A/N: I am from the US and have tried to replicate British speech without it sounding too cliche. My apologies if I did not succeed too well. This is after Season 2, Episode 7.

Disclaimer: I do not own or operate The Paradise.

Moray raised a hand to his stinging cheek as he heard Denise's footsteps die away. The import of the slap was far worse than the actual pain it inflicted - and Denise Lovett packed quite a punch, he thought ruefully.

Denise went to her room and slammed the door as hard as she could. The gall! The unbelievable GALL of John Moray to lump her in with his neckties, waistcoats and department store! "My most prized possession." Oh, for the love of all that was holy. Denise heartily wished she had taken one of the glass vases on a nearby table and crashed it over his head! If all the love John Moray could manage was not even to feel for her as much as one would for a lap spaniel, she was quite done with him! The arrogant – BLIGHTER! It was not a nice word, but an excellent one. She yanked the buttons of her basque open and threw the garment against the wall. She could not remember being so furious in a long, long while. She jerked her hair out of its bun and brushed it fiercely. When she finally donned her nightgown, her rage had not diminished a whit. She sat on her bed, arms clasped around her knees, brooding over the many painful torments she would like to inflict on John Moray.

Moray was sitting in the Three Crowns, well into a bottle of Padraic's best Scotch when Dudley, ambling in for a nightcap, saw him in the corner, morose, his large brown eyes looking as though they were brimming with tears. What now?

Dudley went to his friend and sat down. "What the devil is the matter with you?" he said.

"I am very much afraid I have completely ruined everything with Denise." Moray wiped his nose with his handkerchief.

"What have you done, now? I thought things were better."

"They were. For about five minutes, they were. We kissed. I told her it was all a horrible mistake with Katherine."

"Yes? And then?" So far, Dudley couldn't see what had gone wrong.

"And then I told her she was my most prized possession, even above The Paradise." Moray looked at Dudley, who pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

"Then what?"

"She struck me. Slapped me right in the face."

Dudley already liked Denise, but his respect for her skyrocketed. He had a difficult time not grinning at his friend. "And then?"

"She told me no one could own another person and she was NOT my possession, nor in a box labeled 'my little champion' and I simply did not understand. Then she stalked out."

"Indeed." Dudley swirled the brandy in his glass. "John Moray, you are without a doubt, the most damnable idiot I have ever known. You tell a woman she is your love, your light, your life, your angel, a rare gift, the most wonderful woman in the world. You do NOT tell her she is your possession, prized or not!"

Moray only nodded, so Dudley continued. "If I said that to Alice, she would knock me senseless with a frying pan. If I came to, I'd be sitting in the washpot being boiled in my own pudding! Moray, you're a fool."

"I am. You're entirely correct, Dudley. I am a fool and a damned idiot. That's the sort of thing Weston would say to a woman."

"It is. What do you intend to do about it?"

Although Dudley's complete lack of sympathy was somewhat irritating, Moray supposed he deserved it. "Beg her forgiveness. Prostrate myself at her feet, if necessary. Throw myself on her mercy."

"You might begin by saying what a worm you are for having uttered the words in the first place," Dudley suggested.

Moray looked sharply at his friend. "Why do I have the distinct feeling you're enjoying my misery?"

"Perhaps it's because it's entirely self-inflicted, and you deserved precisely what you got. I'd wager a woman has never stood up to the famous Moray charm, let alone walloped you, and I suspect that, as much as anything, is what has you so topsy-turvy. I said treat her as she deserves, John, and I meant it. She's not a child. She's a grown woman, an independent woman, and you cannot behave as though she has nothing better to do than hang on your every word!" Dudley sat back against the wall, arms crossed.

Moray rested his chin on his hand, looking very much like a scolded hound. "I've made a mess out of it, haven't I? Seems to be the story of my life."

"You do think rather a lot of yourself, Moray. Perhaps a little humility might serve you well."

"I cannot lose her, Dudley. The year in Paris without her was pure hell. Only her letters kept me sane."

"Then tell her what she truly means to you – that she is not a possession, but the woman you wish to marry, to spend the rest of your life with! That is what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes! Yes, it's what I want!" Moray exclaimed.

"So TELL her so! If for no other reason, so I can stop giving advice to the lovelorn!"

"You've been a true friend to me, Dudley. You have my everlasting thanks."

"Thank me by getting this straightened out with that lovely woman. Remember: treat her like she deserves to be treated!"

"I will. I swear I will." Moray meant it with every fibre of his being. The only trouble was, with Denise Lovett, "straightening it out" was far, far easier said than done.