This is Richobel, of course. Needless to say, really.
Needless to say, he had his reservations. He had very serious reservations about this whole thing. It was thoroughly foolish, it was wantonly irresponsible, for him to leave Downton and to go so far away when he was meant to be on call at the hospital. But it was a medical call, he reminded himself. It was and it wasn't. It could certainly be called a medical call. But that wasn't why he was going, of course not. Anyone else, he would have simply apologised, expressed his regret and told them it was too far for him to go. But he had decided on the day her son died, nothing was too far where Isobel Crawley was concerned. This he would do for her unquestioningly.
"Richard," Lady or not, she still answered her own door, pushing past the butler in her haste, "Thank you ever so much for coming. Let me pay for your taxi."
"It doesn't matter," he told her. He didn't mind about the money, he would have paid double gladly for the chance to see her, and he had already discharged the driver, "Where is you husband?"
"He's upstairs," she told him, "Shall I take you straight up to see him?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Please."
She lead the way. He watched her profile as she passed him. She looked-… worn. She looked as he would have expected the wife of an invalid to look, tired out, but more than that, there was a sadness to her that was eerily familiar. Oh god, he'd hoped he'd seen the last of that in her and almost, irrationally, he was glad that he had not been around her recently if he would have had to see her like this again.
"I'm so grateful to you for coming," she told him, "He's been worse over the last few days, and I've been ever so worried. Our village doctor seems to be down with the flu, so I'm afraid it's all rather hopeless."
She led him into the house's master bedroom. Lord Merton was sitting up, propped up by pillows, in bed. Presumably their marital bed. He tried to push the thought from his mind. He looked in a bad way.
….
Isobel was waiting for him downstairs in the sitting room.
"How is he?" she asked him.
"Not good," he replied shortly, "Pneumonia."
He had realised by now, she didn't need him to tell her that. She must have known. She barely even looked surprised.
There was silence.
"At least let me offer you some tea," she told him, "For your trouble."
"Alright," he agreed.
She dispatched a footman to bring them some tea. She had footmen now. So much was different. He couldn't stop thinking about that tired look in her eye, the dullness of her beautiful complexion. He could barely bring himself to look at her in case he saw them again.
"Do you think my husband will live, Richard?" she asked him.
He swallowed his tea. It burned his throat.
"Is that why you asked me here?" he asked her, "Do you need telling?"
There was a pause.
"No, you're right," she agreed with him, "I don't. I already knew." There was no change in her expression as she said so, she was at rest with the fact. "Perhaps it's better this way."
He looked at her sharply.
"Whatever do mean by that?" he asked before he could stop himself.
She gave him a sad smile.
"I don't know," she told him quietly. Her eyes closed for a moment.
"I don't think I've made him happy, Richard," she confided in him, "In fact, there's no maybe about it, I know I haven't."
"Whatever do you mean?" he asked, "That's absurd!"
"Thank you, Richard," she told him, her wan smile creasing her lips again, "But it's true, beyond a doubt."
"But-… He was besotted with you," he protested. It didn't make sense.
"Precisely," she replied, "He was besotted, but he thought he was in love with me. Those two are very different things. It wasn't-… what he expected. Marriage."
"I see," he replied. He didn't really. He didn't understand it at all, but he wasn't going to say as much.
There was a long pause.
"You still haven't answered my question, Lady Merton," he pressed quietly, "Why did you ask me here if you already knew?"
She visibly flinched, for the first time she allowed her cool composure to slip.
"Please don't call me Lady Merton," she requested, "I don't really like it when anyone does, let alone you-…"
He brushed past her objection.
"You still haven't-…"
"I wanted to see you," she told him sharply, "I wanted-… You. I made a mistake," she admitted bluntly.
"In asking me to come here?" he prompted her.
"No," she replied, "Though, I'm beginning to wonder," she added, a little ruefully, "I made a mistake in getting married, to him. I-… I miss you."
There was another silence.
"As I recall, I gave you the chance not to miss me," he told her.
"I know," she looked utterly dismayed now.
"Isobel," he shook his head, "You're telling me this now-…"
But she had already cut across him. Not so much in words as in her low sigh, her closed eyes, the slight tilt of her head.
"Yes," she murmured, "Call me by my name."
His eyes fell shut. The flicker of happiness in her evoked an almost sensual response from him. Oh, god, she was breaking him down, she had broken him with that one small, accidental utterance. He could not longer see the woman who he had felt had let him down, only the woman he loved, still loved in spite of it. He ran his hand gently across his own brow.
"Isobel," he murmured again, barely above a whisper, "Darling."
"Oh, Richard. I've wanted you so much."
His voice was growing quieter but hers was growing bolder.
"Why did you wait until now to ask me to come here?" he asked.
"Because I was frightened. But now it doesn't matter any more."
"Because your husband is dying?"
"No. Because I've become more desperate than I ever was frightened."
His hands were shaking. He wasn't even touching her. He was still sitting, at the opposite side of the room. The effect she had on him. Gods, he had missed her.
"I love you," he told her.
There was a silence. She stood. Stretched out her hand for his.
"I've been sleeping in one of the spare rooms," she told him.
He looked up at her.
"Come with me," she told him softly.
He swallowed again, but barely hesitated. He took her hand. It was the first time he had touched her in so long.
She led him to a room that was at the other side of the house to where her husband was lying. She closed the door of her bedroom, came to where he stood waiting for her. Stood before him, put her hands gently on his shoulders. She was looking at his lips. Her breath was coming in low tremors.
She opened up his mouth with her tongue, kissing him urgently. He couldn't believe he was here, doing this with her. His arms wrapped round her, cradling her, pressing her close to him. She was pushing his jacket off his shoulders, pulling open the buttons at his throat.
"I want you," she told him again, between kisses.
He guided her towards the bed, allowing her to push him, gladly letting her go on top. She was so beautiful to him, with her hair falling all over the place, dislodged by his eager hands, as she fumbles her way out of her skirt and took off her blouse. His shirt had been discard on the floor, but his trousers were still on, and she came back to him, undoing his belt and opening his trousers.
"Let me touch you," he told her softly, and she came towards him, on her knees. He reached out, slipping her underwear downwards, teasing her with his fingers. She was so wet and ready for him, he ached for her. He had been aching for her for years, but this was different.
His hips rocked upwards as she sank down onto him and he tried not to cry out. She obviously saw the strain in his face because she leant forwards, whispering; "No one can hear you. It's only me."
He leant upwards, kissing her lips again, fiercely. She rocked herself against him and he gasped. He sat up, pushing their bodies together, cradling her breast.
She circled her hips and he could not help himself, he shouted; "Oh, Christ, Isobel, I love you!"
"I know," she whispered softly, still moving around him, her hands cupping his face, smoothing his skin, "I love you too."
Their eyes met. He shuddered and buried his head in the crook of her neck.
End.
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