I couldn't resist this, since Downton fever has got hold of me. Matthew/Mary….who knew a canon couple could be so damn hot and frustrating and….ARGH!
Masquerade
"This…ridiculous situation cannot be allowed to continue a moment longer!" the Dowager Countess of Grantham's imperious voice rang out across the drawing room of Grantham House. Every word which fell from her lips was punctuated with a bang of her cane on the floor, like a drill sergeant berating his troops. "If those two foolish children refuse to see sense, then we must do it for them!"
That last commanding statement rang in the silence which followed, as she eyed the two women sitting opposite her in the decadent drawing room.
"I agree perfectly," Isobel sighed. She never liked agreeing with Violet but sometimes it could not be helped. Her long-lived smugness afterwards, however… "But what is to be done? Matthew will not return to Downton, and with Mary…"
Cora sighed. Since Mary had broken her engagement, confessed her doings with Pamuk to her father, and weathered the scandal Sir Richard had reaped upon them with his newspapers, her behaviour bordered on the destructive. Losing Lavinia, whom she had cared for dearly, losing Matthew forever and then the loss of her reputation, and in so public a way…it had broken her. She barely ate, she spent her days walking the grounds of Downton like a ghost, she spent at least one hour a day at Lavinia's grave, and Cora had heard her cry out for Matthew in her sleep more than once. As a mother, it had broken Cora's heart, and Robert's when she had confided in him about their eldest daughter.
Thankfully, Sybil was settled, albeit in an unorthodox union, but at least she was untouchable now. Edith was another matter. And there was Mary herself…Cora had lost a child, she did not wish to lose another through heartbreak.
"I had hoped that worm of a man would not carry through on his threat," Violet sighed. "But Robert did the right thing in standing behind Mary. If such a blackguard as Carlisle thought he would steal a Crawley so easily, he was most mistaken."
"But what are we to do? I cannot force Matthew back to Downton, and a falsehood would only make things worse I think," Isobel continued. Cora eyed her hands delicately, thinking it through.
"Well, obviously. Lies never did anyone good," Violet replied with a slight edge of sarcasm in her voice.
Isobel simply glared.
"I think…" Cora began as the two elder women turned to look at her. "I wonder if we might stage a meeting, as if merely by accident."
"But in too public a setting, Mary and Matthew might ignore each other altogether, or act as distant acquaintances. No, we need a way to ensure they are alone long enough together to thrash out their silly arguments," Violet shook her head, the ostrich feathers atop her hat shaking with the movement. Isobel's eyes grew distant, as she stared out to the gardens of Grantham House.
"As much as Matthew tries to hide it, he still loves her fiercely. When the scandal broke, I believe it was only guilt over Lavinia that kept him from her side," she murmured.
"But that is just it. Matthew's guilt is ruining more lives than his own," Violet humphed.
"I have an idea," Cora suddenly spoke up, shifting in her seat. "If Matthew truly loves Mary, then he will be frighteningly protective of her. Men in love always are."
Both the older ladies nodded, Isobel with slightly more authority on the matter than Violet.
"If we were to put Mary into a situation where she might be…endangered, at least superficially…" Cora continued, thinking hard on her idea before she spoke. "I will invite both of the girls up to town. There is a masquerade planned at Lady Winterton's. Unlike some, she is not above maintaining old friendships. I will mention it to Edith, and then develop a headache so Mary will be forced to attend. As it's a masquerade, her identity will be hidden. If Cousin Isobel were to mention it in passing to Matthew…"
"Yes, yes I see," Violet mused. "Those dreadful things always did have a habit of getting so rowdy."
"And if I were to mention it early, giving Matthew enough time to secure a disguise and an invitation…" Isobel almost clapped her hands with glee.
"Time to secure an invitation?" Violet scoffed. "He's the heir of the Earl of Grantham, of course he'll have an invitation."
"At a masquerade, there will be plenty of empty parlours and drawing rooms for them to talk in. Very well, I think we are agreed," Cora smiled, hoping that the risk involved would be worth it. But as it was, poor Mary's reputation could hardly get worse.
A week later, Matthew stood in the shadows of Lady Winterton's ballroom, eying the crowds of masked and robed guests, some conversing, others dancing, revolving gracefully around the cavernous room.
For the thousandth time, he cursed his mother. Cursed her for using his susceptibility, his protective instincts even in the midst of his grief over Lavinia, against him.
And what in God's name was the daughter of a belted Earl doing at one of these things at all?
Matthew had heard tales of such things from university friends, when they would sneak in and join the revels just as they began to get rowdy.
And two young, unaccompanied women would be prime targets for some of these society rakes' appetites.
Particularly as one now had a reputation for loose morals. Matthew winced behind his mask as he remembered hearing about that from his mother.
A painful revelation, one that had led inexorably to questions of the past. Was that why Mary had refused to give him an answer all those years ago? Was her reluctance more than just doubts over his prospects at the time?
At the time, he had forced thoughts of her away, as he buried himself in work until he could do no more, but the tiredness was a welcome relief from the pain.
The pain of losing Lavinia, of losing Mary forever.
He had never meant those things he had said at Lavinia's graveside. Lord knows he was in pain, and angry at himself, and animals in pain tended to lash out.
He had pushed her away, back to that odious Carlisle, but she had found the strength to break off their engagement.
From what his mother had told him in frequent letters, he had been blackmailing her into marrying as it was. A part of him wished he had been there, to give Carlisle what he deserved.
But then he had resigned any right to care for her when he had pushed her away.
But he couldn't deny that he wouldn't always look for her in a crowd, care for her wellbeing, for her safety.
But he was having difficulty seeing Mary anywhere at all.
He shifted his weight from his still bad leg, easing the slight ache, while readjusting the ridiculous costume he'd had to borrow.
And then he glimpsed a flash of brown, next to one of golden red, and straightened. He frowned, narrowing his eyes, as he saw a young, dark-haired woman, slender and tall, in a Spanish gown, black lace covering but not hiding her fine features. The crimson bodice, decorated in gold lace, clung to her body, the black velvet skirts swishing around her legs enticingly. Lace leaked from the sleeves ending at her elbow, swinging with every graceful movement of her arms. Her long hair was coiled loosely, so curls draped her face and neck, a single red rose holding them back.
Mary.
He was sure of it. He pushed away from his corner, and sidestepped the numerous matchmaking mamas and their insipid daughters intent on cornering the mysterious gentleman in black who refused to socialise.
He had almost reached her, when a surge in the crush forced her backwards into his arms, and they both froze.
Mary felt herself pushed backwards, the skirts of her costume tripping her before a strong set of arms held her tightly. Feeling flashed through her, painful and as deep as a cut, and she gasped.
She had been numb for so long. Only one person could possibly have done that.
Matthew.
In the months since Lavinia's death and her break with Carlisle, she had been numb. Matthew's words to her at Lavinia's graveside had made her numb, unfeeling, cold inside. With a single sentence, he had consigned her to a lifetime of misery.
But somehow, one night over dinner, she had looked at Carlisle's aging, debonair face and found herself repulsed. She could not do it, she could not bear him. She would rather kill herself.
So she had bid him goodbye, stood firm against his threats and blackmail, and gone to her father. She had offered to go away, before the scandal broke, but he had refused to let her. But regardless of her family's support, once the papers began reporting, she had retreated into her home, and become all but a hermit.
She didn't feel the need to eat, to sleep since she only dreamed of Ma-…of him, and she awoke with tears on her cheek and a scream in her throat. During the day, she hid it inside as she walked the grounds, rode the lanes, and visited Lavinia's grave to ensure it would be well-tended for when Matthew returned for a visit.
Until Mama, Granny and Edith had dragged her to London. And Edith had begged Mama to go to this silly masquerade, and then Mama had pleaded off with a headache and suggested she go.
She knew why, of course. At a masquerade, her identity was hidden entirely, and she could slip away before the reveal at midnight. And for Edith, there would be no whispers following her there, no scandalised glances or mean looks.
So she had agreed, and now there she was stood, numb.
Until he touched her.
Mustering all the willpower within her, locking her whirling emotions away, she found to her horror she had sunk against him, nestling into the safety of his hold.
His strength has certainly improved…
"What in God's name are you doing here?" he hissed in her ear, as she pushed him away and faced him imperiously.
"Thank you for your assistance, Sir, but I haven't a clue who you are. Excuse me," she tried to brush past him, hoping to escape, to find Edith and leave, before he cornered her again. What was he doing there anyway?
Angered at the dismissal, the chilly cloak of hauteur he remembered from the first weeks of their acquaintance, Matthew caught her arm, bending his head to hiss in her ear, fiercely. "Don't play with me, Mary!"
Those words…oh God she remembered when he had uttered them, at that dining table on election night, when they had kissed and he had proposed. Then the words had been enthused with just a hint of teasing, and an edge of rebuke, but now…
Now they were full of some leashed, angry tension, like a prowling lion eying its prospective prey.
She turned around, mouth open to deliver a scathing retort, albeit a quiet one since she had attracted enough attention, she knew. Thank God Edith had gone to the withdrawing room.
But then any thoughts of retorts, scathing or otherwise, died in her throat. Matthew was dressed like a Spanish nobleman, all in black, the frothy shirt open at his throat, the black cloak thrown back over one shoulder, his golden hair held back by the leather black half mask obscuring his beloved face, his blue eyes burning colder than ice into her own. He looked like Don Juan himself had stepped out of the mists of the past and onto the ballroom floor that night.
The sounds of a waltz struck up, and Matthew cursed under his breath. With gritted teeth, he swept her into hold and into the dance.
Mary didn't have time to gasp. She didn't want to be there, in Matthew's arms, trapped in his eyes, drowning in the storm of emotion he had unleashed in her. She didn't want to feel how their bodies matched perfectly, moving in synchronicity to the music, never faltering, how she sank against him, how her very body tingled at the steady weight of his hand at her waist and around her hand.
She didn't want to feel those things but she did. But she was Lady Mary Crawley; she would not show it. No one could make her show her true self to the world, so she hid behind a mask, the mask she had worn when she first met him, haughty, dismissive and cold.
All while she ached for him.
"So, my saviour, pray tell what are you doing at this soiree?" she asked coolly, archly. Matthew all but glared down at her, cursing himself. He did not want to feel her soft, slender body against him, the friction of her velvet, lace and silk gown, the way she slid so easily into his hold, his lead, letting him lead as easily as breathing.
The one arena where she would be led, and not lead herself.
"I am here because you are," he growled. "What are you doing at a blasted masquerade?"
"Mama mentioned it to Edith, and she wished to attend. Events like this are the few where she can show her face without fear of whispers," was the acerbic reply, as Mary tore her gaze from his. Matthew frowned as he realised what she meant, and as he looked down he saw how thin she had become, her already slim figure shrunken. In truth, she was too pale to be a Spanish lady, her beauty more that of a woodland fairy queen, ethereal, enthralling and irresistible.
"Stopped pretending you don't know me now?" he asked, coldly. Her lips quirked.
"Aren't we all pretending tonight?" she replied. "All playing dress up. Me, I'm pretending to be a respectable, virtuous lady for one night."
Matthew saw the pain, the mask fracturing for a moment, as she looked away. He couldn't stand the self-derision, the loathing in her voice, the mocking edge there.
"Was that why you would not accept me, all those years ago?" he asked, fiercely. She looked at him, and then away again, and he had his answer. "Why did you not tell me?"
"It doesn't matter, it's all in the past. We closed that chapter, long ago," she whispered, brokenly. Matthew felt his heart wrench, and his grip tightened, bringing her closer to him as if she would disappear.
"No," he breathed, pleadingly. Mary's eyes snapped to his, and his heart broke at the desolation in them, desolation he realised he had wrought.
Good God, was he fated to destroy the lives of the women he loved?
"Yes, Matthew. You said so yourself," she murmured. "This is the end."
She felt some vindication as pain flashed across his beloved blue eyes, and she resented him for the guilt he invoked when she saw it.
"No, you belong to me. You belong with me," he said through gritted teeth, as her eyes flashed angrily. The life was slowly returning to her face, her eyes and he made a vow right then and there, he would never let it fade.
In his heart of hearts he knew now, that no matter his guilt, his pain, Lavinia would not want him to be alone, to be apart from Mary. She had been clearer of sight than he, and no doubt she was in Heaven right then, looking down, with that expression of stubbornness on her face he had loved.
"I belong to no one," Mary hissed. "I am my own keeper."
"You shouldn't be here. Masquerades are no place for ladies like you and Edith," he growled.
"You forget, I am a fallen woman," she laughed bitterly, throwing her head back and exposing her swan-like neck, adorned with a single pearl on a rope of black velvet. "And I have my own road to travel, so I will say goodbye, Mr Crawley."
All too late Matthew realised the waltz had ended, but Mary slipped away before he could do or say anything. The crush swelled around him, but he fought his way through, following her mahogany curls doggedly until they reached the entrance hall. To his confusion, Mary glanced around, Matthew ducking back into the shadows so she wouldn't see him, and then ducked into one of the side corridors. He followed her to a parlour, and he watched from the half closed doorway as she stood in the middle of the room, beside the chaise longue and the fireplace, and she seemed to collapse inwards, cradling her body as if it would fall apart if she didn't.
She didn't cry, at least not verbally, but her proud head bowed and she shook.
The sight lacerated Matthew's heart anew, as he slipped inside and closed the door, sliding the bolt across.
Mary jumped at the sound, and spun around, as she met Matthew's eyes, this time without the impediment of a mask.
No, no, no!
The word rang in Mary's head, as she backed away. He couldn't see her like this, he mustn't…
"What are you doing here? Will you give me no peace?" she cried out.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he breathed, already moving to hold her but she skirted around him defensively.
"No, don't touch me. Every time you touch me, you just tear me apart, and I have to sew myself together again!" she whispered.
"Not this time," Matthew replied. "Mary, forgive me, please."
"I want you to leave," she still spoke in that wavering, broken voice, lifeless, soulless. Where had it gone?
For a moment she feared and hoped he would, but then he shook his head as his eyes darkened. "You once said I must pay no attention to the things you say, and I'm inclined to listen to that advice."
Mary laughed, a hollow, bitter laugh as a chilling thought bloomed inside her. "Are you fulfilling some cousinly duty? Conforming to the fitness of things? Has Mama told you, or Cousin Isobel perhaps, that her poor, pitiful eldest daughter is in need of rescuing?" she sneered mockingly, hiding the hurt that would come behind a mask once more.
Matthew would almost have marvelled at the change in her, the way she could slip from vulnerable to cold and cruel in moments.
But right then, it was not helpful, and his temper was slowly straining to be free.
Mary's words only ensured it snapped quicker than it used to. "Leave me, Matthew Crawley. Leave me to my…existence and go back to yours. Your words did the job they intended," she shot at him before she turned away, focussing on the fire, waiting for the door to open and shut, and for footsteps to fade down the corridor.
But they did not. Instead, they marched up behind her, and before she could turn, she was spun of her own accord into Matthew's arms. The physical shock was too much, and she sank against him with no resistance.
"Mary, you will listen to me, and listen carefully. I love you," he whispered in her ear. "I always have, and I always will. I am not here out of duty, or familial care, but out of love. Because I can't bear to live without the woman I need above all others on this earth. I am nothing without you, we are nothing without each other. Forgive me for those words I spoke, they were said in grief and guilt when you were not to blame, and neither was I."
Mary stared at him, aghast, stunned beyond words, as he continued, pouring out his heart, laying it at her feet once more but he was exposing hers steadily, with each sure word.
"If your state and what my mother has told me is any indication, you need me too. I will never leave your side again, even if you push me away again. I won't give you up so easily this time," he finished, his arms tightening possessively.
But it wasn't the possessiveness of Carlisle, a cold sort of pride, like one might have for an expensive statuette or painting, but a heated, fiery one, one which set her free.
Matthew had not meant to reveal quite so much but it was said now, and he realised he would not take back a single word if given the chance. It was the truth.
And he would fight until Mary accepted it.
But when he met her eye, it shone with so much feeling, so much joy and hope and love, it reignited the same emotions in his own heart.
So he kissed her.
At the feel of Matthew's warm, hard lips against her own, Mary shuddered and gave in, letting her shrunken heart free, kissing him with all the need inside of her.
Matthew pulled her in, closer to him, his strong hands possessively claiming all he had longed for, all he hungered for since the day he had met her, their lips caressing and fusing more deeply than they had ever done. Their kiss in the hall at Downton, before Lavinia had died, had been a reaffirmation, a promise and a goodbye.
It had reaffirmed that they loved one another, that they promised to do so until the day they died, and saying goodbye because they were marrying other people.
But now, Lavinia was gone, Carlisle abandoned, and they were free. Free to love, and damn what anyone thought of it. If Matthew was going to have to be an Earl, there was no one he would rather have as his Countess, his wife, his lover and the mother of their children.
At the thought, desire sliced through him, almost painful, almost too much, as Mary found herself held so tightly against him, she could hardly breathe. She didn't care, just moaned and pulled him closer, as his hands tangled in her hair.
He pulled her backwards with him, towards the chaise until he felt the cushion behind his knees and sat down, pulling Mary into his lap in a froth of silks and velvet. She gasped and clung, but did not break their kiss. Their behaviour was verging on wanton, but Mary found herself unable to care. The war had changed them both so deeply, so intrinsically and since society had disowned her, she owed its strictures, those rules she had lived by since birth, nothing whatsoever.
So when Matthew's lips drifted hungrily down her jaw, to her neck, she just moaned his name and slid her fingers into his hair. At her breathless sigh of his name, Matthew drew back from her silken skin to gaze up at her, adoration in his burning blue eyes.
"Marry me," he growled, as he pulled her mask off. "No more pretending, no masks. Just and you and me, as we should be."
Mary's heart soared. Her old self was emerging from its shell, not unlike a butterfly unfurling from its cocoon, and she decided to tease him. She rather enjoyed this strong, passionate Matthew who wasn't restrained by decorum and propriety.
"I don't know, I'll have to think about it," she grinned, as he sighed exasperatedly.
"Afraid to marry a sea monster?" he asked, joining in with her teasing. Her smile grew soft, as she tucked back that flop of hair that loved to fall over his brow.
"I rather think you have transformed into Heracles. Or perhaps Eros when he saved Psyche from the sleep of death when she went to the Underworld," Mary smiled, thinking the analogy was not dissimilar. Matthew frowned, but that beloved smile was still on his features.
"I'm afraid I am not familiar with that Greek legend," he murmured. "Although to be compared to Eros, it's better than a sea monster."
Mary laughed as she stroked back his hair, tracing his features longingly. Desire sparked in Matthew's eyes, as he drew her face down to his.
"Well, if I am to be compared to a love deity, I must make sure I match up to your expectations," he murmured huskily, before their lips met lingeringly, as she moaned and shifted in his lap.
He felt the warm, gentle, teasing weight of her tongue as it taunted his own, never allowing him full possession, driving him insane until his patience snapped and he held her still by the nape of her neck, to kiss her as deeply as he wished, as hungrily as if he were starving for want of her. Mary could not get close enough, as his lips once more fell to her neck, as she arched into his hold.
Matthew's head was dizzy, almost drunk with the taste of her, the scent of her perfume, roses and musk, fogging his mind. His tongue was full of the acrid taste of her perfume where his lips and tongue touched where she had dabbed it on her skin, before being replaced by the taste of her skin, soft, yielding and utterly perfect.
"I fear I am getting ahead of myself," he breathed, looking up at her tenderly. "Marry me, Mary. Say yes quickly, please."
"Yes, alright. I'll marry you, and gladly, Mr Crawley," she smiled, and as joy dawned in those sapphire orbs, she felt the last vestiges of those hellish years dissipate forever.
Finally everything would be as it should.
"Mary? Mary, are you down here?" Edith's voice suddenly called out, in the corridor and they froze, achingly aware of the precarious position they were now in.
"We have to go. I told Mama I would be home before anyone took their masks off," she whispered, reluctantly leaving his warm arms to stand and smooth down her dress. She replaced her mask, and Matthew his, before they opened the door.
Edith was stood outside, just a little way down the corridor, her costume hidden by her cloak, Mary's in her hand.
"There you are! Where have you-?" she tailed off as Matthew appeared behind Mary, and her eyes widened behind the green mask. "Oh, Mary, you haven't-?"
"Cousin Edith," Matthew smiled, making her jump in surprise. "Nice to see you again. Now I had better see you back to your home, ladies."
Mary smiled at Edith's shock, snaring her cloak and swinging it around her shoulders. Matthew saw her hands still trembled, and took them in his own. "Allow me," he whispered, kissing her knuckles gently, before quickly tying the knot and pulling the black velvet hood up.
All while Edith stood, staring in utter shock.
"Cousin Matthew," she finally gasped, her eyes darting between them. "What-?"
"I do hope your father is still awake when we return. I must speak with him," Matthew replied, smiling slightly, as he offered his arm to Edith and then to Mary.
Mary couldn't help chuckling to herself all the way home.
Cora was still awake when the car drew up outside Grantham House, and she looked out eagerly.
She was not disappointed when she saw a gentleman with blonde hair and dressed in black help first Edith, then Mary from the car. She didn't miss the way his hand lingered on her back as they walked up the steps of the house, or how Mary seemed to lean into him, and a triumphant smile lit her features.
Yes, their plan had worked, she was sure of it.
"Robert!" she called. He turned from the drinks cabinet enquiringly. "Matthew is here, with Mary."
"What?" he asked incredulously. He joined her at the window, watching the trio approach. A hopeful smile lit his face. "Do you think-?"
"I think so," Cora smiled, kissing his cheek lingeringly.
A moment later they heard voices in the entrance hall, and then Edith declaring she would go to bed, and see them in the morning.
The door opened and Matthew and Mary walked in, their masks gone and such a blatant aura of happiness swelling from them that Cora couldn't resist smiling from ear to ear.
"Cousin Cora, Cousin Robert," Matthew smiled, inclining his head to them, but not letting go of Mary's hand. "I know this is rather…unorthodox but Mary and I…"
"My dear fellow, I think I already know," Robert smiled, stepping forward to clap his heir on the shoulder. "Well done, both of you."
"We have your blessing, Papa?" Mary asked, as she dropped Matthew's hand momentarily to touch her father's. Robert's eyes shone.
"With all my heart, my darling children," he pulled her into a hug, kissing her forehead before embracing Matthew like a son. Cora came forward, the skirts of her evening gown rustling as she embraced Mary tightly.
"Oh, my dear! At last," was all she said, tears in her eyes before she turned to Matthew. "Thank you."
"I rather think I have you to thank, Cousin Cora. As well as my mother," he replied quietly, but with a shrewd twinkle in his eye. Cora almost blushed.
"You can blame Violet, it was her idea," she whispered hastily, sparking a grin from her future son-in-law.
"We can make plans in the morning," Robert murmured warmly. "But Matthew, you must stay here tonight. Its far too late for you to go traipsing across London."
Matthew smiled in assent, and Mary went to pull away. "I'll speak with Mrs Hughes, and see you in the morning," she offered, before leaving them alone but not without one last glance at Matthew.
As soon as the door shut and the sounds of her heels faded away on the tiles, Matthew turned back to Cora and Robert.
"Now cut line. How bad have things been, since the scandal broke?" he asked. Robert's eyes darkened, and he sat down heavily on the sofa.
"She withdrew completely into herself. After she threw over Carlisle, and he printed the story, she barely left the house, except-" Robert began to explain but stopped. Matthew's brow rose.
"Except what?"
Cora sighed. "To visit Lavinia's grave. She kept it tidy and refreshed the flowers when they began to die. She barely ate, or slept, and when she did…she called your name."
Matthew felt pain swell within him, and anger at Carlisle, at his own stupidity. He should have been there for her.
"We'll marry by special licence, as soon as possible. I won't waste another second," he finally said, looking up at his cousins. Cora's eyes were shining, and Robert nodded.
"The proprieties don't matter a fig," he pronounced. "Perhaps you will come up to Downton?"
"Yes, as soon as I've written to my law firm, and to Mother. She won't want to miss this," Matthew grinned wryly. No doubt he would be receiving a lot of smug looks and knowing grins for years to come.
If that was the worst he had to endure, he'd do it gladly.
"Alright. Well, I think I've had my dose of excitement for the evening, so I'm for bed," Robert sighed, standing up. "Cora, perhaps you could find Mary and make sure Matthew is comfortable?"
"Yes, of course," she murmured, leading the way as the footman opened the drawing room door, and she led Matthew into the guest wing.
She paused outside an empty bedchamber, then turned to him consideringly. Matthew wanted to shift under her scrutiny, but didn't move.
"Mary's rooms are down the hall. She will need you. As long as you're back in your room before the servants rise…" she trailed off meaningfully, before smiling gently and walking to the room she and Robert shared. Matthew blinked, not entirely sure he had heard aright.
Had Lady Cora Crawley given him permission to do what he thought she meant?
For a moment, Matthew paused, torn. All he wanted was to go to Mary, but his inner gentleman told him not to. Perhaps he should just say goodnight? Make sure she was well? Surely propriety wouldn't be too badly assaulted, even if Lady Grantham had given her implicit permission.
He sighed, running his hand through his hair agitatedly, before turning and quietly walking the short distance to Mary's rooms. He knocked on the door once, twice, before it opened to reveal Mary, hair loose from their curls, clad only in diaphanous linen.
Pure desire raced through him at the sight, but he pushed it back at the sight of her wide eyes.
"Matthew?"
"I-I just wanted to say goodnight, and to see if you were well," he murmured. "Are you well?"
Mary felt her smile growing at his obvious awkwardness, only making him more endearing. She considered letting him sweat it out for a few more minutes but decided to take pity.
"Matthew," she breathed, taking his hand and kissing it. "Come in."
Matthew met her eyes, dark, amused but also heated, and felt a shiver run down his spine. Unresisting, he let her pull him into her room, the darkness only held back by a single lamp. It eased his nervousness, as the latch clicked shut behind him.
Mary turned, and came towards him, but her face, pensive and slightly tinged with fear, even shrouded in shadow as it was, made him pause. She had just reached him, her hands sliding up his lapels when he caught her them, holding her still.
"Mary," he began, as she looked to him questioningly. "Will you tell me what happened that night? What really happened, not what the papers said?"
Her face blanched, and she turned away, her robe floating around her, almost making her look like a wraith. She rubbed her arms, trying to ward off the chill which had suddenly come over her at Matthew's request. But she owed it to him, if they were to marry. He deserved the truth.
Mary sat on the bed, as Matthew waited.
"I didn't ask Pamuk to come to my room. I didn't desire his attentions at all, not the way he wanted me to. I knew what would happen if I were found out," she began quietly, looking down at her hands. "I had just readied myself for bed. Anna had left me, and then he came. I pulled the coverlet over myself, but he was insistent. He said he would leave me intact for my husband. I never said yes, but neither did I push him away, not after he told me he would tell others of the incident if I refused him. I couldn't scream since even then there would be scandal. I didn't say yes, but I didn't tell him no."
Mary looked up at that, tears gathering in her eyes as she remembered that ghastly night, how unclean she had felt after they had carried Pamuk's body back to his room, how much she wished she had pushed him away, even if it cost her reputation.
Matthew could only watch her in horror and pity, anger at Pamuk rising viciously, but he was dead, and Mary was left, scarred. Contrary to what the papers said, it was almost rape, certainly when coercion was involved. His heart went out to her, and he strode across the room to her, kneeling at her feet and taking her hands.
"And then he died, in my arms. I woke Anna, and Mamma and we carried him back to his room. It might have ended there if not for Edith writing to the Turkish Ambassador," Mary finished, her voice even and calm, but the way she trembled showed she was anything but.
"Oh, my love," he whispered. "It was not your fault. I only wish I had known before. Why didn't you-?"
"I tell you? I wanted to, after you proposed, but then Mama cautioned me not to, and then Aunt Rosamund, and I just kept putting it off. I was terrified I would lose you, that you would have been disgusted by me," she admitted, with a sad smile. Matthew shook his head.
"Truthfully I would have been shocked, but I would never have stopped loving you. I never have," he whispered.
"You asked me if I loved you enough to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter your prospects," she began. "Then I wasn't sure if I did. I think, awful as it sounds, that it took losing you so many times to realise how much I love you, and how much I would have given up to be with you. I would follow you anywhere, as long as I could be with you," Mary told him, as he drew closer. "Lord, that sounded awfully like something out of an Austen novel." she smiled wryly, as Matthew chuckled, cupping her cheek in one hand.
"Cousin Cora told me about how you go to visit Lavinia," he said seriously. "Thank you for that. I haven't yet worked up the courage."
"It was the least I could do, for her and for you," Mary replied, dismissively, before meeting Matthew's eyes. "Thank you for loving me enough to ask me what really happened."
Her tone held tinges of wonder, and he almost frowned. Why would she ever think otherwise?
"Oh, Mary," he sighed, stroking his thumb over her cheek, relishing the soft skin beneath. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she leaned into the caress, as he bent his head nearer. "Nothing," he whispered, "would be enough to drive me from you."
Their kiss was chaste, at first, merely a simple touching of lips, gentle and tender, before it deepened. Mary moaned, and pulled Matthew closer, running her hands through his hair, as he sighed, his hips against her knees. She began to lean back into the mattress, Matthew rising to follow her, as their bodies met. At the feel of the heat emanating from her fiancé, she gasped and arched her spine, feeling the peaks of her breasts harden against his jacket.
Matthew was lost in the sensual haze that having beneath him, at last, evoked. She was so soft, so perfect beneath him, her passion unleashed, her body melting into his own. It was so much better than any dream he had ever had about her, over the years.
But it wasn't the right time.
He couldn't resist the urge to taste her skin again, as she turned her head away, sucking in a shuddering breath as his tongue explored the line and hollows of her neck.
"I've dreamed of this, of you like this," he whispered in her ear, making her shiver. Mary met his eyes, and smiled. She knew what he was thinking.
"I want to be yours, only yours," she breathed. She wanted him to wash away memories of Pamuk, to give her body entirely to him, the one gift she had left to give, contrary to what others thought. Pamuk had not taken her physical virtue; perhaps even then Matthew had been there, in the back of her mind, shrouded in feelings of resentment and haughtiness, but still there. Always there. "But this time, I want to be yours in every other way, before we take one another this way."
Matthew's heart soared, and he smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He forced himself to let her up, as she took his hand. "Stay with me, tonight?" she asked, "Just hold me for awhile."
He just nodded, his heart too full to speak, as they fought their way beneath the covers of her bed, his jacket and shoes discarded, and Mary finally felt the comfort of his arms holding her in the warmth of her bed.
Soon to be theirs.
"I spoke to your father. Tomorrow, I'll procure a special licence, then we'll marry at Downton. Is that alright?" he asked, as he stroked her shoulder through the linen of her nightgown.
"You have taken care of things, haven't you?" she muttered wryly, smiling as he frowned down at her. In the past she might have taken issue with his deciding things so quickly without consulting her, but it was what she wanted too, and frankly she was tired of waiting. "That sounds perfect."
Matthew chuckled, and pressed a kiss to her ruffled curls. The feel of her lying in his arms, so different than their lustful embrace a few moments before, felt so utterly right. He was home.
Downton Abbey could burn to the ground, the world could end as they knew it, but as long as Mary stayed where she belonged, in his arms, nothing mattered.
The past was but a dim, unpleasant memory, more insubstantial than a dream, outshone by the future that awaited them.
Together.
Please R&R :D
On a slightly more random note, I was watching Disney's Hercules on Youtube, and I couldn't help thinking that Dan Stevens kind of reminds me of a real-life version of the character, physically speaking. Or am I just nuts?
(Don't answer that question, I already know I am ;P)