A/N: I'm sorry (not sorry) - I couldn't resist some early Vipat. Additional A/N: I changed the date. I have my reasons. You shall see.


Spring, 1858

Patrick's parents introduced him to her at the first ball of the Season, then wandered off – as if their son wouldn't notice. As they began to chat, Patrick surreptitiously eyed the young woman he'd heard so much about. The styles that year tended toward bell-shaped skirts and small, puffed sleeves off the shoulder. The neckline of her bodice dipped into a demure V-shape, and the white satin suited her skin tone. Pretty enough, he judged, and her voice reminded him of a burgundy wine, a crisp, white Chablis. However, as he requested a set of dances (knowing his parents, the Earl and Countess of Grantham, would ask him if he had – and send him back to her if he hadn't), he saw something behind her eyes he didn't like. Furthermore, as she scribbled his name, "Lord Downton," upon her dance card, he ascertained a lack of enthusiasm from the lady.

Bowing, he took his leave of her until their first dance. A footman passed by with glasses of wine, and Patrick stopped him and lifted a glass from the tray. He glanced around and breathed a sigh of relief to see his parents occupied with some "important" friends of theirs. The evening had just begun, and already Patrick longed to be anywhere but here.

"Downton!"

He turned and smiled when he beheld the laughing face of his friend. "Middleton! Confound it, I thought you were still in Spain or India or somewhere!" Patrick clapped a hand upon the much shorter man's shoulder.

Middleton shook his head and waved a hand for a drink. Upon its delivery, he took a long swig. "Eh, although similar in many ways, as you can see, I am in neither. Unless, of course, I am an apparition meant to haunt you." He let out a booming laugh, then said, "I am back here in London. My parents –" he rolled his eyes dramatically – "insisted I return for the Season. A more frivolous or useless exercise I could never imagine."

Patrick chuckled. "I understand. I, too, had to end my travels for this ridiculous exercise. You'd think at twenty they'd leave us be for a while." Draining his glass, he gestured a footman over and traded his empty glass for a full one.

"Heirs we are, Downton, more's the pity for us." The sandy-haired man gulped down a good third of his drink before rudely pointing to a girl across the room. "You see that raven-haired beauty there? The one in the bright blue gown?"

Turning a bit to see the girl his friend indicated, Patrick let out a low whistle. "Yes. The one with the brown eyes."

"You can see that from here?" Middleton squinted.

"No, you daft sot. I asked her for a dance or two when we first arrived. I saw then." He rolled his eyes.

Middleton chortled. "Well played. Snow White, I call her. The fairest of them all she is, too. However, her family already have their hearts set on her marrying some duke." He let out a deep sigh. "I met her last autumn in France, whilst she was there with her family on holiday, and I can't stop thinking about her."

Shrugging, Patrick sipped his wine. "Just because her family have their hearts set on her marrying a duke, doesn't mean she does. I mean, for God's sake, man, you're going to be a marquess, and you're rich as Croesus." Lowering his voice, Patrick stepped closer to his friend. "Do you even know her name, Middleton? Does she know really who you are?"

"Of course I do, Downton!" A deep crease appeared upon Middleton's brow. "She's Lady Harriet, and we've been secretly corresponding. She even allowed me to steal a kiss from her." He trained his eyes upon his Snow White and grinned at the memory.

"Must be nice to like someone like that," Patrick mumbled, tipping the remaining contents of his glass down his throat. "My parents have been introducing me to women left and right. But they have one in particular in mind." He nodded in the young lady's direction.

Middleton moved his eyes reluctantly from Lady Harriet to the other woman. "Well, she's a lovely thing, isn't she?" he said generously.

"But, Middleton, I have my own expectations, my own hopes too. And she doesn't quite fit them." Patrick felt as if he were complaining. Perhaps he was. But he thought Middleton, of all people, would understand.

And his friend nodded, sighing. "Yes. I know." The musicians struck a few chords for the first dance. "Who's first on your card?"

Patrick plucked it from his pocket and brought it close enough to read. "Miss Georgiana Wellesley." He cast a bored look at Middleton. "I hope I remember which one is her. I don't think I really want to marry any of them, but I'm not so horrible as to want to embarrass any of them."

Rolling his eyes, the blond man read off his own dance card, "Lady Jane Rochester."

"Ah. Yes. Have a nice time with that one. I hope she doesn't talk your ear off."

"Thanks, Downton." He laughed and put his glass down to seek out his partner, waving a hand behind him.

Patrick found the tiny brunette in a corner; she blushed as he extended a hand to her. "Miss Wellesley?"

"Lord Downton," she acknowledged, bowing her head and taking his hand to be led onto the dance floor.

As they danced the first dance of the evening, Patrick found his eyes wandering about the room. Miss Wellesley had her own sort of charm, and he didn't mind dancing with her, but he longed to be free again. When he'd realized his all-too-short time for adventuring drew to a close, he'd sent telegrams to Downton Abbey, begging his father to let him loose for another year. There was still so much to see and do. He hadn't seen the entire British Empire yet. He'd never been to America. He hadn't sailed to India or Egypt. Europe had been exciting, and he felt fortunate to have seen so much of it, but there was more to do. So much of his life he'd be duty-bound, stuck. He didn't see why he had to begin so early.

After he'd returned home a few weeks ago – just in time to get ready to come to London for the new Season – his father had sat him down and had a long "chat" with him about growing up, getting situated, married, and about really learning what it would be like to be Earl of Grantham. Patrick had grumbled, hating all of it.

And then his father had asked him if he had a problem with women.

Taken aback, Patrick had simply stared at his father for a while. "A problem with women?" he'd sputtered out, blinking at the gray-haired man in front of him.

"Yes, son. A problem with women. You do like women, don't you?" He'd eyed his son askance.

Did he like women? Patrick colored a trifle and shook his head vehemently against the insinuation once he'd realized what his father meant. "Of course I do, Papa. I merely wanted to travel another year – see things, do things."

As his father harrumphed and got up to pour a drink, Patrick stared at the library carpet. Did he like women? Women fascinated him, intrigued him. He enjoyed being around them, talking to them. He loved conversing with intelligent women in particular. Sometimes he would even connect with a woman – young or old, it didn't matter – and be attracted to her. But he'd never come across anyone who'd gotten under his skin quite like –

And, all of a sudden, at the very end of the first dance, interrupting even his thoughts, he saw her. She was unmistakable – red hair and ice-blue eyes, high cheekbones and porcelain complexion.

The Honorable Miss Violet Barton.

Ushering Miss Wellesley from the floor, Patrick made his way to Miss Violet Barton. She wore a gown of deep purple, her carefully curled and braided coiffure adorned with dark purple flowers. The last time he'd seen her had been years before, her auburn locks falling down her back, her eyes snapping at him – teasing him, challenging him. Her parents – a baron and his wife - had been long time friends of his parents, their small estate not too far outside of their county. Little Violet and her siblings, along with her mother and father, had spent some time at Downton. Violet was a third daughter, but only a few years his junior. He'd taught her to ride a horse, he remembered, and she'd – well, she'd always given him something to think about.

Of course, in the years since they'd last met, what he'd thought about was her.

"Violet," he said, his voice breathier than he meant it to be. The knot of friends around her scattered before him.

"Lord Downton," she returned, pulling herself up straighter in his presence.

Patrick felt his heart drop into his stomach, and his forehead puckered in slight confusion. "Don't you remember me? We used to play as children. I taught you to ride –"

"Yes," Violet interrupted. "I remember. But we're no longer children, my lord." She lowered her lashes in modesty, but put her hand out to him.

Taking it, he kissed the back of her glove. "No. I suppose we aren't, Miss Barton." His throat caught a bit on the formal name. "It's been a long time."

"It has." She raised her eyes to his, her gaze steady. "At least four years, as I recall."

He thought back, then nodded. "I think you're correct. Four years. And I've been abroad for nearly two of them."

"Well," she said, tilting her head. "I do hope you enjoyed it, my lord."

Patrick nearly had to close his eyes. If the other young woman – Miss Whitlock – had a voice like Chablis, Violet's, four years since he'd heard her voice last, was now a Chianti. "Miss Barton, if I might be so bold, and I do realize your dance card might be full already –" Oh heavens, if she intoxicates the rest like she does me, it will be, but please say it's not…. "– but if it isn't, might I beg to be written in somewhere? Anywhere?" he added, desperate to see if she fit in his arms like he thought she might.

"Yes, Lord Downton," came her voice like Chianti. "I have a few dances left." She smiled at him, and he thought his heart might stop right then and there. Violet pulled her dance card up from her wrist where it hung from its ribbon. "Here, and here," she said, marking his name down and showing it to him. "For an old friend. A few dances for an old friend."


Violet's eyes followed Lord Downton – Patrick – as he walked away to claim his next dance. She'd spotted him earlier, while he'd chatted with Lord Middleton, and even with Miss Whitlock.

For once she didn't know what to think.

Four years had done wonders for the slight, unkempt boy she'd known. Patrick had grown into a tall – one might even say handsome – man. He kept his dark locks neat, and Violet was happy he seemed to eschew the fashion of facial hair becoming vogue. She would never want him to cover that strong chin with its striking cleft.

Violet shook herself mentally and squared her shoulders, pinning a smile upon her face for her next dance partner.

"Lord Robertson. How wonderful to see you." Violet bowed her head slightly as he bent over her glove.

"Shall we?" He extended an arm for her to take.

As they danced, Violet's attention returned to Patrick. This irritated her. Her parents had informed her of the Granthams' situation, that they intended to secure the future of their estate by having Patrick marry a woman with money. She had but a small dowry and, therefore, could never even hope to enter the pool of candidates. The only reason he wanted to dance with her was because they'd been childhood friends.

Wasn't it?

And, besides, if Patrick Crawley of now was anything like the Patrick Crawley she'd known growing up... Well, he might have been a fine friend to her, a well-suited companion in their childish endeavors, but he couldn't possibly be a compatible husband for her.

Could he?