A/N: The first chapter of this fic was posted as a one-shot entitled "Gloves Off" which, thanks to your enthusiastic response, has led to an outline of a full-length WIP that will, no doubt, be rendered completely AU by S4. I have, however, edited the name of Mary's son (Louis in the original one-shot) to reflect the new canon (and I realized I'd missed a prime opportunity to include Molesley, so I've made him the butler in the London house). I'm really excited about what's in store for Mary, Richard, and the supporting characters in this fic, and I hope you all enjoy. Thank you so much for encouraging me to make more of it, and especially to gilpin25 and malintzin for being my sounding boards over the past few weeks.


2. Cocktail Party

"For a man who professed such a fondness for cocktails before they became fashionable," said Aunt Rosamund, gesturing to Mary with her martini glass, "Sir Richard does makes a habit of missing them. How many evenings at Downton did we delay going through to dinner because we were waiting for him to grace us with his presence?"

Her scornful smile faltered for a moment when she saw that Mary did not return it or appear to have any intention of making a reply. As she sipped her cocktail her lips curved upward again and this time she addressed Michael Gregson, who stood with them by the drinks cabinet, where Molesley almost giddily mixed cocktails. Not an altogether wise idea, Mary thought, after his shenanigans at the ghillies ball at Cousin Shrimpy's, but so far her watchful eye had not caught him tippling.

"It seemed impossible for him to catch a Friday afternoon train that wasn't late," Rosamund went on, "or not to get tied up with a Saturday or Sunday evening phone call. Long distance, of course."

"I see," Mr Gregson replied into his drink, red-faced and darting desperate eyes across the drawing room to Edith, but she was oblivious to her lover as she bounced her nephew on her lap.

"It's not yet eight," said Isobel, who sat next to Edith on the sofa.

Mary looked away from supervising Molesley and found that the mantel clock read so very nearly the hour as to consider Richard not punctual, if not precisely late; Georgie's smiles, apparently, made Isobel generous.

If only this were the case for Aunt Rosamund, who persisted in the face of Mr Gregson's evident embarrassment. "It would seem tardiness is a quality unique to Sir Richard and not particular to all newspaper men. Though I would have thought if any of you was to be chained to his desk it would be the editor, not the publisher."

Mr Gregson rocked slightly backward on his heels as he shrugged. "Well, Sir Richard isn't my publisher."

"Indeed. None of his publications is so respectable as The Sketch."

"Oh, but The Capital Herald-"

Mary did not catch the rest of Mr Gregson's reply as she took her martini and left him to Rosamund. He was her guest, but she felt no compulsion to rescue the man who had led her sister into disgrace; he could fend for himself. She'd invited her aunt to relieve the likely awkwardness of dining with her late husband's mother and a former fiancé, and Rosamund accepted because "it's certain to be great theatre." Though Mary had rolled her eyes at the prospect of being anyone's entertainment, she hadn't expected Rosamund to participate in the drama herself. Perhaps she ought to have, given her aunt's track record for insinuating herself into Mary's personal affairs.

"I don't mind Sir Richard being late," said Edith as Mary approached the sofa before the fire. "It gives me more time with this little darling before he's put to bed."

Includig Edith and her lover in the dinner party was Rosamund's idea, too. Although it seemed reasonable that having a fellow newspaper man "to provide Sir Richard with some occupation besides giving you surly glares across the table," Mary was not certain she was any more at ease about mending fences with Edith than about doing so with Richard.

For a person who had never done anything in her life that might be deemed spectacular, Edith's departure from Downton could only be described as such. Aside from shaming the family by taking up as a married man's mistress-a newspaper man's mistress, no less; Mary could not cast stones at sexual exploits, but she could at sheer stupidity-even worse was the timing of it. How could Edith hurt Papa this way, when the man he'd loved as dearly as any child of his body was scarcely dead and in the ground?

When Mary and Isobel removed to town after the New Year for a change of scenery, Papa expressly forbade them to have any contact with Edith. Isobel respected his wishes, though she of course disagreed with him. What Mary had not counted on was that Aunt Rosamund thought this approach was wrong, too. Giving Edith the silent treatment when she already suffered the middle child's lot of feeling overlooked by the family could hardly convince her to leave a man who so desperately wanted her, could it? Mary saw her point, along with the other one that Papa would likely be more incensed that the family's acquaintance with Richard Carlisle had been resumed, so they might as well have all the unsuitable dinner guests at once and be done with it.

All this Mary agreed with, yet as she watched Edith kiss and cuddle the baby while reciting Georgie Porgie to him in a soppy way Mary never imagined her sister capable of-their mother's daughter she apparently was, despite having inherited none of Mama's looks-her stomach knotted. Their parents were not the only members of the family hurt by Edith's love affair. Mary, too, felt abandoned by Edith, though at first the drama and scandal had been almost a welcome distraction from her grief. When all quieted and Mary was left in the Abbey, the solitary Crawley sister, she couldn't help but wonder whether Edith had planned it so, exacting her revenge at last for Mary wrecking her marriage plans to Anthony Strallan so many years ago, glorying in the death of the darling daughter's dreams. If she'd only been the sister Edith plaintively asked her to be after Sybil died, would she have been more likely to be the one Mary wanted now?

"Mary always says she sees you in Georgie," Isobel's voice interrupted the morose train of thought. "Now you're together, I must admit the resemblance is unmistakable."

"She said the same to me, and I also see it now," a deep, rasping voice joined in the conversation, and they all turned to see Richard stride through the drawing room door, carelessly handing off gloves and top hat to Ben the hall boy who scurried behind, the greatcoat already draped over his gangly arm. "Lady Edith does favour Lord Grantham and the Dowager Countess quite strongly. They must be pleased to see the looks passed down through another generation."

The dimples flashed in his cheeks with a mocking smile Mary knew well. But she also knew his other mannerisms; the way he slipped one hand into his trouser pocket as Molesley inquired what he'd like to drink, and his gaze wavered back to the baby, brows drawing together, suggested there was more behind his sharp words than a well-aimed jab at the family who had once humiliated him. What, she couldn't say, but it prompted her to p qluck George from Edith's lap and hold him tightly. The baby let out a wail of protest.

Meanwhile, Aunt Rosamund greeted Richard. "I didn't think we'd meet again."

"Lady Rosamund." Having drained the whisky sour he'd looked only too relieved for Molesley to bring, he looked himself again as he shook her hand. "What a pity your mother isn't with us tonight to hear you say so."

Aunt Rosamund, of course, had not witnessed Granny's parting words to Richard, but Mary had, and he looked over Rosamund's shoulder to her, pale eyebrows twitching slightly upward in expectation. Mary only drew a long breath and said that she'd ring for Nanny Philips to take the baby upstairs, and then they could go through to dinner.

"Oh don't bother with that," Edith protested as Mary reached for the bell. "I can take him up."

Mary reluctantly relinquished George to her sister, but could not allow Edith to show her up in front of Richard. Or Isobel. "I'll go with you," she said, and after his grandmother kissed the baby goodnight, they left her to see to their other guests.

Pausing in the drawing room doorway to glance back over her shoulder, Mary was relieved to see her mother-in-law shake Richard's hand with genuine warmth, and she had a flash of memory of the pair meeting and getting on quite well that first weekend Richard spent at Downton. Isobel, not saddled with her family's prejudices about the middle class rising through the upper ranks of society, had greeted him with enthusiasm then, too. More confident that this strange assortment of guests was not guaranteed to be a total disaster, as it surely would at Downton-as it had been in the past-Mary continued into the hall and upstairs.

As they climbed, however, Edith cast a more current light on the situation. "How does Cousin Isobel feel about you entertaining Matthew's former rival?"

Matthew never had a rival. Mary always knew that, as had everyone else, Edith included. But Mary considered for the first time that perhaps Isobel had not been privy to that knowledge.

"Matthew was engaged to somebody else, too," she said, but her voice did not sound as confident as she intended as an unexpected knot formed in her chest, choking her, as it had that night years ago when Edith spitefully told her Matthew was bringing his fiancée to Downton.

Strange how all Matthew's assurances…a marriage…a child…had not been enough to erase the pain of having believed the man who had spoiled her for all others preferred another woman, even for a time, to her.

Not enough.

The polished oak banister which had glided beneath Mary's palm now snagged her glove as she gripped it tighter.

She would never have enough of the life she'd wanted with Matthew.

"I am lady of this house in Papa's absence," she said, "and I may invite whomever I like to dine with me. Isobel knows that." In fact, her mother-in-law had little to say about the matter of Richard's call and the invitation Mary made him of dining with them. "And she quite agrees, we've kept too much to ourselves of late. She says it's good that I'm taking an interest in society again."

"Surely not the society of the man who once blackmailed you into marrying him!" Edith wheeled around at the top of the staircase, her voice echoing off the high ceiling above.

But he never published. Mary did not argue aloud with her sister as she halted on the step below, peering up at Edith for once in their lives. Richard had been humiliated-deservedly or not, it didn't matter-yet he had not taken revenge on her family. Surely that was the most telling thing about his character yet. In many respects, she had only glimpsed the real Richard Carlisle after he had ceased to be a part of her life.

Though it would seem he had not really ceased to be, after all. Why had she invited him tonight? Why had he called on her in the first place?

"Mary?"

The sound of her name uttered hesitantly drew her out from her thoughts. Georgie looked down at her in some confusion, fussing sleepily, drool glistening on his barely existent chin, as Edith held him to herself almost as a shield.

"I am sorry that my petty jealousy all those years ago led to…this. If I'd known that horrid Bates woman would find out, I-"

"Still would have written to the Turkish Ambassador." Mary stepped around her on the landing to lead the way down the hall to the nursery. "Anyway it seems I was destined never to be happy, with or without your help."


Aunt Rosamund's predictions proved correct, that the presence of other journalists kept conversation flowing at dinner as smoothly as the courses. Mary was only too happy to let the talk go on around her without having to participate herself, but by the time Molesley brought the dessert, Rosamund seemed to have grown tired of the discussion being dominated by only half their party, with Isobel's occasional interjections, and seized upon a new topic which interested her and which Mary could not ignore.

"Whatever became of Haxby Park, Sir Richard?" she asked, leaning around Mary to address the man seated to her right. "My brother hasn't complained about any vexing new neighbours, so I can only assume you haven't sold it."

Mary looked up from her marmalade pudding in alarm, just in time to notice an expression flicker briefly in the lines of his face as he took a bite that made her think they could do with the distraction of a salty pudding. He retained his composure, however, chewing slowly and washing it down with a long sip of port before making a reply.

"You assume rightly, Lady Rosamund. I'm sure Lord Grantham has complained about the difficulties of maintaining an ancient estate in the midst of this brave new world."

Though he spoke coolly, the dispassionate tones did not deceive Mary; she'd made the mistake of meeting his eye and saw the sharp glint as he dealt the words which were sharp enough to feel the insult even without a forceful delivery.

"And you were so confident you'd sell it at a profit," she countered, no longer feeling so sorry as she had the day he left Downton that he'd got stuck with a vulgar mansion and twelve thousand acres.

"I will." Richard added, his voice dropping in resentment along with his gaze into his wine glass. "Eventually." His eyes flicked up again, bright over the rim of his glass. "I've never been one to act in haste, with regard to my investments."

Their gaze held until Rosamund, at Mary's other side, muttered, "So much for avoiding surly glares."

Mary did not look at Richard, and therefore could not see his expression to read whether he'd overheard her aunt. In her periphery she saw him raise his port to his lips, and when he spoke again he did so in tones as dry and dark as the drink.

"The only people who have that kind of money these days are the nouveau riche. They're accustomed to making prudent financial investments, and the modernisations I made to the house aren't nearly enough to interest that sort of buyer. The entire estate must be profitable to them, if I'm to profit from it."

"Lord Grantham encountered this at Downton, as well," Isobel pounced on the topic, much to Mary's mortification. Obviously Richard had some idea already of Papa's money woes; Isobel's needn't be explicit about it. "Matthew spent the better part of last year finding ways to restructure the farms to be more productive."

Now Mary's cheeks were not the only part of her that burned; her eyes did, too, as unwanted thoughts arose of how often Matthew and Papa had argued over how the estate should be run. How often she had argued with Matthew for the way he upset Papa, for what he did with the money…So little time they'd had together, and so much of it had been spent arguing.

"-Tom Branson seems to be carrying on admirably as estate manager," Isobel concluded.

Richard coughed as he turned to eye Mary in disbelief. "Your father agreed to allow a socialist from Dublin to manage Downton?"

"You see? We can change with the times."

But when his brows hitched in scepticism, Mary felt a twinge at the corner of her mouth; was he thinking, as she was, of how they'd joked together after Sybil's failed elopement about him running the car over the chauffeur?

"Some of us can change about some things," Edith said, exchanging looks with Gregson, whose arm moved as if to take her hand beneath the table.

"Perhaps you'll change your mind, Sir Richard," said Rosamund, spooning a bit of marmalade pudding. "An estate, after all, must surely be a necessity to a man on his way to a peerage. Not to mention an attractive feature for prospective brides."

"So one would think."

Mary had kept her gaze steadfastly on her plate, cheeks burning before Richard replied to her aunt, but something in his voice-or rather, the lack of something in his voice, precisely, malice-made her turn her head. The remark had not been one of his well-aimed attacks on her; at least, he was not looking at her now. He did not, in fact, seem aware that her eyes were on him, his thoughts turned inward as he nursed his port.

When the meal concluded shortly after this, the men did not linger in the dining room for cigars, but went through to the drawing room with the ladies. Edith suggested a game of mah-jong, to which Isobel readily agreed, keen to learn the game. Only four could play, and as Richard was not fond of parlour games, Mary felt it was her duty as hostess to keep him company over coffee and spare him more awkward questions from Rosamund. Though as her aunt made up the fourth at the mah-jong table, Mary found herself unable to think of anything to discuss with him than the very subject with which Rosamund had so clearly made him uncomfortable, her curiosity piqued.

If it was curiosity that brought Richard here to see her in the first place, she reasoned, then this was only tit for tat. Turnabout. Fair play, and all of that. And Richard had always set so much store by being on even terms.

"I'm surprised you haven't found a lady to be Mistress of Haxby. I've actually been reading the papers for the past two years, expecting to see your picture in the society wedding of the decade."

Richard's jaw worked as he drank his coffee, then frowned into the cup of black, unsweetened liquid as if he wished it were something much stronger. Molesley, hovering in the corner on tip-toe, looked as if he were about to lurch forward and make just such an offer, when Richard spoke.

"Why? To assuage your guilty conscience about throwing me over?"

Mary looked away, inwardly cursing herself for broaching the subject because yes, the guilt she'd squelched earlier had returned.

"You can't be surprised that the three years prior rather put me off weddings." He added, more quietly, "And you never knew me if you thought I wanted to be married for my house."

You certainly did a good job giving the opposite impression, Mary thought, but bit her tongue. She had apologised to him, that morning two years ago, for using him, for letting him go to such drastic lengths for her when she wanted none of it. That had been her punishment for strong-arming her into an engagement, and it seemed he was still paying for it-quite literally. She had no need to continue punishing him. Especially not after his admission: I really loved you. Much more than you knew.

It still surprised her, after all this time, just as it had then. When had he fallen in love with her? How had she been too blind to see it? If she had, would it have changed anything?

Her consternation must have showed on her face, because Richard gave a snort of a laugh and said, "Don't fret, Mary. It's not for pining that I haven't married."

She turned to him again-in part to escape Aunt Rosamund's watchful eye from across the drawing room-and arched her eyebrows. "You never knew me if you think I'd accuse you of that."

He might have harbored deeper sentiments for her than she'd given him credit for, but nostalgia? Never.

"I've had more affection without formal courtships and engagements than I had during all the time I spent with you." he said.

"You and Mr Gregson have more than newspapers in common, then. Does everyone in the business share the same set of bold and modern values?"

The dints appeared in his cheeks as he looked almost amused. "It's the 20s, Mary. Though I think you became acquainted with such practices at rather an earlier date."

Her temper flared. "Indeed. Such an early date that you hardly could have published without looking desperate and woefully late with your scoop."

"Talking of which," Richard said, looking at the mantel clock and then beckoning to Molesley, "if I linger here any longer, I shall be woefully unpunctual for a date."

"I hope the rest of your evening is very affectionate," Mary said as she accompanied him to the front hall, Molesley scurrying ahead to fetch Richard's coat and hat and summon his chauffeur.

"Jazz clubs generally are," he said, slipping his arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat as Molesley held it. "That isn't to say I haven't appreciated my reception here immensely."

"Have you?"

Richard had stepped out through the door, but paused on the stoop, drawing his black leather gloves from his coat pocket and absently passing them from hand to hand. In her sleeveless black evening gown, Mary hugged herself against the chill night air.

"There's nothing so reassuring as the juxtaposition of the life I might have had against the life I do have."

He touched the edge of his top hat, pushing it down lower over his deep-set eyes, but as he started down the steps Mary called after him.

"You admit it, then? That we never could have built anything worth having?"

He turned his head so that his face was in profile; Mary could just make out his faint smile beneath the shadow of his hat brim cast by the porch light. "That was always entirely up to you."

Every thought she'd had that something about him was different fled at this reminder that Richard Carlisle never pulled a punch.

But cruel as he could be, crueller still was the whisper in her own mind as she lay in bed not long after, that a warm body beside hers and strong arms around her, rather than the ghosts of bedfellows past, no matter how kind, would be something worth having, indeed.