Author's note: The following is my version of what happened between Sybil finally agreeing to run away with Branson and their actually elopement attempt. Lots of people seem to write Sybil (or any woman from this period, for that matter) as a blushing virgin who's frankly rather terrified about the prospect of sex; you'll see that I've taken a bit of a different approach. (Not to the virginity, per se, but to the blushing.) We are, after all, talking about an intelligent, quite fiery 22-year-old woman who has spent some years as a nurse and has been an outspoken advocate for women's rights. I am therefore making some not-unreasonable (IMO) assumptions, a few of which are these: number one, that she is not ignorant about anatomy (hello, nursing training). Number two, that she is more comfortable with the idea of women's sexuality than some women of this period might be (her feminist leanings support this, I think). And number three, that she has been fighting an intense attraction for a certain hunky chauffer for many long years now. "But," you might say, "she just told him that he could kiss her and that is all the night before!" Well, it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind. Perhaps dear Sybil had not quite been counting on how much she would enjoy the attentions of the aforementioned hunky chauffer. Anyway, they are not "going all the way" here; my Sybil still has boundaries in mind, but they are less stringent than she might've originally planned. And finally, to paraphrase Granny, "I'm a woman; I can be as contrary as I like." The pot, so to speak, has boiled over, and this is the result. So… here we go! Rated M for a reason, folks.
It had been less than 24 hours since Sybil had appeared in the garage and agreed to run away with him, and Branson was still not entirely convinced that he hadn't merely hallucinated the whole thing. All day he had been in a state of giddy distraction, grinning stupidly to himself, absorbed so thoroughly in his own thoughts that everyone who spoke to him was forced to repeat themself at least once before ever getting a response. She would come to him again as soon as she could, she'd said, and every hour until then was one of fitful restlessness.
Finally, she appeared in the garage, and he flung aside the newspaper he'd been reading – well, trying to read. She skirted around behind the little door that opened into the toolshed and dragged him after her, pulling his face down to hers and kissing him deeply, her fingernails nipping at the nape of his neck.
Branson broke away with great effort – she was insistent to continue and he was reluctant to stop – but it was only to say, chest heaving, "We shouldn't do this here."
"You're right," she said, breathlessly, kissing him again.
"My cottage?" he managed to mumble against her lips.
"Yes, alright," she said. "You go first. I'll come after you."
"How long?"
"Ten minutes."
"How about five?" he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and trailing kisses from her lips to her neck.
"Alright, seven," she gasped, gripping his bicep hard enough to hurt.
It was some moments before she found the fortitude to disentangle her hand from his hair and gently push his chest to signal him to stop.
"Alright, alright," he said, resignedly. She couldn't help but laugh at his tone, and reminded him, "You're the one that said we shouldn't do this here, remember?"
"I say lots of stupid things," he said, smiling. He gave her a quick peck and squeezed her hand. "Seven minutes," he said. "Don't be late."
Sybil made it only to four and one-half minutes before she could stand it no longer and set off for the cottage. She walked as slowly as she could force herself to go and determined not to look suspicious in case she was being watched. It wouldn't do to be spied furtively sneaking in; if she were seen, she would have to feign legitimate business. What that lie would be, exactly, she had not quite decided on, but at the moment she couldn't bring herself to care very much, bothered nearly to the verge of recklessness.
Two brisk knocks on the door and it flew open almost immediately. "You're early," he said, grinning broadly.
"I couldn't wait," she said, rushing in and throwing her arms around his neck, kissing him.
"Five years you waited to answer me," he said against her lips, teasingly, "and now you can't make it five minutes?"
She shook her head. "The dam is burst," she said, smiling. "There's no going back now."
He reached behind her and flicked the lock shut on the door, sliding a little chain into place to prevent even those with keys from entering unbidden – an addition he had made himself and now felt particularly grateful for. "Won't anyone miss you?" he asked.
"I don't think so," she said. "They think I'm in bed with a headache."
"What if they come to check on you?"
"They won't. They're all too busy planning the wedding."
"Little do they know," he said a bit sadly, repressing a twinge of hurt and indignation at the reminder that they could not openly celebrate their own plans for the future.
Sybil, however, was too distracted for melancholy. Branson had long suspected that her fiery personality would translate to wantonness inother areas, but nothing – not even in a thousand feverish imaginings - had quite prepared him for the reality of her lips pulling insistently at his, her mouth opening against him, the hint of her warm, wet tongue slipping softly into his mouth. A little voice in the back of her head warned her that perhaps she was being too bold, too forward, too – lusty, but his hands on her hips gripped tightly and his lips against hers in every way met and matched her intensity, and she reminded herself – he loves me. Because I am bold, because I am passionate, because I break rules – not in spite of it. It was a dizzying, empowering thought, and it put her mind at peace.
His hands had migrated of their own accord from her waist to her shoulders, and he was dragging them around her front to cup her breasts before he checked himself, remembering her words from just the night before: "You can kiss me, but that is all until everything is settled."
But then – God help him – she was grabbing his wrists and pressing his palms flat against her chest. "It's alright," she whispered, placing a sucking kiss on his neck.
Branson swallowed hard. "But last night, you said –"
"I say lots of stupid things," she said, and they both laughed, then sobered instantly as he contracted his fingers, squeezing gently. She exhaled sharply and squared her shoulders, arching her back and pressing herself more firmly into his hands.
"Sybil," he said softly, feeling somewhat delirious, " – are you sure?"
She returned her lips to his neck, ending a string of kisses just beneath his earlobe.
"Yes," she said, quiet but firm. "You can touch me."
He was still for a moment, and then, gathering his courage, said very hoarsely, into her hair, because he had to be sure: " –Where?"
There was a beat, and then, her answer, sealed with another kiss to his neck: "Everywhere."
"Oh Sybil... sweetheart…" – he was murmuring into her hair, breathing heavily, kissing her neck softly – "you have to put some reins on me, darling, or I'll run wild."
Her next words, hoarse and breathless, floored him.
"I want you to run wild. I like making you wild."
This was the last straw, the final push that broke the tenuous grasp of self-control he had been so desperately trying to maintain. Lifting her swiftly into his arms, he carried her in a few quick strides to his bed, where he deposited her a bit less than gently, so that the mattress bounced with the force of her weight hitting it. She felt the air go out of her lungs with the impact and grasped for him desperately during the few seconds it took him to remove his boots before he turned his attention to hers, dropping them with heavy thuds near the foot of the bed. Then, gripping his collar like a lifeline, she pulled him down to her so that his chest was crushed against hers, his full weight heavy on top of her, and she moved her legs so he could settle between them, moaning softly at the pressure. They were both still fully clothed, but she could feel the hot, hard length of him against her center and she circled her hips against it lustily, and – God help him, he didn't mean to – he bucked his hips against her, hard, and she gave a startled, satisfied little gasp – and he fought to still her hips from grinding voraciously against him by placing his palms flat on her hipbones and pinning them to the bed.
Her fingers were flying on the buttons of his waistcoat – there were only three, thank God – and she tugged it off, tossing it aside. For a moment he was at serious risk of being strangled as she struggled to figure out the intricacies of untying a tie before he helped her yank it off and over his head, then, pushing his braces off his shoulders, she tugged his shirt tails out from his waistband and made quick work of the buttons on his shirt, pulling it down his arms until it got stuck at his wrists. She gave a frustrated huff and tugged harder before realizing that there were buttons there to contend with, too. He chuckled and she smiled as he undid his cufflinks and finally shook off the shirt entirely; he felt her fingers underneath the hem of his undershirt, warm against his skin, and he grabbed the garment by the collar, pulling it off in one quick motion, leaving him finally bare-chested on top of her.
Her chest was rising and falling shallowly as she studied him, running her hands down his shoulders to his biceps and back up, over his pecs, down his taut abdomen, back up to join around his neck and pull his mouth back down to hers hungrily, suddenly feeling that she had been too long without it, and wanting to feel the solid wall of his chest against hers. She delighted in the feel of his weight on her – so imminently present – pressing her back into the mattress, covering her like a thick blanket on a cold winter night.
Moving his lips to her neck, Branson placed wet, sucking kisses from her collarbone up to her earlobe, then sucked it between his teeth and flicked at it with his tongue, his left hand clenching in her hair and pulling just slightly at her scalp with a delicious pressure, his right hand on the back of her thigh over her teagown, hitching it up against his hip. "Yes," she said softly, her fingernails biting against the muscles of his back before moving to pull at her skirt, jerking it up past her knees and bunching it around her waist, shifting underneath him so that he was right there – right at her center, only his trousers and her wet knickers between them -and then, she did it again, she wriggled her hips in a slow, grinding circle against him.
"Shit," he hissed, knowing that this was exactly the wrong thing to say but finding it spilling from his mouth anyway, moving his hand underneath the material of her skirt to grip her bare thigh and pull her harder against him. Then she was shrugging her sleeves off her shoulders and pulling her dress down her chest; Branson was never more thankful in his life that a teagown required no corset. He could see her nipples, rosy and hard through her sheer chemise, and without thinking, bent his head and sucked one into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers while he palmed the soft swell of her breast. She bucked her hips against him in response. He sucked harder, and she repeated the action; he pulled it between his teeth, nipping gently, making her cry out - and shit, now he couldn't stop it, he was thrusting back against her unabashedly, and she was sucking at his neck and clawing at his back as he panted into her hair – lost, completely lost . He was achingly, desperately hard, and despite being nearly 30, he was perilously close to coming in his pants like a fumbling teenager.
"Oh God, Tom," she said, arching her back as he buried his hands under her skirt and grabbed her arse in his hands, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh and lifting her hips up off the mattress to meet his.
His head told him that he should be trying to still her movements instead of urging them on, but she was insistent, clutching him to her stubbornly and locking her legs around the backs of his thighs. He could feel her nipples hard against his chest, and then he made the mistake of looking down at her face, flushed and glowing, her lips more swollen than ever, her eyes deep blue, half-triumphant over her effect on him, half-dazed with her own pleasure.
"Sybil –" he choked out, desperately, warningly –
Sybil was inexperienced, but she was not a fool, and she knew his meaning without asking. "Yes, I know –" she whispered, "—I want you to."
He was close, so close, when a rapid knock at the door stopped her in her tracks, her eyes going wide with horror.
"Mr. Branson! Mr. Branson!" came Carson's voice through the thick wood door.
"Go to hell!" Branson yelled by way of response, his accent thick, still clutching Sybil to him and moving his lips back to her neck as if the butler were not standing directly outside his door.
"Tom, Tom!" Sybil said, is a desperate whisper, frantically pushing at him. "Tom, you have to let me up; I have to hide!"
Branson looked at her thickly for a moment before seeming to realize the urgency of the situation, and then, cursing under his breath, he was off her.
"Mr. Branson, I insist that you open this door immediately," said Carson, testing the lock and finding it held fast.
"Where?" Sybil mouthed to Branson, heading for the closet, but he shook his head and gestured for her to go under the bed. She did, pulling her boots in after her as Carson's keys turned in the lock. He was stopped short by the chain lock while Branson rushed to pull on his discarded shirt, buttoning it hastily before going to the door.
"Mr. Branson! What is the meaning of this?" the butler exclaimed, taking in Branson's disheveled and flushed appearance.
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Carson," he said coolly. "I've been violently ill all morning – something I ate, I suppose. I can't stop the vomiting for the life of me." He feigned a suppressed belch for effect.
Carson wrinkled his nose in unfeigned disgust. "My God, lad," he said, apparently convinced. "You look positively feverish. Shall I call for Dr. Clarkston?"
Branson shook his head soberly before saying, "I'll give it another hour and if I haven't retched again, I think I'm in the clear," he said.
"Very well then," said Carson, nodding. "There's no use bothering him if you do not think it terribly serious. Lady Mary had requested the motor for the evening, but it is not urgent; I shall inform her that you are indisposed." He gave a cursory, ever-so-slightly suspicious glance around the room before turning to go.
"Thank you kindly, Mr. Carson," said Branson, shutting the door behind him and breathing a sigh of relief. He stood and watched the butler's retreating figure until he saw him disappear into the house and then, throwing the lock and rushing back to the bed, stooped to help Sybil out from her hiding spot.
"Are you alright?" he asked, taking her hands and pulling her into a standing position.
"I'm fine," she said, softly, straightening her dress and smoothing his shirt. "I was very frightened, though. I don't think any woman has ever been more thankful to discover that her fiancé is such a smooth liar." She smiled ruefully at him as he tucked a stray curl back behind her ear.
"When can we leave here?" he sighed, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. She nuzzled her cheek against his chest and sighed. After a moment, she looked up.
"Tonight," she said. "Let's go tonight."
"Tonight?" he said, disbelieving. "Are you sure?"
She nodded solemnly. "I'm tired of hiding," she said. "I'm tired of lying to everyone, and I'm tired of having to be away from you when all I want is to be with you. And…" she trailed off.
He kissed her softly, reassuringly. "And?" he said.
"And," she added in a conspiratorial whisper, with a delightfully wicked little grin, "I'm terribly anxious to be your wife… properly."
He took her meaning, knowing her as he did, and could not resist adding as he kissed his way up her neck, "To finish what we just started?"
"Yes," she sighed, and pressed her palm flat against the length of him, still hard. She was just pressing the heel of her hand into it when he caught her wrist, breathless, and said, "We'll never get out of Downton at this rate," and then, " -God, I hate telling you to stop."
With a Herculean effort he pulled away from her and sat gathering his thoughts and catching his breath while she smoothed her hair and put her boots back on. This accomplished, he stood and followed her to the door.
"Do I look presentable?" she asked, fussing with her sleeves nervously.
"You look beautiful," he said, kissing her tenderly, his heart swelling with the new freedom to give her simple compliments, without the fear of rebuke.
She smiled warmly at him. "Tonight," she said softly.
"Tonight," he said, and smiled.
Author's note: Alright, there you have it. To be continued…? We'll see.
