admissions—all of which were true—until the last, at which she immediately turned serious. "That last one is definitely untrue," she said, then added in a more light-hearted tone, "unless you're saying you don't fancy me."

He didn't say anything to that at first, simply looked at her intently until her skin flushed once more, and she broke their gaze to examine the remains on her plate.

"I think I've made that plain otherwise," he said.

He saw her smile a little before raising her eyes to him again. He suddenly wished he were anywhere but at his parents', anywhere but Grafton Underwood, because even if they were to leave the party there was really nowhere to go, especially nowhere to go to have the type of privacy he'd like to have with her.

Quite to his surprise, he felt her hand over his under the table. "Yes," she said, stroking the back of his fingers with her thumb. "I suppose you have."

Thoughts warred in his head: he did not want to rush things with her, because this was their first official date, after all; on the other hand, he found her so beautiful, so desirable, that making love to her was literally the only thing he could think about at the present moment.

"You know," she continued quietly, "we never did finish that tour you promised me."

Now it was his turn to feel at a loss for words, and he could only nod in response.

"After dessert?" she asked. Had her tone been brighter, he might have believed she was truly interested in seeing the rest of the house.

"It would be my pleasure."

She pulled her hand away in order to cup her drink with both hands, her eyes still intent on him over the rim of the mug, before she set it back down. She picked up her fork, cut into her cake, and said, "Well, the sooner we finish dessert…"

He found himself taking a fork in hand as well, in order to take the corner off of his cheesecake. He might have ventured to say it was the finest confection he'd ever had if he had consciously registered the taste in the process of eating it.

There was only a bare hint of coffee left when he reached for her hand again, met her eyes with his own; he was perfectly willing to overlook the remains in order to take her away from the party. There was nothing he wanted to say to her, at least not with words, and with the intensity of her own gaze—

"You two seem to be having a marvellous time together."

He turned his head quickly to see Pam Jones, wearing the hat she'd been holding earlier, looking pleased as punch to see them sitting there together.

"Mother," said Bridget, exasperated.

"Indeed we are," he said, not willing to bow to parental nosiness. "In fact, Bridget was just telling me about—" He faltered momentarily.

"—growing up in Buckingham," she supplied quickly.

"Yes, yes," he said.

"Oh, how darling," she cooed. "Reminiscing your childhood together. Well, I best find Daddy; we're going to be leaving soon. Have fun, and don't be out too late." She smiled again, then bounced off in search of Colin Jones.

As soon as he could no longer see Pam, he turned back to Bridget, who was grinning wickedly. "At the time, I believe I was half your age, you cradle robber."

At that he laughed, rose to his feet and pulled her up, too. "About that tour," he said quietly as he tucked her hand into his elbow and strode with her out of the main room. He had no idea where he was going to head next, only that it was going to be private.

"I can't believe it," she said, apparently awestruck by the grandeur of the Darcy family home once again. "Your entryway looks like an art gallery."

He had to admit it rather did. "We have libraries that look like capital-L libraries too," he said.

She smiled, craning her head up. "How can you even see all of it from down here?" she asked.

He turned and pointed up. "The very top ones are best seen from the second floor landing."

She turned to him, her smile turning impish, then she pulled her hand from where he'd secured it and headed up the stairs. He followed her, stood beside her as she gazed out to the paintings. "And are all of these people ancestors?" she asked.

"Most of them, I think. I've never been able to read all the name plates on the frames."

As if he had overtly dared her, she bent over the railing to try to get a better look, her necklace dangling as she leaned forward.

He grasped her upper arm; she was really in no danger of falling over the edge but instinct had kicked in. She stood upright again and turned to look at him, her eyes bright and locked with his.

"I didn't want you falling," he explained, his voice papery.

She reached for his hand, stepping closer to him, studying him very intently until she spoke at last in a voice so low he could barely hear her: "Too late." With that, she lifted herself up on her toes and boldly covered his mouth with her own. Her arms came up and around his neck; his encircled her waist, then rose to her upper back as he felt her lean on the railing for a little support.

It was not the privacy he'd had in mind, because all anyone had to do as go into the entryway and look up, but he could care about little else as he held her close to him, kissing her with an escalating passion. When he finally did break away, his fingers lifted to pluck the hairpin from her hair so he could comb his fingers through, and the sight of her—mussed hair, rosy cheeks, parted lips—surrounded by the centuries' worth of family paintings in a blur behind her brought into sharp contrast how unlike anything in his life she was.

"Is something wrong?" she asked breathlessly, searching his eyes.

"No," he returned. "Nothing is wrong. Well. Except…" He trailed off, not wanting to be too obvious about his intent to get her alone.

"What?" she gasped.

"This isn't the best place for… this." He tucked her hair behind her ear, then ran his fingers over her cheek and jaw.

"Hm, too true," she said. "Would be quite a spectacle to fall to our deaths while snogging at your parents' Ruby Wedding."

He chuckled, then pulled her into another kiss. He only meant it to be a quick peck but found himself unable to stop again, especially when he felt her fingernails raking through his hair and down over his sideburns.

"I don't suppose," she said near his ear, her breath hot on his cheek, "there are any other rooms you could show me?"

She was not making his resistance to take things further than he should any easier.

He stepped back, running his hands down over her arms, the fabric soft and silky under his fingertips, in order to take her hands in his. "I like you," he said. "Very much."

"You've said so," she said, looking slightly puzzled. "And I like you too. Very much."

"I don't think it's any secret," he said quietly, all too aware how sound travelled through the entryway, "that I'm very attracted to you. That I… want you."

She smiled; it was amusement and appreciation at the same time. "You're sweet," she said, brushing her thumbs over the backs of his fingers. "And yes. It's no secret. It don't think it is for either of us."

The thought that she wanted him too made his heart race a little faster, but he carried on. "That isn't all it is for me though," he said, "and I never want to give the appearance otherwise."

She looked at him as if working though a difficult math problem. "So are you saying," she said at last, the delight in her voice impossible to ignore, "that you like me too much to want to sleep with me?"

For all of his rationalisations to himself, when she put it like that, it sounded very silly. He chuckled. "I like you too much," he elaborated, "to want you to think for a moment that sleeping with you is all I want from you."

She stepped forward to be closer to him. "Message received," she said. "On with the tour, then."

He released one hand, then slipped his arm around her at the waist, kissing her on the cheek before whispering back to her, "On with the tour, then."

With her hand still clasped in his, he led her through the second floor, absently pointing out things of no real consequence only to cover the undercurrent thrumming through his blood: he was taking her to his bedroom, and she wanted him to take her there.

Naturally the room had been tidied, the bed made, everything in perfect, meticulous order. "Nice," she said, entering first and looking around. "Looks like it belongs in a museum, too, and three times the size of my flat, but nice."

He chuckled at her exaggerations as he closed the door behind him, careful to flip the lock. He did not need any embarrassing interruptions.

It was full dark out now; he switched the lamp on and drew the curtains.

"It must have been strange," she said, clasping her hands in front of her.

"What?" he asked, coming close to her again.

"Growing up with a bedroom like this."

He smiled. "I was allowed to make a mess, you know. I could have more than one toy out of the toy box at a time."

"I'm having a hard time imagining you as a messy child. Or as a child at all," she said. "I can't do it. I can only picture you as a miniature you, as you are now."

He was intrigued. "What does that mean?" he asked.

"Well, you know," she said, looking like she might have thought she'd stepped in it big time. "Orderly, precise, decisive, thoughtful; always immaculately groomed, perfect manners, dressed in little suits…"

He chuckled.

"Oh, I'm not complaining," she was quick to add. "I rather like that about you. You're a gentleman."

"I'm not always," he said. "I'm not perfect."

"You're more perfect than I am, by a long shot."

"Hm," he said. "On that point I beg to differ."

She smiled shyly, which was so endearing to him that he swept up to her, took her face in his hand, and kissed her tenderly. This naturally bloomed quickly into something much more, and he continued kissing her with a greater and greater passion; knowing they were alone, knowing she wanted him too, it was as if some kind of block had been released. She had her fingers in his hair again; he moved his hands across her back, to her sides. She pushed back suddenly, though, ran her fingers down over the lapels, and fixed his eyes with her own.

"It's a very nice suit. Nice shirt and tie, too," she said, then looked down as her fingers came up to his tie and began working on the knot. "Would hate for any of it to get ruined in any way."

In a flash he was shucking the suit jacket, pulling off the tie; she chuckled as her hands rested on his chest again, then went for his buttons, flipping them open one at a time. Tracing her fingers over the undershirt beneath the cotton dress shirt, she smiled. "How many layers are you wearing, anyway?"

As he could clearly see down the front of her dress, he could not help but retort under his breath, "More than you are, apparently." He brought his hand up, touched his fingers to the skin of her throat, and watched her eyes flutter closed as he traced his fingers downward past the border of her silver chain, along the vee of her collar, until meeting the point of the vee, right between her breasts, briefly dipping down beneath the fabric. As he suspected from the peek he'd had, there was no bra to speak of, no lace or clasp to be found. This puzzled him because he'd been watching her all day, and she was clearly not without support for her ample assets.

He moved his fingers over her dress again, brushing along the side of her breast, before cupping it fully in his hand, sweeping a thumb over the peak. She drew in a sharp breath then looked at him again.

"What manner of magic is this?" he asked throatily as he kissed her once more, pulling her close with his other arm; splaying his hand on her back, he could feel there was no strap, either.

"Hm?" she asked, before he caressed her breast again, before she caught on. "Oh, it's in the dress," she said.

"That's quite a dress," he said.

"You should be thankful," she managed. "The other dress I considered bringing requires the most impossible, bizarre contraption ever—oh."

She had stopped speaking because he had slipped his hand into the dress itself, his fingers playing over her soft skin, teasing her suddenly hard nipple. He had found himself quite at a loss for words too, and so made up for it by kissing her again.

His other hand had drifted down over her backside, and now in reflex he pulled her to him, his fingers pressing into her, pressing her against him and against a firmness he could no longer hide. She made the sexiest little sound into his mouth, arching into him before breaking the kiss, saying desperately, "This one of those times you're not a gentleman?"

He said nothing; instead, he slipped his hand out of her dress to bring it around to her bottom as well, before pulling the skirt of her dress up, then pulling the dress up over her head. He ran his hands over the hosiery covering her pants, her arse, to the waistband, which he then tugged down, causing her to gasp again.

That glimpse he'd gotten of her body at what he still thought of as the Tarts and Vicars picnic did not really prepare him for how lovely, curvy and feminine she was without a bit of clothing on. As a matter of fact, he found himself with a profound lack of verbal skills to adequately convey his feelings on the subject, so after slipping out of his own clothing (with the sheer number of layers, belt buckles, cufflinks, etc., it seemed the most expedient thing to do) he scooped her into his arms again and showed his appreciation by kissing her and running his hands reverently over her bare skin.

It was not long before he was pulling the bedclothes back and lowering her onto the pillows. He had been resolute but not impractical about being alone with her, and so had prepared for any eventuality. As he reached into the bedside table, he was very glad he'd done so.

Having her there with him, pressed against him, warm and soft and naked, he could only pause for a moment to look into her eyes before he kissed her again and completely lost himself in her. He couldn't touch the whole of her quickly enough, couldn't kiss her deeply enough, couldn't get enough of either the soft gasps or muted cries as he made love to her.

When he poised himself above her, joined with her, it was all he could do not to cry out with all his might; instead, he buried his face in her neck, kissed her throat, wove his fingers into her hair as he braced himself up on his forearms, driving into her again and again until each of them in turn was completely satisfied.

He thought that through it all, he had been the consummate gentleman; courteous, giving and attentive in every deed and action. However, through her staggered breaths, blissful smiles and sighs afterwards, she declared it had, much to her delight, been one of those times when he had not.

………

He had no idea for how long he'd dozed, but when he woke he found that she was reclined on her pillow, head rested on her folded elbow, her blue eyes trained on his sleeping form, a lazy smile on her lips, the sheet pulled up over her chest.

"Hm?" he asked drowsily.

She didn't answer right away, just reached forward to flip an unruly lock of hair off of his forehead. "Was just thinking… and watching you sleep."

"Is that a habit of yours?" he asked. "Because if so, we may need to have a talk."

She chuckled. "I hope you mean the watching part."

"Well, yes," he said, pulling into his arms again. "Never stop the thinking part."

She snuggled up to him, resting her hand on his chest. "You know," she said. "I don't think it's even six o'clock yet."

"Six?"

Usually, Mark was an expert at planning from start to finish, but in this endeavour he had failed to think things completely through. Would they get dressed and blithely rejoin the waning party? Surely they had been missed. How to deflect the inevitable questions?

"Mark?" she prompted, craning her head up to look at him. "Something wrong?"

He looked down to where she was resting upon him. "Neglected to advise my mother we'd have a fourth person for supper."

"Ah yes," she said. "The Great Escape. I was thinking about that myself. How to evade the Inquisition."

He chuckled, and without thinking, he bent to kiss her, and again kept kissing her until passion seemed a hair's breadth away from reigniting. She pulled away though. "Maybe we can just stay in here until after dark, then sneak out under cover of night," she continued.

"I keep thinking I should have just taken you to the car and driven you back to London," Mark murmured.

"I think that would have been the longest two hour drive of my life," she said with a little chuckle.

He concurred with a quiet "Mm," then pulled her close again.

To his surprise and horror, a firm knock sounded on the door. "Mark! Bridget! Ten minutes until dinner."

It was his mother's voice.

"Oh. My. God," said Bridget, punctuating every word with her mortification. She turned and buried her face into the pillow, then continued, her voice muffled, "OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod."

"It'll be all right," he said, pushing himself up onto an elbow, though he wasn't entirely sure how he would be able to live down the humiliation, himself. "My mother will be very discreet."

She turned to look at him. "Your mother is going to hate me," she said, her eyes troubled.

"She doesn't," said Mark. "If she hated you, she wouldn't have said your name too."

Bridget smiled, then began to laugh. He leaned forward to kiss her on the lips. It was going to be tough to pull himself away from her.

"How did she even know we were in here?"

"My mother is not stupid," he said, wondering a little himself. "She also knows I'm a grown man, and she wants me to be happy."

"My mother would freak out up one wall and down the other if we shagged in my room." She sat up, pulling the sheet to cover herself, smiling slowly. "Happy, hm?"

"Well, so far I can't complain," he said, stroking her knee. "But if we don't get down for supper, we're out of luck."

"Point taken," she said. He caught her blushing.

"What?"

"Don't watch me get dressed."

He chuckled. "You can't be serious. After that?"

"You get dressed first."

He shrugged. "Sure." He rose from the bed, found his clothing, and started dressing. He looked at her watching him.

"How can you be so not self-conscious?" she asked after many moments.

"I don't know," he said, fastening his trouser button. "How is it that you are? You have a beautiful body, Bridget."

She snorted. "I need to lose about twenty pounds."

"You don't," he insisted. "You're lovely just as you are."

It was that phrase again, and though he hadn't consciously used it, she was clearly touched to hear it. "Let's go have supper," she said; after a moment's hesitation, she threw aside the sheet. "Maybe if your mum is feeling generous she won't mind my staying the night."

"I don't know," he said. "Do you think your mum will let you?"

"Are you kidding?" she said. "I'd never hear the end of it if I told her what we—well. I am just not going to tell her."

He chuckled. "I'm not sure she wouldn't be thrilled. After all, she wanted to fix us up to begin with."

She smiled then lowered her eyes demurely, and for a moment, he almost didn't care about eating dinner.

………

Somehow they were both able to get through dinner without spontaneously combusting from shame in his mother's presence; she was, just as he expected she'd be, friendly and warm to Bridget, and shooting pleased glances towards Mark. His father was blissfully unaware of what had happened, of the subtext of every interaction occurring, and he finished eating first. "Well, off to have my brandy and a cigar. Goodnight son; goodnight, Bridget. Glad you could come back for dinner."

After Mark and Bridget finished eating, they exchanged glances, then pushed back their chairs to get to their feet. His mother spoke before they could. "Bridget," she said, "it's been wonderful having you here today. I hope you know you can stay as long you like."

It was her tactful way of saying she didn't mind Bridget staying over.

Bridget flushed crimson. "Thank you. That's… very generous of you."

"And if your mother asks," she continued, "I haven't seen you." Elaine smiled, then winked.

Mark took Bridget's hand and was once again grateful for his mother's practical wisdom.

As they walked out of the dining room, Bridget said, "So I don't suppose you could take me back to my parents for my things…?"

He squeezed her hand, stopping short of saying he'd do anything for her, because he was starting to think it might actually be true.

………

Bridget begged him to come into the house with her, reasoning that her mother might be better behaved with him standing there. He agreed. Unsurprisingly, even though Pam Jones greeted Mark with a smile, she still had words for her daughter.

"I'm not sure where you disappeared to in the middle of the party," she said.

"It wasn't the middle of the party, Mother," said Bridget. "We saw you near the end."

"So you're admitting you disappeared?" Pam asked in a stage whisper. "Una said she saw the two of you—"

Mark interrupted as watching her get grilled by her mother was more than he could take. "I took Bridget for a private walk. It was our date and I wanted to spend time with her."

Pam looked a mixture of pleased (for the date) and astounded (that he would interrupt her building up a good head of steam).

"So Mark's taking me back to London," said Bridget before her mother could continue her accurate insinuations. "I'm here for my things." She made a dash for the stairs, and Mark went to follow, but Pam grabbed his suit sleeve.

"Mark, why don't you wait down here?" she asked, flashing a smile up at him. "She won't be a moment. I'll get you a drink, a coffee, so you can stay perky for your drive."

He knew what she was doing. She didn't want him up there with her daughter, because she thought clearly they would not be able to control themselves, even with her parents right there. Rather than put up a fight, he smiled and accepted.

She brought him into the front room again, where her father was watching telly; they exchanged pleasantries, after which the two of them fell into a comfortable silence. Pam returned shortly with the promised coffee. He almost laughed when he saw it was light with cream; a sip told him it was too sweet.

He had just about choked it down when Bridget reappeared with her bags; she had changed into a pair of jeans, a knit shirt, a hooded zipped sweatshirt and trainers. She looked just as lovely to him as she had in the dress.

"Almost forgot my presents," she said, slightly breathless. "You'll have plenty of room in your boot, won't you?"

Mark nodded.

"Well, Mum, Dad, we're off," she said brightly, embracing her mother and kissing her cheek, then bending to do the same for her dad.

"We will see the two of you for the Turkey Curry Buffet, won't we?" asked Pam, turning her blue eyes up to Mark.

"Wouldn't dream of missing it," said Mark; he glanced to Bridget to see her fighting a laugh. He pointedly looked to his watch. "We should be off, though. Long drive."

Bridget nodded earnestly. "See you on New Year's."

It wasn't until they'd gotten into the car and buckled that Bridget allowed herself the laugh she'd been holding in. "Oh, Mark, please tell me you can park your car somewhere it won't be visible," she said breathlessly. "Because I would not put it past my mother to go looking for it in the dead of night."

He laughed too, switched the ignition on, and put the car into gear. After they were moving, driving the short distance back to his parents', he reached his hand out for hers. He glanced over to where she sat to find she was looking back at him, her eyes shining in the darkness.

"I hope you won't think less of me," she said inexplicably.

"What?" he thought, feeling panic start to set in.

"In packing my things… I know it's in there, but I could not for the life of me find… well, there's a reason I put this on too—" She indicated the hooded sweatshirt. "—and zipped it up nearly all the way."

He had no idea to what she was referring, and his expression must have reflected that confusion, because she elaborated, "There's a layer missing, shall we say."

He finally understood, and he could not help but chuckle. "You will not hear me complain," said Mark, "especially as I hate those bloody clasps."

She chuckled too as he released her hand in order to navigate around to the back of the house to park the car, then silenced the engine. He looked to her, highlighted only by what was passing through the sheers hanging the windows, and could not help himself in leaning forward and kissing her.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"Because I wanted to," he said, "and because I could."

She smiled. "That's an excellent reason."

They left the car and, feeling rather like fugitives, entered the house and stole up to the second floor with her bags, going back to his room. He had an attached bathroom, and she went in there with her bag, closing the door behind her. He removed his suit jacket and shirt again, sat on the bed in his undershirt and trousers, and waited for her return.

"Mark?" she called from within the bathroom.

"Yes?" he replied.

"Please promise me that you won't laugh."

He blinked. "Why would I laugh?"

"Just promise you won't."

"I won't."

The door slipped open and she meekly stepped out. She was wearing a pair of flannel pyjamas in an adorable sheep print. He fought a smile; she looked really humiliated. "It's the only pyjamas I have with me and—" She stopped as an affectionate laugh escaped his throat; she looked almost teary. "Mark, you promised."

He rose from the bed, and with a smile, he smoothed down her hair with his hand. "It isn't that I think you look silly in them," he said. "I think you look beautiful." She scoffed. "No, what I'm surprised to see is the presence of pyjamas at all."

It took a moment for the meaning to filter through, but when it did, she smiled, her cheeks turning pink. He was again overwhelmed by how adorable she was, and he brought his fingers to lift her chin in order to tenderly kiss her.

There were so many sides to her: vivacious, beautiful, funny, smart, sweet, sexy… and the thought of all of those wonderful facets fuelled his desire for her once again. He had most of the buttons on her pyjama top opened before he even realised it, and she broke away with a little chuckle.

"I suppose I had to give you something to take off, didn't I?" she asked quietly.

The end.