A missing-scene oneshot from episode 2 of series 3. Spoilers, of course.
"You've been quite some time," without even being able to see his face, Isobel knew that Richard was smiling, he was only affecting irritation.
Standing in the doorway, she smiled for a moment at the top of the back of his head, watching his hair glint in the golden light the fire cast on the room, before joining him on the settee, letting him drape his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tightly against him, and planting kisses in her hair.
"I thought you said you were going to try and get away early?" he asked her, the slight hints of irritation still betrayed by his tone.
"I did try," she assured him, leaning up a little to kiss him back, on the lips, and then continued, "Trust me, I don't really relish the evenings I spent up there in that soulless dining room when I could be here in your arms instead. But this evening things took rather a turn for the unexpected."
"How so?"
"There was some kind of crisis in the kitchens," she told him, "I'm not entirely sure how ir happened, but the oven broke down. Anyway, Carson and Mrs Hughes were in a dreadful state because there was nothing for any of us to eat, and it was a big dinner."
"Mrs Hughes?" he asked, a little sharply, "Was she alright?"
"Yes," she replied, a little surprised by his apparently extreme concern at the notion, "She was alright in the end, I think. Grandmama came to our rescue."
"Lady Violet?" he asked, even more surprised.
"No," she told him, "Now, I do admit that would have been a fine a thing to behold. But, no, it was the other one."
"Oh," he remarked, "That makes more sense. How did she rescue you all?"
"She had an extraordinary idea," she replied, resting her head against his chest, closing her eyes as his arm ghosted lazily up and down her forearm, which lay facing upwards across his lap, "She had all sorts of cold foods sent up and laid out on the dining room table, and told us to all take some food and go where ever in the house we wanted to eat it."
"It does sound extraordinary," he agreed, "Where did you go to eat your food, then?"
"Oh, I was quite tame and stayed in the drawing room," she admitted.
By the slight movement of his chin against the top of her head she could tell that he had raised his eyebrows at her.
"Yes, I know that's not very like me," she told him, rolling her eyes a little and sitting up to look at him properly, "But there was really no point in being any more adventurous. After all, you weren't there to be adventurous with."
She saw a definite glint in his eyes.
"And where might you have ended up if I had been there?" he enquired lightly, his thumb brushing over her back.
"Oh, the most comfortable guest bedroom, I've no doubt."
He smiled softly.
"You ought to have sent for me," he told her, almost seriously.
"Well, it did cross my mind," she replied, matching his half-earnest tone, "I thought I could injure one of the other guests to lure you there. But I managed to hang on. I thought it would make me appreciate you more when I finally got here."
He bent down swiftly, pressing his lips to hers, and she responded eagerly; shifting, sitting up to reach him more easily. His hands held her face as he kissed her thoroughly. She loved it when he sucked hungrily on her lower lip, and she moaned a little against his mouth.
As they broke apart she smiled breathlessly, her forehead leaning against his.
"And do you know what happened then?" she asked him.
"When?" he replied. She was pleased to note that the kiss seemed to have knocked him for six just as much as it had done to her.
"When Martha took it upon herself to revolutionise the way dinner is eaten at Downton Abbey. Everyone loved it," she told him, "Well, maybe not Violet or Carson. But everyone else had a wonderful evening."
She was quiet for a moment.
"It was a lot freer," she explained, "It's ridiculous really, but it made me think that if they can accept that sort of change they can accept any sort. I suppose I'm trying to say that... it gave me hope."
He was watching her closely; not so much with scrutiny as a level look of trying to take her in properly.
"Isobel," he asked finally, "What are you saying?"
He had spotted almost before she had what she was trying to say. But he wanted her to say it properly. She took a deep breath.
"I suppose," she repeated, "I'm trying to say that it gave me hope for us. Being able to be together, and everybody knowing about it."
His level look endured.
"You had dinner in a slightly different way," he reminded her, "You didn't cancel the season or affect a socialist government."
"I know," she told him dismissively, "Heavens, Richard, I know that it's only a small step. But it made me see a time when things really can be different. When I can hold your hand in public, regardless of class, or wealth or anything like it, and say, "He is my husband, my lover, he is my whole life," without anyone trying to make us feel as if we've done something wrong."
"Your husband," he repeated softly, his hand falling into hers at the same moment.
She paused, not having realised what she'd said. Her cheeks flushed a little, but her eyes wouldn't leave his, she stared back at him, a little defiantly.
"What's the point in pretending?" she asked in little more than a whisper, "I want to marry you, Richard. I want to be bound to you forever. I hate having to be apart from you. I love you."
He was quiet at first, but then he smiled.
"Are you asking me to marry you, Isobel?" he asked her.
She paused, considering.
"If you want to marry me, then I'm yours."
He leant forwards, kissing her again, fiercely, passionately. She allowed his weight to push her back into the settee, so that she lay beneath him, his arms around her, pressed between the cushions and his body, still kissing.
"It's been so long, Richard," she told him between breaths, as his lips trailed away from hers, down over her jaw, "I've loved you for so long. No matter what anyone can say to us, I think we've waited long enough."
He stopped kissing her for a second, resting on his forearms, leaning over her, watching her face.
"I never thought it would be my wife who proposed to me," he confessed, looking into her eyes.
Foolishly, she felt her eyes filling with tears.
"And I never thought I'd propose to a man," she admitted, "Oh, Richard, are you saying yes?"
"Yes, I think I am."
"Oh," happily, she pressed his head back down towards her and their lips met again.
"Isobel," he murmured, when a long while later they broke apart, "Shall we go to bed?"
She was silent.
"We needn't go to sleep," he told her softly.
"It's so warm here, with you," she told him quietly, he saw her eyes, though cast downwards, glinting with the reflected light of the fire, "Will you make love to me here, like this?"
He brushed his hand over the curls at her forehead, feeling a lump form in his throat at the prospect of fulfilling her request. He could understand her wish to stay here, in this moment, where they had decided they would be married, and to make love here, completely.
"Of course I will," he replied, bowing his head, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose, her eyes, her lips, "Whatever you want, my darling."
He heard her sigh contentedly, as his hands moved down from the level of her shoulders to her breasts. Exhaling deeply himself, he deftly unfastened the buttons on the front of her dress, burying his face in the exposed skin of her collarbone. He often had this feeling when he was with her; this prelapsarian feeling of completion; when he was with her nothing was wrong. All of his encounters with women before had been tainted by a furtive quality, a guiltiness, a consciousness of the feeling of sin. Isobel was too pure to be touched by anything like that, and it cleansed his love for her.
But at the same time she was so beautifully wanton, and passionate, and with the slightest hints of utter wilderness. Loving her was like fire; her eyes dark in the light from the flames, her skin flushing deeply at his touch. They shed their clothes quickly, him sinking back down to lie between her parted legs, her body undulating under his in a quickening motion as he drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked hard.
She loved the weight of him on top of her, it was comforting, it was the wonderful bodily pressure that she craved. She loved the way he lavished attention to her breast, touching them with his hands, kissing them. She loved the feeling of his excitement, poised between her legs, where she needed him, but not touching her yet. Shifting further down, she slipped her hand in between her legs, she found him, hard and ready for her. He groaned as she touched him, and she smiled. He was an assured lover, and controlled in perfect measures, he was masterful, and she loved that, but she also loved knowing that she could make him lose control when she wanted to.
She looked into his eyes. His hand moved before she could speak, slipping his hand the same way she had done hers a moment ago. He touched her there, his fingers between her folds. She gasped, bucking her hips into full contact with his. Of course, he knew how to do it to her too. He knew her inside out. He was still touching her, stroking her infuriatingly lightly.
"Make love to me, Richard," she told him, "Make love to me, please."
He bent his head to hers, kissing her.
"Anything, my darling," he told her, pushing into her in one motion, "Anything."
His hands cupped her face again, her arms wrapping over his back, holding his chest to hers as he withdrew and pushed back into her.
He made her feel thoroughly loved, she thought, as she'd never felt before.
There came a time when they couldn't kiss any more, it was too much. She could just focus on the feeling building between her legs, the knot in her stomach, the darts of pleasure flying straight to her knees. His hands were at the side of her breasts, his thumbs between their bodies, massaging her nipples.
"Richard," she moaned, as she felt her body begin to stiffen, "Oh, Richard."
A couple more thrusts and he exploded inside her, calling her name too, collapsing with blissful satisfied weight on top of her.
As they both recovered, her hand wound into his hair, stroking his head. She kissed his forehead.
He spoke first.
"I love you, my darling," he told her, "I'm so glad I'm going to marry you."
"Richard," she told him, "Pull the rug down from the back of the settee, will you? I think I want to stay here for a little bit longer."
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