Denouement
Robert entered the house in a cloud of anger. With sharp words he dismissed Thomas and instructed that he not be disturbed. At the foot of the grand staircase he changed his mind and barked to Carson that he should instruct her Ladyship to meet him upstairs.
His trip to London had been a success, and he had secured somewhat of a win on behalf of his daughter and her seemingly notorious husband. However the entire charade had been an exercise in humility that Robert was not used to making. As an Earl it was a rare occasion that he was exposed to sneers and thinly veiled accusations. Yet when one is an Earl in England with an outspoken Irish radical as a son-in-law, he was a much easier target.
With Sybil's safety guaranteed Robert should have been relieved, but the favors he was forced to call in, and the snobbery he was forced to endure, had simply put his back up. He stewed in bitter silence the entire trip home, and was thankful that Thomas appeared to have enough sense to keep his counsel. The last thing Robert needed was more of his Valet's scheming to finish off his hellish week.
Once in the safety of his dressing room Robert loosened his tie and took to pacing as he ran the events of the previous seventy two hours over in his head. He truly had no desire to discuss any of this with Cora in his present state of mind, but felt he had little choice in the matter. She was vehement that he take these steps and now that he'd done, she would want to know the results. It was simply that he didn't want to hear any more excuses for Branson, for Sybil, for the whole lot that put their family in this position. No doubt Cora would be relieved and try to make him see that this was for the best. She would be right, of course, and that only served to irritate Robert even more.
He cared little for 'right' at the moment and simply wanted to be in charge of something, for God's sake. But everyone around him seemed intent to strip him of his Lordship over the family and he was certainly not going to let that happen.
Cora's soft knock on the door caused Robert's shoulders to seize and he was only able to issue a strangled "ENTER!" before he resumed his anxious muttering and pacing.
When he finally looked up it was to Cora leaning against the dressing room door, an amused smile on her beautiful features. His wife's face was so often a balm to his soul, easily settling him when his foolish temper got the better of him. Her soft pale hands drew from him the ills that nettled his soul and set him to rights, making him feel as though they would be all right in the end.
What he saw that as now, however, was handling.
His wife was handling him. And as she crossed the distance to welcome him, with arms outstretched, he knew unequivocally that he did not want to be handled.
He caught her wrists in his fingers and drew her arms wide to the side. Her expression exhibited only a slight concern as he drew his face closer to hers.
"It's done." He rasped, lips brushing against her nose. She did not back away from him, but simply arched a brow. Her lips twisted into a lopsided smirk but she remained silent, allowing him the chance to continue.
Her expression remained bland, and Robert's temper fired even as his grasp on her wrists tightened. He drew her arms behind her back, until her breasts arched forward against his chest. Roughly he drew his knee between hers, raising it until she shifted her stance to widen her thighs. They stood in the center of his room, twisted together in a grotesque parody of love.
He released her wrists and dragged his hands along her thighs, raising her skirt until it was awkwardly bunched at her waist. He didn't search her eyes for permission, or even take the time for his usual preliminaries but brushed her underwear aside and slipped a finger across her folds. She gasped immediately and anchored herself by fisting her hands on his shoulders, giving herself over to the rough feelings he was evoking.
Her passivity only stoked his irritation. He didn't want her acquiescence. He wanted to conquer her, the only thing he had never fully owned. In that moment she represented everything that was besting him. She was change; she was a radical son in law. She was the loss of his fortune and a rebellious daughter. She was beautiful calm in the face of chaos and she was the only thing he had to hold on to in his misery. The desire to possess her was insurmountable.
And so he stopped thinking. He pressed his lips roughly to her throat, her chest. His fingers slipped from her moist center to massage her thighs, lifting her to sit on the edge of his dressing table. He fumbled with the catch of his trousers only momentarily before releasing himself from the confines of the material. He watched, raptly, as he spread her thighs, pushed aside her underwear, and slipped inside her. He withdrew and entered again, with more force, drawing a hiccup of pleasure from his wife. He was fascinated by the sight of their merging bodies, captivated and entranced until moved to capture her lips in a breath-stealing kiss.
Her deft fingers moved to undo the knot in his tie and fumbled with the buttons of his starched shirt, her vision blurring as Robert continued to piston his hips in an unyielding tempo. His fingers drew over her thighs to cup her rear and tilt her pelvis, giving him deeper access. Cora grabbed both ends of his tie in one clenching fist and used her other hand to balance herself on the dressing table. Robert was murmuring against her throat, between pinching bites of his front teeth as they burned a path to the valley between her breasts. He gave no care to the delicate silk of her blouse, pushing it aside with his questing tongue.
He felt her legs contract around him and the heel of her shoe brushed his thigh before it feel to the floor with a loud thunk.
Had he not been so driven by need, felled by the desire to possess something so fully, Robert might have realized that he was, in fact, being handled. That Cora's sharp senses knew exactly what he needed from her, and she yielded herself to him easily in order to bolster his confidence. He might have seen her cheshire cat smile as she dropped her head back against the mirror, her nails scratching his shirt over his shoulders before tweaking a nipple with a violent twist that drew a husky shout from him. He might have heard the lilt of laugh through her grunts of pleasure as he doubled his efforts and pushed into her with wild abandon. He might have recognized the flutter of love through the gaze of lust as she looked down on him, as he beat against his own self-imposed limits and drove into her like a man possessed.
It took a few seconds before she recognized the murmurs against her breasts, in time with the rhythm of his hips. "Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine."
His hands were bruising, his lips demanding, and the press between her thighs nearly uncomfortable.
But she was his, and she gave to him what he needed, allowing him to exorcise whatever demons followed him back to Downton from London.
He spilled inside her, his shout like gravel over glass, and his body slumped against hers. Their clothes were an unwelcome a barrier between skin, but they stayed in place. Cora's breathing was rough against his ear and after a time, he began to pull away.
His wife's unusually strong grip held him against her and she tucked her face against his throat.
"Mmmm," She mumbled sleepily, squeezing him gently.
"I think I should be thanking you. Or at least apologizing."
"For what, love?" Cora nuzzled him like a cat, and the last of his anger and desperation began to evaporate.
"For being so..."
"Yes."
With care he slid away from her, straightening her clothing and helping her to stand. She shifted her hips and tugged at her skirt before turning to glance at herself in the mirror.
"Oh," Cora spoke to her reflection, flushed and mussed and terribly pleased with herself. She caught Robert's gaze in the glass and her lips turned up. "We've a few hours before dinner. Care to join me in a bath?"
He thought of London, of Branson, of the unholy ridiculous situation he'd place them in. He thought of his needless anger at the circumstances and his wife's willingness to absorb his discontent into herself.
He reached for her hand and threaded their fingers together.
He allowed himself to be led to the bathroom.
He smiled.
A little vignette-ish piece that came from tumblr and a throw-away line from last night's Downton Abbey. Robert came home from London and went straight to his room and wasn't seen until he planned to meet with the family. You know where my mind went.
Heh.