A/N Many thanks again to the wonderful kouw for beta'ing.
Thank you all so very much for the kind reviews! I appreciate it so much; it really makes my day. I'm glad you all like it so far; I hope you like how it continues. I do my best to respond to all of the reviews, except for guest reviewers (and I would if I could)! Many many thanks!
Chapter 2. Fervent
temper: (noun) suitable proportion or balance of qualities: a middle state between extremes
They walk back together, their arms linked, hearts pounding, and neither wants to let go as they reach the shore. They break apart, though. It wouldn't do to give the staff the wrong impression. (And they both try to ignore the question of what exactly that wrong impression might be. That they are in love? That they are the best of friends, old friends, best-matched companions, filled to the brim with unspoken tension? Each on fire from the touch of the other, doing their best to keep it hidden?)
She is biting her lip again, and he looks down at her. He would like to taste that lip, to run his thumb over it, touch her face with worshipful fingertips. He is worried. He doesn't want to do anything untoward. (He does, he really does, he wants to do so many improper things, and he wishes they were in private so he could - what? kiss her? Maybe. Find out if she wants this too, wants this as badly as he does. He wants to kiss her hand. Maybe today he can do that, he can kiss her hand.)
They keep going. He is carrying the blanket they have nicked from the stack next to Mrs Patmore. They'd earned a smile and nod from the cook for their trouble; she is happy to see them inching closer to one another after all these years. She'd wanted to wink at them but she knows better than to push them that much. She has seen how the housekeeper and the butler dance around each other, knows how terrified he was at the thought of losing her, how much she would have missed him if he'd actually left for Haxby. Knows that it is a tender, fragile thing between them, and she will not intrude with smirks and winks. (Maybe someday when those two are finally married, then she will indulge in that, but not yet, no; best leave them to it and see what happens.)
They put their shoes back on and wander away from the others, stopping at a vendor to buy a bottle of lemonade. Anna and Mr Bates are walking together as well. The two pairs exchange smiles and nods. Mrs Hughes sees Anna's eyes sparkle in a little smile at the two of them, stores it away to cherish later. It is a heartrendingly sweet thing to see those two together, Mrs Hughes thinks, so in love and at ease with one another. The contrast is stark between the suffering the Bateses have been through and the simple loveliness of their walking together today, sharing an ice at the seaside.
They walk on, find an empty stretch of beach that is separated from the rest by distance and an outcropping of rock. They decide together to lay out the blanket there, sit down, and remove shoes and socks again, eager to enjoy the feeling of sand against bare skin. He pops open the swing-top on the bottle and hands it to her. She takes a sip, smiles, nods. Hands him the bottle. He takes it from her, sips from it, his lips on the bottle where hers have just been, and now it is she who stares at his mouth. His lips, soft against the hard glass. His throat, swallowing the drink they share. She would like to lean close, run her fingers through his hair, press her lips against his pulse. She wonders if he will tell her more about what he'd said when they were standing in the water. She decides not to push it (not just yet). She hopes she won't have to. She is tired of pushing alone.
They pass the bottle back and forth, sitting in companionable silence and watching the sea. She closes up the bottle again when they have drunk half of it, sticks it in the sand within easy reach behind their blanket.
He leans back on his hands. He has been careful not to touch her fingers while passing the bottle; years of training have taught him this and it is his habit to pass objects without contact, to help the ladies with their coats without touching them. But oh, how he wants to touch her again. Still, there is something he needs to know, and he needs to be bold now, needs to break free just a little bit from his restraint. His easy posture belies the pounding of his heart as he gathers his courage to speak.
"Mrs Hughes, might I ask you something?"
"Yes, Mr Carson?"
"What exactly did you mean when you said we can afford to live a little?"
She has never seen him so relaxed, and he is beautiful to her (he is always beautiful to her, this man of silver and stone, oak and wine. But he is especially lovely to her in this moment, leaning back, eyes closed, long legs stretched out, bare feet toying in the sand). She is sitting with her legs tucked to one side, and she leans over to him, reaches up to caress his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He gasps in alarm; his eyes snap open. But he trusts her and he closes his eyes again and leans into her hand, gives a low sigh of pleasure. She cups his jaw lightly, runs her thumb over his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth just slightly to take a shaking breath. She dips her thumb into his mouth, just a tiny bit, grazes it along his lower teeth, and he just barely touches it with the tip of his tongue, rests his upper teeth on it, gasps as she retreats. His eyes open and he sees her, a little smile on her lips and a mischievous spark in her eyes.
"I meant something like that, Mr Carson. That and more."
He sits up, freeing both of his hands, and she slips out of his mouth, starts to move her hand away. Her fingers are leaving his face, breaking contact, and he cannot have that, no - so he catches her hand in one of his, holds it to his mouth, presses a rough kiss into her palm. Her skin is soft and he is overwhelmed by the light, clean scent of her. He opens his mouth, lightly strokes her inner wrist with his tongue, tastes her. She lets out a low moan and he wants more, needs more of her, the feel of her against his mouth, so he uses his free hand to open the button on her cuff. He rolls her sleeve back, pushes it up and worships the skin of her forearm, kisses the inside of her elbow, hears her breathe his name.
He cannot quite believe his boldness; cannot fathom what she has done to him with her eyes, her hands, her lilting voice, or what she is doing to him now with the salt taste of her skin, the tang of her sweat. Thinks it might be time to ask her, now. After all this time, the terror and the relief, the shared tea and wine. He has the ring in his bedroom; he has had it ready for years.
But she is moving closer to him and he is unsteady and off-balance and this is (going too far; this is improper) delicious and he cannot help but follow her lead (he wants to follow her lead; he always has) as she pushes him gently back onto the blanket and leans over him. He has her wrist in his hand, but she is pushing his hand back and it lands next to his head on the soft blanket and she is leaning over him and her lips are so close to his and they are going to do it, they are going to kiss for the first time ever, right here on the blanket, on this warm sand.
"Mrs Hughes! Mr Carson! Are you there? It's time to get going; the things are mostly packed."
They startle apart, sit up, look around. It is Anna, and she does not come looking for them outright, but calls for them from the other side of the rocks. Bless her, she thinks, and she calls out her thanks to Anna. He is silent and she nudges him, stares at him with a small smile and wide eyes.
He looks at her for an instant, confused, and she cocks her head toward the sound of Anna's voice. He understands that it will seem strange if hers is the only response Anna hears.
"Ah yes, thank you, Anna. We shall be with you presently," he calls out, attempting his usual authoritative tone. Then he adds quietly, "Thank goodness it was Anna." He takes a deep breath, exhales, closes his eyes. He slumps a little, pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Mr Carson, are you alright?" Do not, do not shut down on me now, infuriating man, not when we've come so close.
"Thank you, Mrs Hughes, I've just got a bit of a headache suddenly."
"Well, we'll get you a headache powder once we get back to Grantham House." She reaches out to him with both hands and rubs his temples gently. He sighs again and relaxes into the embrace of her hands. She plants a kiss on his forehead and he smiles.
He sighs. "Thank you, Mrs Hughes; that is helping quite a bit."
"You're welcome, Mr Carson." She is screaming inside for him to sit with her, stay a bit, but he is already standing, taking up the edges of the blanket, puttering. Still, she resists the urge to push him further; it has been an extraordinary day and she does not want to frighten him away. As frustrating as it is for her to cater to his feelings in this way, it works to her advantage as well. It is self-preservation for her not to run out on a limb every day, not to risk heartbreak every time she wishes he would say more, do more.
So they work together to fold up the blanket. As they complete the last fold, they come together, chest to chest. She bites her lip. He fusses with the edges of the blanket. She can tell that he wants to say something.
He feels like he has words caught in his teeth. He wants her, very badly, but he desperately wants to do right by her, and he has been thinking of these words for ten years, longer. Since she smiled at him with the fair-day doll in her hand, told him she'd refused Joe Burns. Today - well, today is different from all of their other days. They have held hands today; he has kissed her skin and she has touched his mouth gently, demandingly, sensually. Today he thinks the time just might be right.
He thinks he knows what her answer will be. He tells himself that it's now or never. He gathers his courage again, takes a deep breath. He has never been more terrified.
"Mrs Hughes, there's something I want to ask you. Would you - ahem. I mean, I would be honored if you would give me the honor of, er…"
She looks up at him kindly, her face open and smiling. Waiting.
He pauses. He is doing this all wrong, he thinks, and he takes the blanket and places it on the ground, takes both of her hands in his, and drops to one knee. Takes another deep breath.
"Mrs Hughes, would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"
She's raising her eyebrows at him, her mouth slightly open, but somehow she doesn't look surprised. Tears are just beginning to form in her eyes and he panics, backpedals.
"I know - this must feel quite sudden; it has been a long time coming and I'm sorry to spring this on you at such an inopportune moment - " He begins to explain, to apologize; the others will be waiting for them; they ought to be going, but she is having none of that. She shakes her head quickly and stops him with gentle fingertips against his mouth.
"Of course I will marry you, Mr Carson." He sighs, sags with relief, head down, breathes in, looks up at her again. She is looking down at him with tears in her eyes and her smile is a bright, beautiful thing. "I've been waiting for you to ask me that for years. Decades. It's only ever been you whom I've wanted, Mr Carson. Only you whom I've loved."
Now he's rising to his feet, reaching for her, returning her words of love. She's pulling him up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, and his arms are around her body, her waist, crushing her to him. They pull apart for just a moment and then the restraint is gone, it's them coming together in a searing kiss, it's hands clutching, tangling in his hair, disheveling her hat. It's tongues tasting one another for the first time, it's his hand on her bottom and her hand behind his head, pulling him closer, always closer. They are breathless.
They break the kiss and rest their foreheads together, her hands on his shoulders, his around her waist.
"I want you, Mr Carson, more than ever before, but I'm afraid we must be off or the others will really start to wonder."
"And I have wanted you more than I can bear." He raises his head, looks into her eyes. "Would you… would you meet me in the wine cellar tonight, after the servants' dinner?"
The wine cellar? She is intrigued. She has been in the wine cellar at Grantham House before; it is a solid place and he should be comfortable there. A shiver runs through her at the thought of finally being alone together. She nods.
"I would meet you anywhere."
TBC
A/N: I've lifted things from a few of my favorite fics for this one, so I'd like to give credit where it's due.
"I've wanted you more than I can bear" is straight out of "The Incident at the Servants' Ball" (thank you hemmingweigh!)
Lots of things from kouw and sensitivebore (in tone, content, etc. Thank you, ladies!)
The definition is from Merriam-Webster again.