The pattering of rain against the window was the only sound in the office of Sir Richard Carlisle that late afternoon. It was nearly time to close up shop for the evening, and so he was going over tomorrow's morning paper one last time with a fine-tooth comb. Already, he had found two grammatical errors that he had missed the first time. Marking them, he continued on, his brow furrowed in stern concentration. When one expected perfection, one had to put in the time and sheer nose-to-the-grindstone work. This carefully crafted concentration was soon broken when there was a light rapping at his door. The smallest trace of irritation laced his voice as he called out, "yes?"

The door opened, and his secretary popped her head in. "Sir Richard, a Lady Mary Crawley is here to see you."

Surprise flittered across his face at this news. It had been four days since he'd spoken with her at the Criterion Restaurant. He had thought she had chosen to remain with simplicity. After all, Mary had turned out to be quite the creature of habit. Though she craved adventure, she clung to the familiar. How intriguing . . . "Send her in," Richard said finally, setting his pen down on his desk. He rose from his chair as Mary walked in—all velvet and fur—and greeted her. "Lady Mary," he greeted formally, taking her hand in his and kissing it properly.

She lifted an eyebrow at that. "You're all business today. Where's your boldness now? I certainly hope I haven't stolen it all away with my appearance."

Richard's lip pulled up into a smirk at that. "If this is business, I try to do my very best with manners and propriety." He gestured for her to sit down in the chair in front of his desk, and then sat on the edge of his desk himself, instead of reclaiming his former seat. "Is that what this is? Are you here for business . . . or pleasure?" he asked, his chin lifting curiously.

"Always to the heart of the matter with you," Mary said, removing her scarf and hat and setting them on her lap nicely. "For a writer, you certainly don't have an appreciation for the romanticism of words."

"I work in fact, Mary, not fiction. I'm the Prince of Prose, not Poetry," Richard stated. "If you wish for passionate words, look in on any club. There's a score of men eager to whisper such nonsense into your ear. But that is all they will ever do. Whisper." His lip pulled into another smirk. "That was something you never quite understood . . . There were men prepared to speak to you about the moon and June . . . I was prepared to give it to you." He was referring, of course, to the pearl engagement ring he had given to her. One that resided in his nightstand drawer now, as she had not wished to keep it.

"Mm. Yes, you were prepared to buy me a house and new dresses and lovely jewelry . . . but you never understood, Richard," Mary looked at him directly, and he listened curiously. "A woman needs words sometimes. Even those as seemingly cold and emotionally-impenetrable as myself. Our engagement felt like a business contract, not one of love or even passion." She shrugged a delicate shoulder. "Can you blame me for seeking warmth from someone I knew was capable of producing heat?"

His head lowered at that. It was a failing he had thought long on. Emotion had never been his strong suit. As he had just said, he worked in prose, not poetry. It certainly wasn't because he didn't feel. He felt keenly. Just expression of that feeling was a failing. When one lived so carefully guarded for one's entire life, it was incredibly difficult to express to the point that was easily detectable to others. Trust was a whole another issue entirely. "I had rather hoped my gifts would be understood as tokens of my genuine affection. But . . ." he worked his jaw uncomfortably, "I suppose I can understand where you might have missed their meaning."

Mary seized on his momentary vulnerability. "I didn't love you. And so I could not marry you. I don't love you now either," she added, giving him a scolding look, as if he had suggested such a thing.

Richard barely concealed a snort. "I don't love you either. How convenient."

"And I certainly don't think I shall ever love you," she added. "You're uncouth, immoral and brutish."

"Believe me, Mary, I've learned my lesson. I shant be falling in love with you ever again. You're self-absorbed, snobbish and you've a pole up your arse so long, it's a wonder it's not jutting out from your mouth," he replied in kind.

Her mouth dropped open at that. "How dare you!? I came here to tell you that I've finally put Lord Gillingham off, but I am beginning to think I prefer his coos to your jibes." She was sitting up stiffly, but she had not yet risen to leave.

"Coos will leave you soft and warm," Richard agreed, nodding. "But you don't love him either. If you did, you'd have swallowed down the bitter pill that your lover isn't that skilled and kept him, anyway. Practice can go a long way. But jibes . . . jibes leave you angry and hot." He slid off of his desk in a smooth motion. His hands slipped into his trouser pockets, and he moved slowly around the back of her chair. "Let's be honest with ourselves, Mary. Sex is better with a bit of pain involved."

To his satisfaction, he saw a blush crawling its way up her neck. She obviously wished to hide it, for she casually wrapped her scarf around her neck once more. "I don't like you," she told him simply.

"Well, that's the brilliant thing about sex . . . We don't have to like each other at all," he said quietly, then reached her side and drew her up from her chair. She eyed him warily, her hat falling to the floor between them. "We just have to want each other." Sharp features pulled into a smile. "Or, at the very least, want to hurt one another badly enough to take from each other."

"This hardly sounds enjoyable," Mary said, her voice deeper than usual. She was likely attempting to cover the waver in her voice, though the trepidation was clear in her eyes. "Or even anything close to propriety."

"No," Richard nodded. "But I don't think you're looking for love or propriety. You've had both. Now it's time for something . . . new."

Her eyebrow raised. The tension between them was an inexhaustible tug-of-war. A challenge met and a challenge set. It was all they knew how to be with one another. The rain continued to hit the window harder. A storm was brewing. A cold front fusing with a hot front. And so it was that a cold pair of lips fused with a hot pair of lips. Lightning crackled, from both within and without. The roar of thunder soon followed, though it was deafened by the blood pounding in his ears.

A typewriter fell off of the desk . . .