This really came out of nowhere (apart from someone saying in a review that they were worried the tag was dying out; it's so not LONG LIVE THESE BABIES etc).

Paris, 1922.

The last person she would ever have expected to see in the bar of the Paris Ritz was Roland Brett, and by the look on his face, she was the very last person he had expected to see either.

"Grace? It is you. Grace, it's wonderful to see you." He took hold of her hand, kissed her knuckles.

She smiled at him as he straightened up.

"Surely I haven't changed so much?" she asked him.

It had only been four years. Only? How much had happened since then? How much had she yearned to see him? But she kept her smile pressed right up to her lips, trying to mean it.

"You look different, though," he insisted, "Your hair. You-…" her hair was bobbed neatly at the length of her jaw. His eyes took in the sight of her, her new dress, the fact that, for once, heaven forbid, Matron Carter was wearing lipstick and powder, "You look wonderful. That's not to say that you didn't-…." he added hastily, "Before."

She smiled broadly.

"It's alright," she told him, "Show me the woman who can look wonderful in standard issue uniform." She felt her own eyes glint mischievously, saw his smile widen in response, "And that headdress!"

He grinned.

"You may or may not have a point," he told her diplomatically.

"But what are you doing here?" she asked him, she wanted to know. Not long ago, he had written her a letter, and he had mentioned nothing of this.

"I could ask you the same question," he replied, before half turning, "You see that rather gruff-looking young man over there?" he asked her.

She raised her eyebrows half a touch.

"The one who looks like you?"

He turned back towards her, his face coming very close to hers, examining her expression. His lips widened a touch at her humour.

"That's my son, Alexander. It's his birthday and I thought I'd bring him over here as a treat."

"How nice," Grace replied.

"I'd love it if you would come and meet him," he told her, "Come and join us."

"I'm sorry, it's very kind," she replied, "But I can't-…"

"Grace, no, it you be no intrusion, please-…"

"No it's not that," she told him hurriedly, "Believe me, I want to. It's just, I'm waiting here for my brother. That's why I'm here, you see. He's getting married this weekend."

"I see," he replied slowly.

There was a moment's silence.

"I take it, then," he asked after a few moments, "That you'll be around for the next few days?"

She thought she knew what he was implying, what he was quietly asking.

"Yes," she told him, "I will."

"Have dinner with me, then, Grace?" he asked, "Just us?"

She paused for a second.

"I suppose Lady Brett's not on this trip with you both, then?" she asked.

"No, she's not," he replied, "I don't mind telling you, Grace, that things are not well between Lady Brett and myself."

"Oh," she replied, frowning, "I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

As they had talked he had come to stand closer to her, almost without her noticing. He was standing before her, and he asked her in a very low tone. The intimacy of his voice stirred something in her. She raised her eyes, and met the searching look he was given her.

"No," she replied, in little more than a whisper, "I'm not."

A shiver seemed to run through the pair of them, out of his body and into hers.

"Have dinner with me?" he asked her, "Promise me."

"I promise," she replied, "I promise."

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