AN: This is my first attempt at writing any fanfiction in a very long time, and my first ever - however faltering - steps into the world of Downton Abbey. Reviews are greatly appreciated, as I have no idea how this turned out. Just a little something that popped into my head while rewatching some of the episodes from series 2.
He couldn't leave.
He knew it.
Had known so all along.
Sir Richard's most disrespectful behaviour had just been the perfect excuse. Lady Mary had – unsurprisingly – not been very pleased. He had foreseen that too, had taken it into account, and even though she was his dear Lady Mary, there was someone else dearer to him. A someone who was more important than anything in the world. The dearest of them all.
He couldn't leave.
It had never been clearer to him than last night. He had spoken so affectionate of the young Lady, and she had listened carefully, with the teacup tightly secured in both hands, hovering just in front of her lips.
Those lips. They mesmerized him. All the secrets they held, all the words he would dream about hearing from them, all the words he would rather do without, but which needed uttering anyway. It was a lure to watch. The sharp vocals rolling out, faint quirks of a smile, made all the more precious for the rarely display of their true beauty. Her laughter. The finest piece of music ever to graze his ears.
Sometimes, when her mouth remained unopened, her eyes, with the mysterious depths and shades of blue, shifting with the wind of the north, would say it all. After years of practice he prided himself in reading those blue orbs fairy well. But at times he stumbled and fell. Hard. And she didn't always let him down easily. There was fire in there.
The anger at the world of unfairness they lived in.
The hurt of memories faded but never forgotten, hardships and cold fingers.
The happiness, the willpower.
The love.
For him?
Maybe
He couldn't leave.
It might be more than a maybe. It might be a yes.
But he would stay for a maybe. He would stay for long nights in shared company. He would settle for just a bit of her warmth, the easy bantering, the sleepy burr seeping into her voice come midnight, which sent heating waves through tired joints after a long day.
It was true that Lady Mary was his favourite, he couldn't help it, and often she had teased him about it. How she owned his heart. He thought she couldn't have been more mistaken.
In his heart, Lady Mary would always play second fiddle. For on the scene, there would be a woman, a lady in every sense of the word, with swaying hips and alluring eyes.
And a soft jingle of keys as her constant companion.