Irreconcilable Differences

By S. Faith, © 2007

Words: 5,923
Rating: T / PG-13 (and one instance of the F-bomb).
Summary: What if a certain someone had indeed shown up to the Alconburys' Tarts & Vicars summer soiree? (Alternate universe)
Disclaimer: Don't own a single thing about this universe. Just like to speculate a lot.
Notes: I actually began this on the 30th of October, 2006, but abandoned it as I wasn't sure I wanted to take the A/U route with it. After sitting so long in stagnation, I realized the A/U route was meant to be. Plus, it's always fun to see the world through Mark Darcy's eyes. (And to clarify: a 'fancy dress party' a 'costume party', more or less.)

---

The outdoor summer get-together hosted by the Alconburys had originally been scheduled to be a fancy dress party, one of those ridiculous themed 'dos that people in their sixties should know better than to throw. This particular lawn fete was to have had a theme of 'Tarts and Vicars'—with all attendants dressing as either prostitutes or priests—and Mark Darcy had been fully prepared to call in dead to avoid such an embarrassment.

His mother had made the mistake of asking Mark about the party in the presence of Natasha Glenville, who was—well, frankly, he didn't know what she was to him, aside from law partner and occasional bedmate. She was decent company at the frequent number of social occasions that the lawyers of their calibre were invited to. She was easy to engage in conversation on a broad range of subjects, even if she did have high-handed opinions about modern culture. When it came to sex, she was perfectly content with the most standard of positions, wasn't interested in cuddling afterwards and didn't seem offended that he didn't want to stay the night, mostly because that was all he was willing to offer. All of this was frankly just fine in his book; while it suited his carnal needs and they were very compatible in many ways, he quite simply didn't love her.

In any case, his mother slipping up and mentioning the change of plans—from fancy dress party to regular summer-type barbecue—brought the whole thing to Natasha's attention; he had very carefully avoided telling her. She was immensely excited to attend, wanting to make a weekend of it, and with his mother insisting on his coming, Mark unfortunately had not had the backbone to put his foot down and say no.

There was very little he wouldn't do for his mother, he realised with gritted teeth as he parked his BMW along the drive at the Alconburys.

He didn't think it possible that he would look forward to this party less than he already did, but one indicator suggesting it might be possible had presented itself over the course of the weekend: also staying at the country lodgings Natasha had booked for the night were none other than Bridget Jones and Daniel Cleaver, also to be in attendance that day at the Alconburys.

Daniel was, of course, a known quantity and the reason for Mark's dread of the party increasing exponentially. Bridget, though…. He had met her for the first time as an adult at the Turkey Curry Buffet with disastrous results, then again with a slightly better outcome at a book launch he had attended with Natasha, excepting of course that Bridget had left with Daniel. She had apparently been a childhood friend of sorts. He had been repeatedly reminded that her parents were amongst his parents' oldest friends and that she at age four used to run around with no clothes on in his wading pool. Childhood summertime bonds notwithstanding, she was rather cool to him there in the country on their third meeting, leaving him to wonder what exactly what Daniel had told her about him.

He found he could not, however, get the image out of his head of the way Bridget looked in the sunshine in a boat out on the river, her hair lit like gold, her laughter carrying clear over the water and eliciting a small smile of his own. Despite her poor choice in company, they'd been having fun, and she was the very personification of vivacity. He, on the other hand, had been having the opposite of fun working on case strategy out in Natasha's and his own boat. His eyes had been drawn to Bridget several times, and not coincidentally did he consider the merit of second thoughts about first impressions.

As for Daniel, he decided that at the party, avoidance was going to be the best policy. Any face to face interaction with Cleaver himself might have come to blows. He didn't want to cause a scene and embarrass himself in front of family and friends, and even though he barely knew Bridget, he did not want to embarrass her, either. Mark was certain that Cleaver had neglected to mention that he had been the man to wreck Mark's marriage. Daniel could not, after all, be considered a paragon of truth and virtue after sleeping with Mark's now ex-wife.

Mark idly wondered if there was some way he could warn her before she got her heart broken, because it would get broken. Resignedly he reminded himself that warnings of that nature rarely had any affect except alienating the person being warned.

He was brought from his thoughts by Natasha breathily gushing, "Oh, Mark, it's simply beautiful out here in the country," as she emerged from the car with her face turned to the sun. He admitted to himself that she did look quite pretty, her short brown bob softly curled, her designer dress well-fitted in all the right places and loose and flowing in others. "You grew up out here?"

He nodded, then said, "Yes."

"I wouldn't have given up being raised in London for all the tea in China, but oh, it is gorgeous out here. So!" She clapped her hands for emphasis. "Let's go find your parents. They're probably anxious to see you and…"

He had learned long ago to tune out the drone of her voice when she got into one of her moods; he found oftentimes that it didn't matter whether he was listening or not, only that he mutter the occasional approving sound. His gaze had landed on a man dressed entirely in black, which he found odd, as it was June and quite warm. The man turned and to Mark's surprise it was Colin Jones, Bridget's father. He remembered his mother mentioning something about marital strife between Colin and his wife of almost forty years, Pamela. Mark's eyes then went to Mr Jones' neck. Mark was confused: as far as he knew, Mr Jones had not entered the priestly life.

He realised that no one had bothered to tell the poor man that the costume concept had gone the way of the dodo.

With expert skill Natasha cut through the crowd and straight for his parents, dragging him behind her, and had managed to command him to fetch a couple of glasses of wine while sounding for all the world like it was his own idea. He didn't mind overly much as a glass of wine (or five) was exactly what he would need to get through this day.

He returned with a glass for both himself and Natasha, who still dominated his parents' attention. For their part, his parents bore the verbal assault with grace.

That was when the Bunny Girl Incident occurred.

The crowd around him went completely silent and their collective attention was directed to the drive. He looked that way as well only to see Bridget Jones, stopped like a deer frozen in the headlights and justifiably so: it appeared that an entire branch of the Jones family had not been informed of the change of plans.

Mark remembered how the sleek black dress she had on at the book launch party had erased the memory of the brocaded monstrosity she'd worn at the Buffet. This particular outfit had just done the same for the little black dress. What she was wearing now left very little to the imagination: a black strapless one-piece body suit, cuffs, collar, false eyelashes, bunny ears and (he presumed) bunny tail.

Despite the ludicrous nature of the outfit, she looked beautiful, and, combined with the fact that it had been so long since he had seen a woman with an actual figure, he found himself staring stupidly, brought out of his reverie only by Natasha's impatient, haughty voice: "Bizarre what some men find attractive." His automatic reply in the affirmative was thankfully too quiet to have been heard.

He struggled to think of any other woman of his acquaintance who would have shown up to this party wearing anything remotely resembling the bunny girl outfit, and could not think of a single one. Natasha herself had sneered and shown great disgust at the very concept, said in no uncertain terms that they—not just 'she', but 'they'—would not have attended had the original theme been sustained.

Bridget, on the other hand, kept her head held high and, with as much dignity as she could muster, found and chatted with her mother, who was in the company of a man Mark did not know, but knew his type: he must have been the cause of the marital strife between the Joneses.

And, thought Mark, speaking of causers of marital strife: lumbering up the drive behind her, dressed in a plain black pair of trousers and a black tee-shirt, was a very amused-looking Daniel Cleaver. He wondered if it were possible for this day to get any worse.

"Mark? Mark? Stop staring at that… woman and listen to me, will you?"

He turned to Natasha. She wasn't standing with her hands on her hips, or shaking a finger at him, but she might as well have been.

She continued: "I'm going to find a table. Go fetch us some lunch, there's a dear."

Mark was not by nature a violent man. Sometimes, though, Natasha sorely tried his patience.

………

The line for hot dogs and potato salad was interminable, and the plates grew heavier in his hand by the moment. He felt someone sidle up to him. He sighed and closed his eyes, waiting for Natasha's inevitable talon-like grip into his forearm. Instead, he heard a completely different voice than expected. "Mark? Is everything all right?"

He glanced over to find his mother there, much to his relief. "Yes. I'm fine."

She furrowed her brow. "You don't seem fine. Ever since Pam's daughter showed up…. I know you didn't get on well at the Turkey Curry Buffet but there's no reason for you not to try to be friends with her, especially when Pam and I are friends and you're both bound to keep turning up at the same family events."

His mother and her mother had been friends for years so why this friendship-forging between their children was so important now was a mystery to him. The food line inched forward.

His voice was patient and understated when he spoke, because she was, after all, his mother. "You know what a terrible time of year the Christmas season is for me, and yet you insisted on trying to set me up with her. It's all been downhill from there. I'm here with Natasha, she's here with Daniel Cleaver—" He couldn't help but sneer as he said the name. "—so you really can stop trying."

His mother's head swiveled around until her gaze fixed on Bridget and Daniel. "Daniel? Wasn't he your best—Mark," she continued, a dawning realisation in her expression, "wasn't he was the one who—?"

Sharply he interrupted, "Yes." There was little need for her to continue.

His mother looked horrified as she looked back to him, her voice equally quiet to his own. "Oh, that is too much, too much that she would bring him here! Is this because you were rude to her at New Year's? Mark, you should have just apologised—"

"Mother, I have my doubts he's ever told her about his history with my ex-wife. Don't put this on her." He didn't know why he was feeling like he ought to protect her. It was almost as if deep down he knew she was an innocent party in all of this.

"Still. I'm not comfortable with him being here. And I know you're not." His mother looked towards the grill where Una was serving up the franks. "You're almost to the front of the queue. I'll see you at the table." She shot away with a determination that frankly scared him. What terrified him more was that she headed directly for Mrs Jones. He watched his mother pull Pam Jones away from the smarmy man who'd accompanied her to the fete, then begin speaking in hushed tones with a concerned look on her face. He watched as Pam's hand slowly rose to cover over her mouth in shock, then fall away when his mother stopped speaking. Mark didn't lip-read but he was sure he saw her say, "Are you sure?"

As he got nearer to the front of the queue, he saw Bridget walking towards the grill. After seeing him it was clear she was going to turn away, but Una called her closer, commenting how nice it would be to meet her boyfriend at last. Una fumbled on his name, which Mark absently supplied, meeting Bridget's eyes.

Una's face lit with surprise. "Oh? Is he a friend of yours, Mark?"

"Absolutely not."

"I hope he's good enough for our little Bridget," said Una with a smile and a wink.

He spoke before he could think better of it. "I think I could say with total confidence: absolutely not."

Bridget narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Well I'm sure he'd say the same about you, given your past behaviour."

Momentarily blindsided, he blurted, "Sorry?"

"I think you know what I mean."

She stared at him unflinchingly. He imagined whatever falsehood Daniel had invented about him must have been a particularly nasty one. So the most he could do was simply stride past her to where Natasha was waiting to meet him to take her plate (and his arm).

………

Daniel had been smart, selecting a table far from where Mark had chosen to sit with his parents and Natasha, and had managed to keep her from her own mother as well. Mark ate his lunch, tuning out Natasha nattering on about all manner of pointless twaddle until he heard Bridget's name come up again with a tinkling laugh.

"…Bridget. I mean honestly, a bunny girl? I can't imagine having the temerity to wear such a thing to a summer lawn fete. Really, some women have no class, no shame at all—"

Mark looked up from his lunch as he felt something inside him give way at this peek at her true self. He realised there may have been a few things he liked about her, but there was a far greater number of things he didn't like, like her imperious superiority and her undisguised lust for social climbing. "Excuse me," he said tersely. He stood up so quickly his chair fell backwards with a clatter.

Natasha's brown eyes widened in surprise, possibly that he would dare to leave her side during lunch. "Mark, where are you going?"

"To find Una Alconbury for a dress or something."

"For what possible reason?" she asked.

It dawned on him that this inquiry was sincere as he searched her face for a glimmer of humanity. She truly had no idea how cruel and heartless her comments were. He had all manner of acidic comments on his tongue—like how anyone with the pretense of a conscience would even have to ask given the comment she'd just made—but as his gaze flicked over to his parents, he thought better of saying them. "For Bridget."

"Oh." She raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Jesus, Mark. She's a big girl. She can find her own dress if she wants one."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see an appalled look pass over his mother's face. He leaned forward. "If I weren't a gentleman," he said very quietly, "I'd leave you to find your own way home. Fortunately for you I am. But this is it. It's over."

Her mouth hung open. He was rather pleased to have left her speechless.

On that victorious note, he stalked off in the direction of the grill, only to find that Geoffrey had taken over grilling duties. Geoffrey thought Una had gone over to speak with Penny, probably to make amends for an earlier comment about Penny's garish shirt, but he wasn't sure.

As he walked along the herbaceous border in search of Penny and Una, he heard a very familiar, very distinct voice coming through loud and clear from the other side:

"No, Lara. Won't be much longer. I know you've had a long plane trip, and I promised to be back by now, but I just couldn't get away." There was a pause. "I know. I can't wait to shag the hell out of you." There was another moment of silence. "Don't worry. I'll take her home, get her out of the way, and I'll be back to my flat by six, I promise." Another pause, then a chuckle. "See you soon. Bye."

Before Mark could get away, Daniel Cleaver materialised from behind the brush. He looked very surprised. "Taken to eavesdropping for your thrills these days, Darce?" he asked disdainfully.

"Lara?" asked Mark brusquely.

Daniel's face went rather hard. "Fuck off," he spat, stalking away.

He ran his hand over his face then back through his hair. "What next?" he asked himself darkly, feeling very much like he was running an obstacle course.

He did find Una chatting with Penny, and called her to the side. "Una," he said in secretive tones, "I was wondering if you had something suitable for Bridget to cover up with. She must be dreadfully embarrassed with—" He thought of Natasha's catty comments, but instead said, "—these older men around…"

Una held up her hand. "Say no more. And that boyfriend of hers, I think he's actually enjoying the whole thing."

"Yes, well, he would," Mark said off-handedly.

Una furrowed her brow. "Thought you said you weren't friends."

"After what he did to me with regards to my wife, no. I can hardly call him a friend."

"Oh. Him." Una's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, then softened as she added, "Oh, poor Mark."

"'Poor Bridget' is more like it. I don't think she knows."

"Ah." Una pulled herself up to her full height. "I'll find that dress for Bridget, shall I?"

With a look of displeasure fixed upon her face, she headed off with long strides in the direction of the house.

………

A very short time afterwards, Mark saw the triumvirate of Una Alconbury (a floral print dress hanging stiffly over her arm), Pamela Jones and his own mother huddled deep in discussion near the wisteria. He had a very good idea what they were in conference about and made a mental note never to cross them because when it came to their young, they were every bit as protective as tigresses. Subsequently they bore down on Bridget with stalwart purpose, which surprised him. He was sure they would confront Daniel, but upon further reflection, he realised it was not their way to tackle this sort of problem directly. Far better to hand Bridget the information to take care of it herself.

Mark had an unnerving feeling things were going come to a head in the very near future. He was unfortunately right.

"What!?"

Mark heard Bridget's voice rise above the din of happy chatter. He watched her bewildered eyes flash to Mark, then search for Daniel, her mouth agape. She looked back to her mother, then back to Mark. Her expression had changed to one of anger. He looked down.

In an instant he saw her fishnet-covered legs enter the periphery of his vision, saw the floral print dress crumpled in her fist, heard her voice hissing close to him, low and barely-controlled like a pressure cooker that was about to pop. "How dare you, Mark Darcy! How dare you try to destroy my relationship by saying such things to my mother, your mother—"

He raised his head, met her eyes with a steely, unblinking gaze, and interrupted her nascent rant with a very calm rebuttal. "I told them nothing. My mother recognised him from my wedding party. I suspect your mother and Una already knew the story but had no idea he was the man who slept with my wife. Go on, go ahead and ask them what I did or did not tell them today. Better yet, ask Daniel if what they told you is true."

She lifted her chin defiantly, but there was no mistaking the quiver there, nor the glossiness of her eyes. "I'll do just that." She stepped away.

He called after her: "While you're at it, ask Daniel who Lara is."

She turned back and stared at him with a serious lack of comprehension before walking away from him and towards an unsuspecting (though deserving) Daniel.

He was close enough to see clearly, but not close enough to hear. After her opening salvo, Mark watched as Daniel took hold of her upper arm and pulled her to stand under a shady tree, smirking in an uncomfortable way as if he were yanking an embarrassing child to the corner for a throttling. She began to speak, her brows drawn; he observed silently as Daniel's face flushed hotly red and his expression went immediately indignant, the cords in his neck standing out as he (probably) tried in vain to talk his way out of being called to answer for his sordid past. She jerked her arm from his grasp and wiped tears from her cheek as they continued to argue. He could hear the volume escalate ever so slightly, but could not quite make out the individual words. Mark saw her mouth move with a final question (probably about who Lara was), saw the stunned look on Daniel's face and as he stumbled for an answer, she hauled off and slapped him across the face so hard Mark swore he heard the sound of it reverberate across the lawn.

Perhaps it did, because all talking, all motion at the party ceased.

Bridget stalked away and off into what Mark knew to be a secluded area surrounded by hedges that provided a measure of privacy. Daniel stood there for a moment or two more before heading off in the opposite direction. Slowly the party came back to life in fits and starts. Mark simply stared at where she had disappeared between two bushes. He knew all too well that in her stead he would also want to be left alone.

"Mark."

He swiveled and saw Natasha standing there with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"Still staring at the bunny girl, are you?"

He was tempted to echo Daniel's sentiments by the hedge. He merely deepened his frown and asked instead, "What do you want?"

"You were serious before," she said.

"I was," he replied, unequivocally and without hesitation.

"Hm. I see." Her lips were pursed together tightly, and he could see her run her tongue over her teeth. Never had she looked more to him like a predator. "Well, you needn't worry about me nor your reputation as a gentleman. It so happens Candace from Stewart, Baines and Edwards is here and she's offered me a ride back to town."

"Fine," he said curtly.

They stood there silent for a moment more.

"You can drop my bag off at my office tomorrow."

"Fine," he said again.

Her eyes dropped and for a moment he felt badly for the way their little thing (whatever it was) was ending… but not badly enough to keep her from leaving, or to keep it from ending. She looked up again. "Goodbye, Mark."

"Goodbye."

He turned to the side and walked away, looking for a fight in the form of Daniel Cleaver, ready and willing to forcibly eject him from the premises if necessary.

His mother was who he found instead.

As if reading his mind, she said, "He left. Saw him drive off myself."

"Good," Mark said, his temper ebbing. He willed himself to flex his hands out flat, take a deep calming breath.

She patted his back reassuringly. "You know," she began tentatively, "I'm guessing Bridget might need a ride home."

He thought for a moment, then nodded.

………

Mark entered the side area, carefully approaching her from behind as she sat on one of Una's ridiculous plastic toadstools, her face in her hands as she cried. She was now clad in the dress Una had given her. Though she was seated he could tell it was a dress clearly intended for standing up at a wedding, far too formal for a summer picnic, and he briefly wondered why Una would have chosen such a thing for Bridget. He wasn't sure why he was being so deliberately quiet, especially when he was there specifically to talk to her, but he didn't want to add to her distress by startling her. Suddenly inspired on how to break the silence, he dug into his back pocket for a clean linen handkerchief and extended his arm out to offer it to her in such a way that she'd see it out of the corner of her eye.

Mutely she reached out for it, drawing it to her face. He heard a muffled, "Thank you."

"I'm sorry," he offered.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but please, just… go away," she said, her voice breaking.

He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. "I came to offer you a lift back to London."

She sighed. "He would have gone, wouldn't he."

"He did."

He watched as her head lowered again, and he could hear her softly sobbing. "This," she said between hiccoughs, "has been the most horrible, humiliating day of my entire life, and for me—" She paused to chuckle bitterly through her tears. "—that's saying something."

The only thing he could think to say was "I'm sorry", so he said it again, feeling stupid.

She blew her nose gently into the linen. "Stop apologising. The only thing you could possibly be faulted for is being too nice, allowing Daniel to walk away from your house with his bollocks intact." He thought that maybe her mood was beginning to lighten even by a very small degree, but her weeping began anew and she buried her face into her hands (and the cloth). "I'm such a fool…"

It was human nature to want to comfort a friend in pain, and though they were not friends as such, he was still moved to place a hand upon her covered shoulder. "How were you to know?" Mark offered gently. "He had me hoodwinked for years."

She turned to face him at last, her eyes red and puffy. She wiped the tears from her cheek with a shaking hand. "Thank you for being so… gracious."

He knit his brows. "'Gracious'?"

She took a moment to collect her thoughts. "You could have been really spiteful and 'told you so' about this whole thing, and on top of that, since I've been under the impression that you'd been the villain in this little drama, I've been a total bitch-queen to you. But you weren't anything but kind to me just now even after I accused you of… well, what I accused you of. And," she paused to chuckle ironically, "you were apparently the only one here who thought I might want to cover up this ridiculous bunny girl outfit and got Una to get this for me. So… thank you."

He didn't reply right away, just spent a moment taking in her sorrowful countenance, the pouting curl of her lower lip, the fretful way her brows were arced. Tenderly he said, "You have nothing to thank me for. I had my suspicions that he'd lied to you about a multitude of things—including me." He then allowed a little smile, an olive branch should she need to be offered one.

It was possible his mind was playing tricks on him. Surely that was not a return smile he saw play on the corner of her mouth. "All right," she said, sounding more like herself. "I accept."

"Accept what?"

"Your offer for a ride back to London. Thank you."

"Certainly."

"How much longer are you staying? Because I'm rather keen to leave."

There was no reason to remain. "We can leave anytime."

"Great." Bridget stood, and it was then he realised how the pretty, feminine pastel floral stood in stark contrast to the fishnets and the bunny ears. He must have been staring at the bunny ears a little too long because she reached up and pulled them from her head. Between having the hair at the crown of her head bound in an elastic atop her head, the overly-formal flowered dress, the barely-adhered false eyelashes on her right eye (the left had gone missing, possibly in his handkerchief), high heels and fishnet stockings, she looked like a weird cross between a little girl playing dress-up and a tart who had been a tart for so long she had no idea how normal women dressed anymore. She sighed, looked down to herself, and reached up to remove the elastic from her hair, sending her blonde locks to fall around her face. "God. I must look like utter shit."

If he'd told her she didn't look that bad all things considered, she would have accused him of lying to make her feel better. So instead he offered a more neutral, "You just look like you've had a very bad day, and guess what? You have. It's all right." Without thinking he reached and plucked the fluttering row of false lashes from where it was precariously dangling off of the corner of her eye.

"Thanks," she said embarrassedly as she took it from him and flicked it away. Then she really did smile—he wasn't imagining things.

He said, "I'm going to go say goodbye to my parents, tell them I'm leaving, if you want to go say goodbye to yours. Then we can meet on the drive over by the marquee."

She nodded in agreement.

He parted from her, emerging into the sunnier lawn once more. He blinked the sun out of his eyes and, scanning the crowd, found his mother and father chatting with Shirley and Bernard, who had also not been informed of the change from a fancy dress party. He smiled at them and their outlandish costumes, then said to his mother, "I'm going back to town."

"Taking Bridget home?"

If his mother had asked him the same question at Christmas, New Year's or any other time prior to that day, he might have lost it and snapped at her like he had at the Buffet. But now, he simply smiled. "Yes."

She beamed at him almost proudly. "I'll talk to you soon."

He did an about-face and headed towards the marquee on the drive. When he got there, Bridget was not to be found. He waited for a moment or two more, looking to the crowd for that floral dress, but didn't see it. Mark continued down and around the curve towards where he was parked, where he saw Bridget standing on the side of the drive. She was sobbing once more.

"Bridget. Are you all right?"

She pointed down to a lump near her feet. It appeared to be a small suitcase and, judging from its condition, it had been thrown from a moving car.

The penny dropped. "Is that your bag?"

She nodded, her face once again in her hands, the quite-sodden handkerchief showing between her fingers.

"That bastard," Mark said through clenched teeth. How like Daniel to do something so cowardly as to toss her things from his car, as if Bridget herself was like so much excess baggage. If Daniel were here he would have punched him in the face, maybe worse—

"Thank you," he heard her voice say softly.

He returned to the present from his thoughts of murderous revenge only to realise her teary cheek was pressed firmly against his dress shirt. To his amazement he had wrapped his arms about her to offer her consolation. Her arms had been at her sides, but she reached up and placed her hands on his upper arms as if to reiterate her verbal thanks before he released her and she stepped back. She still looked quite wrecked, but at least she'd stopped crying.

He offered, "I am sorry. I didn't mean to… be so forward."

She shook her head and waved her hand, dismissing the very notion that he should apologise. "I wouldn't have thanked you if I didn't appreciate it." She then dabbed the hanky under her eyes.

He bent to pick up her mangled bag, held out his hand to indicate the way to his car, and together they began to walk. She sniffed a light laugh. "You always seem to see me at my worst."

He immediately recalled the sleek, shiny black dress she wore at the book launch, and how lovely she looked the day before in her rowboat. "Not always," he said quietly, training his gaze upon her again.

She looked up to him with piercing blue eyes, and smiled once more.

As they reached the car, she furrowed her brows. "Hey. What about Natasha?"

"What about her?"

"Well. You came to this thing together, didn't you?"

He opened the door for her. Visibly taken aback, she stepped in and settled in. He went around to take the driver's seat and buckled himself in.

"She's found her own way home," he answered at last.

"Oh."

He considered his words. "Seems she and I have irreconcilable differences of opinion pertaining to bunny girls."

He glanced over just in time to witness the change on her face as the meaning of what he said filtered through. She looked down with flush of pink on her cheeks and said once more, "Oh."

He switched the key in the ignition to engage the engine, but before putting the vehicle into gear and pulling away from the side of the drive, he turned to her. "You know, if we're going to start again, we ought to do it right." He reached across to extend his right hand to her. "I'm Mark Darcy. It's a pleasure to meet you. My mother's told me so much about you."

She took his hand and shook it, smiling despite herself. "Bridget Jones. And likewise."

He smiled in return; at that moment he knew instinctively she would be all right. He released her hand in order to drive, but it was many moments before the impression of her soft, warm grasp would retreat from his skin.

Yes. They would both be all right.

He was so focused on driving through the side roads of Grafton Underwood in order to find the main highway that by the time he was on A14 back to London she had fallen asleep. He knew that crying jags had a way of wearing a body out, so he didn't disturb her, nor did he mind, for it was not an uncomfortable silence. It allowed him to be alone with his thoughts, and ponder how very much a blessing in disguise it had been after all to have been forced to come to this party, to have traded in the unhappy pressure of a high-powered, status-seeking companion for a down-to-earth, unpretentious—

Well, he reminded himself as he glanced to the floral-clad bunny girl dozing in the passenger seat, ears resting on her lap, it was still much too early to make the call… but he could see wanting Bridget to be much more than just a companion.

The end.