A/N: This is just a little something I wrote a while ago and had sitting in my files so I thought I'd share it :D

Love. Probably the most overused word in the English language, however it was the only one that seemed to sum up the tiny nuances that made his heart not his own anymore. How to describe his love, his feelings or the one who was the subject of his imagination? He would do his best.

She existed in the way she tilted her head at him when they both knew he was wrong, or the way she looked up at him with completely trusting eyes. She was beautiful, though that was also probably the second most overused word in the English language. But how to find another word to describe how exquisite she looked to him in every moment they shared? Her eyes were the colour of muted sapphires, not dissimilar to the ones worn around the necks of the great ladies he served upstairs, but hers held such depth and promise. In any moment he was unsure of whether they would be full of kindness, mischief or anger. He could never say they flirted, but when he won that beautiful smile, he felt like the luckiest man alive.

He was not a man of desire since his younger days but he found it hard not to appreciate her curves. For now he was happy to watch her from a distance, and note the curve of her hips and bottom, and imagine a world where she would allow him to merely hold her, map every dip and contour of her milky skin. The inside of her hip, the side of her wrist, the underside of her breasts and her lips. The simplest touch he shied from, afraid to open Pandora's box, but he longed to place his hand at the small of her back or her waist as they walked together. He usually made sure to indicate with a nod of his head or a sweep of his arm but he longed to lead her with this simple intimate touch.

The face that lightened his dreams and days, he could never be tired of. One would think that with habitual observance, he would grow tired of a view, however it only served to remind him of her charm and beauty. The separation he endured in the hours of the night made the morning greeting all the sweeter. Her sweet face, with lines that could tell the story of her life, and eyes that spoke directly to his soul, it was a wonder he was able to continue for so long. To be able to trace her lips, and feel the softness beneath his fingertip, to caress her cheek and feel her lean into the gentle and reverent touch. To be able to take her slender hand in his own and interlace their fingers as they had interlaced their trust and friendship so long ago, and kiss her knuckles as a gentleman might a lady.

He held a deep fondness for her dry wit and complete knowledge of him. She could read him like a book and allowed him to think he was the leader of the front, while she silently guided him from her place beside him. He felt his strongest when she was beside him, somewhere he felt she had always belonged. Her moods were a great indicator to his, as he hated to upset her but seemed to manage it without thinking.

Late at night when they are the last two awake downstairs, is when he loosens his personal constrictions. Her voice is his lullaby and he could listen to her speak all day. Her soft lilt became freer at these times and so did her eyes. When his name fell from her lips, he shivered in pleasure and marvelled at her ability to so completely unravel him.

Her kindness and maternal instinct was her defining characteristic, and with a voice like hers it was no wonder so many homesick maids came to her door for comfort. She was a mother to many and a mother to none. The young under their charge were her babies and he loved to watch her with them. She did not judge, and was a fantastic listener.

None of this could come close to explaining such an emotion for such a woman, a woman of her calibre.