Author's note:

Again, thanks to Cyrillah for the beta help!

Matthew felt as though a chasm had opened up beneath him. "Kemal- the diplomat's son? The one who-"

"He died in my room," Mary said, shaking slightly.

"And were you willing?"

Mary's exhalation was shaky. "Somewhat. Eventually. He- was insistent, but I can't say I didn't enjoy..." She trailed off after a darting glance at Matthew's face. "So now you know that it is not you who is unworthy of me, but the other way around. And that I have no other choice but to marry Richard or become an outcast for the rest of my days."

He processed her words but remained silent, the memory of Pamuk's full lips and insouciant smile returned in disturbing clarity. "I didn't think it was still possible," he started, slowly, "but you shock me." He looked for her eyes, but she wouldn't raise them to meet his. "How could you, who seem so controlled..."

A tear made its way down her cheek, but she made no effort to wipe it away. "Because even I cannot be cool all the time." She looked at him then, earnestly and full of despair, and her eyes welled up anew at the expression she found on his face. "I cannot bear you looking that way at me." Then she stood and stepped closer to him, over to his bed and sat beside him, as she had once done at his sickbed.

"Mary," he warned.

"No, listen to me. I know you're angry, and you don't understand. But I also know that you know what it's like to want something badly enough that you lose your self-control." She took his left hand in both of hers, thin and soft. "Lavinia was kind, and sweet, and strong, and giving. She loved you and you, in your way, loved her. And it wasn't enough." She drew his hand up to her, and pressed it between her collarbones so he could feel her pulse, jolting and fast, through the thin fabric of her nightgown. "How could it be anything but cruel, for me to marry Richard and you to marry another sweet young thing to provide you with heirs? When we have so little of ourselves left to give?"

Matthew found his bed suddenly a trap, his body and his heart in revolt against him. He was warm, unsettled, and suddenly horribly aware that the woman he loved, who was getting married to another in a fortnight's time, was pleading with him in his bed. Her hair was wispy and escaping from her plait, her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted. And she had given herself (however much it pained him to think it) to another on a casual whim. And she was crying over the thought of losing him. He looked away, no longer able to bear seeing the desperation written on her face, and made a feeble attempt to draw his hand away.

He felt her resist him and draw up his hand to her lips, kissing the backs of his fingers with lips that could not help but remind him of her ardent kisses on the night Sybil had gone to the count. What he intended as a sigh came out as a husky warning. "Mary, stop."

She held his hand to her lips, before lowering it gently down to the bed. Matthew couldn't tell if it was intentional or no, but his fingers brushed her chest and came to rest on the soft join of her thigh and lower leg. He felt his body respond wildly, and fought to control his reactions. "Mary- this isn't fair."

She looked at him sharply then. "Of course it isn't fair! It isn't fair that I am forever judged by one mistake. It isn't fair that you blame us for the Spanish influenza." She punctuated her points by advancing on him, leaning forwards until the power of her gaze was total. "It isn't fair that you want to watch me marry someone else so that you can feel redeemed. It isn't fair that you leave me no choice between loveless marriage and financial and social ruin." She let out a small humorless laugh that ended in a whimper. "And if all that is going to happen, I suppose I'd prefer to know what real love felt like, even just once."

Of all her points, Matthew fixated on the last one. She was there, trembling before him, the woman he had wanted for all this time, and for once there was no doubt as to her intentions. All he could think of was her beauty, and the sour regret that someone else had already enjoyed it; her touch, already promised to someone else. He was so torn between the desire that flickered on her face, and images of the man who had come before and the man that would come after. But now, just now, there was only himself and her, and the knowledge that nothing would ever again be as right as this.

He pulled her to him, felt her breath on his lips, and claimed her mouth with his.