A/N: Thank you everybody for your responses, reviews, follows and favourites - you are the best! I hope this second chapter lives up to everybody's expectations. Please note that the rating has gone up from K+ to T. Thank you deeedeee for your fantastic beta and for teaching me all these new things about semicolons, comma use and capitals!
Her breath hitches.
She's never been confronted with a naked man before. Her blood rushes in her ears and she does the only thing she can think of: she thrusts the towel into his hands, turns on her heel and runs back into the corridor, her hand pressed against her breastbone.
Of course she knew he was tall and broad, and that he would be strong - after all, she has seen him in the bath a few times now, has helped him fill it, but he always covered himself somehow and she had not seen…
that.
Not ever.
Her heart is pounding and she is leaning against the wall, the back of her head against the wallpaper. It's been a hot day, but that has nothing to do with the heat that seems to burn from within her.
It's not like in museums at all, she thinks. Not that she's often been. But enough to see some of those Greek statues. And Charles is nothing like the white marble likenesses of soldiers and gods.
He was…
different.
God, her lower belly feels tight, her thighs tremble.
She can hear him shuffling around in the kitchen and she knows with sudden clarity he doesn't have a change of clothes.
There's the soft chink of his mug on the kitchen counter, the sound of the bucket filling with water from the tub and it emptying in the sink.
Elsie makes her decision and calls out to him from the hall:
"I'm just stepping out, Mr Carson. We've run out of milk."
Oh it's a lie, a blatant lie, but what else can she do? She grabs her hat and stalks out the door.
She comes home to the smell of burnt shepherd's pie and a sheepish-looking Charles Carson.
"I'd forgotten about our tea until I smelled it burning…"
She swallows. "It's alright. Don't worry about it."
"But you've brought the milk at least." he replies and she frowns.
"Milk?"
"You went for a pint of milk." He prompts her and she bites her lip.
"Oh, yes. Of course. I was too late."
It had taken her twenty minutes to walk over to Mr Trevellyan's. It normally takes her five. Her thoughts kept returning to seeing Charles in the nude. Of course he is her husband, but to see him like that, the sun caressing his shoulders and damp hair and his hips narrow and her eyes being drawn to…
She coughs and he softly pats her back.
"Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?" he asks and it's immensely steadying how he uses her own name. Not that they often call each other by any name at all, but still.
"Yes. Yes, of course." She looks up and finds he is looking a bit shy as well. She had not thought how he must feel about what happened.
Perhaps they are more on even footing than she initially thought: she had been convinced she was the only one mortified by their encounter (mortified and something else - something she doesn't dare name, doesn't dare admit to feeling).
"It's still a bit early to get started on dinner." She tries to make conversation.
"I just burnt it." He sounds terribly apologetic.
"I'll bake us some eggs. I think there's some bacon left."
"I'll make toast," he offers and she smiles.
"You think you dare?" she teases and it's a relief to find his bit of normalcy.
"I could always hold your hand," he quips.
She blushes.
She finds it easier to breathe when the dark finally envelops them.
"Did you enjoy being umpire then?" Her voice echoes softly through the room.
"You know? I did. I'd not expected it, but it was nice to still be part of things."
"You'll always be part of things, Charles."
He doesn't answer but it doesn't feel strange or awkward.
"I think no-one could ever think of Downton without thinking of you," she continues.
"Maybe the same goes for you." His voice rumbles, she can almost feel it vibrate through their bed. He is warm; she can feel it coming off him. The room is stifling too, even with the window wide open and the night breeze coming in. Her blankets are too warm, but she daren't kick them off. In her old room - in the attic of Downton Abbey - she would take off her clothes and sleep under her sheet on hot nights like this.
"Oh, I don't know. I think they're probably glad to be rid of me. The old relic who told the maids every corner counts."
"Every corner does count," he says and it's lovely.
To be supported so easily, without restraint.
She sighs deeply, pushes the covers down to her waist. She's left her gown unbuttoned. As far as she dared. She doesn't want him to think her shameless, brazen.
His hand touches hers.
Elsie swallows hard.
He's not reached for her in eight weeks. They had spent their wedding night on their own sides of the bed after sharing a kiss.
It had been enough.
It still would be if it weren't for his hand now sliding up the soft skin of her inner arm, towards the crook of her elbow. He turns and she knows he is watching her.
She doesn't know what to do. His touch is not unwelcome, indeed not. She's longed for it - though she never will admit to it.
"I want to grow old with you, do you know that?" he asks. His voice is so soft, she hardly hears him and his hand is leaving her arm to tenderly cup her cheek.
"And aren't you?" she responds, her own voice barely more than a whisper, unable to keep back the shy smile that breaks free, his admission liberating.
"I am. You make me happy. I hope you know that too." His fingertips trace the contours of her face, map her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose.
"I do." She knows, but the assurance is nice. Wonderful even. "You make me happy too." She says it because it's true: he does make her happy - he gives her the comfort of what home is, the stability she's been so used to ever since she's started in service (stability she would never have had if she married Joe, always one failed crop away from going without sustenance; always one stillborn calf away from a winter with holes in the soles of her shoes)
He shuffles, she can feel him carefully inching closer. His pyjama-clad leg touches her bare one. His lips take the place of his tentative fingers. Featherlight, his lips touch hers. She doesn't know if she should press hers back, doesn't know if she could breathe, doesn't know exactly what he expects.
They've never been in this position before. His hand lands on the flat plane of her stomach and it's warm, so warm - the room is still so hot, the night air still stifling, the blankets are trapping them - her blood is rushing fast, too fast, she can hear it thrumming in her ears.
Is this… it?
Well… not 'it' as such - she knows how the mechanics work, she may not be a woman of the world, but she doesn't live in a sack after all.
But his hand slowly slides over the cotton of her summer nightgown to grab hold of her waist and he pulls her flush against him. His lips are becoming more insistent. Her foot slides up and down his calf - almost of its own accord. The covers slide lower, exposing her hips, her thighs. Her gown is riding up and his hand lets go of her waist; it slides over her hip to dance over her upper leg and she shivers).
Her shivers have nothing to do with feeling cold.
A fire seems to burn in her - in her belly, in her mind; her heart is beating like a drum now; his lips are opening hers, his tongue searching for hers and it's so odd and so delicious; it's nothing like the kisses she remembers from being a girl, from being a young housemaid, being grabbed by a delivery boy, or a third footman who is not ambitious enough to try and get promoted.
A sound escapes her and he takes hold of the hem of her gown and pulls it up, exposing her inch by inch. He fumbles slightly when his touches her underwear. She gasps - a shrill and tiny sound. He stops moving, ceases kissing her.
"I love you."
She doesn't know who says it first, who took the plunge only to be immediately followed by the other. The words tumble from her mouth and her arms snake around his neck, pulling him towards her and their kiss is searing, demanding.
She pushes herself against him, pulls him almost over her, one hand playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. She is suddenly starved for his touch and she needs him.
She isn't entirely sure how, but she knows she will learn soon.
Especially now his hand disappears under her gown and touches the naked skin of her stomach, her ribcage.
Her breast.
to be continued
