When he woke up that morning, he had expected a long day of happy celebration.

Robert Crawley ushered shut the door of his study, as Matthew and Murray sat down. He slowly walked behind his desk, and gravely studied the faces of the two men of law he summoned in the dark privacy of the room.

He fluttered his eyelids close for a moment, unwanted images occupying his thoughts before he could stop them.

Mary, in her white dress, escorting Cora to the sitting room, every woman of the family closing around them protectively. Matthew, squeezing tenderly Mary's hand, before marching back to the Church and clearing out the crowd with smooth, calm words.

He opened his eyes again.

"I want to see that man in jail. Sue him for slander, frame him, I don't care how you do it, but I will not sit here while he destroys my name, my family."

Murray cleared his throat, before replying tentatively. "I'm afraid it's not possible, Lord Grantham. Whoever wrote that article was thorough - his facts are unassailable."

"I did not have an affair with that woman! What was implied-"

"We can hardly base a lawsuit on opinion. Defamation claims cannot be brought based on what one might or might not read from the facts stated. My hands are tied."

Robert sighed, finally sitting down. "Then what do we do?" he asked, dimly.

His question fell away, lost in the room as the door opened and Richard Carlisle was unexpectedly announced.

"How dare you show your face here?"

"Let's not be harsh. I come in peace. I think, in fact, that I may just have the solution to your problems."

"Executioner and savior. How quaint."

Richard smirked at Matthew's dry humor, and took a sit opposite to the Earl, uninvited.

"I would assume that you were going to offer me refreshment, but the evidence so far suggests that that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness."

"Make it quick, Carlisle. We have a wedding to attend." replied Robert, with a calmness he didn't know he could possess.

"In the village of Gomersall" he began, with no intention of making his enjoyment in any way quick, "a man had finished for himself a dream house, commanding a beautiful view down the valley. He would look out of the window and enjoy the wondrous panorama. His enemy couldn't bear it, so opposite to this house he erected a strange looking cottage: built of rough unhewn stones, many of them projecting considerably, with uncouth heads and grinning faces carved upon them. This building shut out the beloved view, and upon a stone above the door, now the once happy man could read, in large letters, 'SPITE HALL'"

Sir Richard ended his story with a smug grin, surveying the room for reaction. There was none. Casting his stern eyes on the media mogul, Robert Crawley addressed him with tired countenance "I thought you were here to discuss business." It wasn't what Carlisle was hoping for, but the show was still far from over.

"I had been aware of this particular indiscretion for quite a while, but refrained to use it given our… special connection."

"And yet now you seem in a habit of printing lies on your papers."

"Facts, not lies, is all I've reported. What the reader might deduct from them is not my responsibility. But I'm sure your lawyers have already informed you in that regard." Richard shot a glance in Matthew's direction. His jaw was set and tense, his eyes cast on him defiantly. "Luckily", he continued amiably "You have a choice. I can deny what's been written, blame it on a careless journalist, clear your respectable name."

"I assume it wouldn't come from the goodness of your heart."

"I'm a businessmen, Lord Grantham. I don't deal with my heart. What I want, is the truth. Mr. Bates hearings for a retrial are scheduled for next week. I'm sure Mr. Murray here is examining new witnesses to subpoena, is he not?"

"So what, you're interested in a press coverage of the case?"

"I am a witness. Mrs. Bates came to me to sell her story, your daughter's exploit. I have a signed, legal document to prove it. She also said that her only reason to attack your family was to seek revenge against her husband, and when that failed she swore that 'Bates wouldn't get away with it'. I'm sure the judge would find the story interesting, were I to repeat it in court. It'd help the suicide hypothesis, wouldn't it?"

"You're a bastard." Matthew's words were clear, but not shouted; as hard as steel. He turned to Robert, who was looking at him questioningly. "Absolute privilege. Proceedings publicly heard before any court (be it a tribunal or body exercising judicial power) can be reported in any newspaper. It won't matter whether the allegations are true or not, if he goes to the witness stand, his newspapers can rightly publish Mary's story."

Matthew's hands gripped the armrests until his knuckles turned white. Punching him again won't do it. He tried to remember today was supposed to be the happiest day of his life.

"Isn't it wonderful to have a solicitor in the family?" Carlisle exclaimed. "Law of Libel Amendment Act. Two of us can play at this game." he added, for Matthew's benefit, before turning his attention back to the Earl."It's your choice, Lord Grantham. You can let your daughter be publically exposed for the filthy mistake she made, or both you and your valet can be condemned for crimes you did not commit. Won't you let an innocent man have his best chance at life?"

Robert Crawley stood to his full height, facing Carlisle. Eyeing Matthew to make sure he wouldn't react to the man's provocations, he swallowed and said "Carson will lead you out, Sir Richard. We have nothing more to discuss."

"I know the way. Ball's in your court, your lordship".

As Carlisle left the room, Robert collapsed back on his chair, his face ashen, and his eyes closed in meditation.

When Matthew made it back home it was dark outside. Mary had left Downton hours ago, taking care of canceling their wedding party meticulously. She didn't shed a tear, didn't flinch. In fact, it was her calmness, the studied way she moved around the house instructing servants to take down the flowers and get more tea to her mother, that worried him. Such were his thoughts as he slipped in his - their - dimly lit bedroom, not bothering to change out of his clothes.

He found Mary sitting at her vanity, delicately applying cream on her hands. She was wearing a long, white gown, almost transparent with the sole table lamp to illuminate her frame, so that he could only distinguish the outline of her round curves, and wonder whether or not she was an apparition. Her hair fell in soft waves on her shoulders, and he realized he had never seen it down. Suddenly he felt heat rising from his stomach to his face, the desire to slip his fingers in her hair, and then down her neck, so strong that his hands itched. He coughed uncomfortably, chastising himself. Given the day's events he should be here to support her, comfort her, not giving in to-

His train of thoughts was halted by the smile she flashed him through the mirror. Her eyes were dancing, amused at his discomfort as she turned to face him, granting him a full view of her cleavage. Modest, she was feeling not.

"Darling, you're home." her tone was flippant, as she regarded him with a full smile. He knew those eyes, he had lost himself in them when he had stolen a kiss (two, ten, a hundred) from her; he saw the same mischievous glint when she had taken the last strawberry from his hands and then innocently added that he could've tasted it on her lips anyway. She was, in short, up to no good.

He stood by the doorway, keeping his distance. "Carlisle came to talk to your father. He presented him with-"

"Don't."

"Mary, you don't have to do this. You don't have to pretend nothing happened, not with me. No more masks, no more facades."

"I don't need to pretend. Whatever happened with my father, with Carlisle...I left it out of that door. This is already a crowded marriage, Matthew. Let's not turn it into a crowded bedroom too."

This was her wedding night, goddamnit, and she chose not to let Sir Richard Carlisle play any role in it when she broke off their engagement. She had been upset, she had been angry. But when she'd immersed herself in the bath Anna had fixed for her, she felt the tension leave her body. With flushed cheeks, she realized that all she could think of, all she would think of, was Matthew. His hands, long fingers often smudged with ink when he went through paperwork. His neck, that would blush when at dinner she'd let her hand graze on his upper arm. His cheeky smile, full lips and unabashed eyes when he had kissed her on her neck, and then up her jaw to her ear whispering "We're getting married tomorrow, Lady Mary".

No, she had determined, right now she couldn't find in herself the resolve to care about anything beyond this night.

"I know you care."

"I do. But I can prioritize. We can deal with everything Carlisle wants to throw at us. Together. Tomorrow."

"You don't have to feel obliged-"

A pillow hit him straight in the face. Somehow, she had jumped to the bed and got hold of her weapon before he could realize it.

"Stop fussing, Mr. Crawley."

Finally, he surrendered to her wishes, letting this awful day slide past him. He circled the bed, kneeling on it mirroring Mary's stance so that he could face her. "I'm still in my dress suit, Mrs. Crawley."

Satisfied, Mary drew him closer, slowly working on his tie. "I'm sure we can do something about it.".

Breath.

Hands, roaming, discovering, teasing mercilessly and then seeking forgiveness.

Open mouthed kisses, falling wherever they could, marking, counting scars, and freckles, each learning the curves of their bodies, the quiver of their muscles, the taste of their skin.

Limbs, gripping at each others, tentatively and tenderly, then with growing urgency, desperate to feel more, clutching at one another as the world slipped away and there was nothing but them.

Bodies, merged as one, still, overwhelmed by the simple act of being complete, full, before the friction spurred them to start their own dance, slow, before the need drove them to race and nothing mattered anymore.

Whispers, words of love, and promises, until they could hear nothing but moans, cries, and breathing, and you didn't know where one began and the other ended.

Hands, joined, palms meeting, fingers enclosing, arms stretching as he pressed them together by her face, as they were lost, and found.

Cold sweat, warm bodies. Legs keeping him in place, when after had no meaning. Feather kisses on her now closed eyelids.

Breath.

Carson said her father was waiting for her in the library. She followed the butler, with confident steps. Her fingers traced a pattern where the wrist met her palm, the ghost of Matthew's kiss still there.

Robert was waiting by the liquor cart, fixing himself a drink. She positioned herself on the settee.

"Mary."

Did she blame him, for making himself vulnerable, for betraying her mother's trust? Did he blame her, for causing an unfounded gossip to blow out of proportion in Carlisle's attempt to hurt her? They both let the questions drop, unanswered.

"Matthew told me what Carlisle asked you to do."

He was taken aback by her collected statement. He was expecting to face her disappointment, even contempt, but he found he couldn't read her expression.

"Murray thinks Bates might benefit from Carlisle's confession."

"Will you accept?"

"How could you think I would?"

"Bates could be freed."

"You're my daughter." without thinking, he took hold of her hands. "You're my daughter. Carlisle could threaten to take anything, everything away from me, and I would never let him get to you. You must know that."

She nodded, her gaze scrutinizing the truth behind his eyes.

"I needed to hear it from you. And anyway, I wouldn't have let you, or Carlisle, blame me for what happened yesterday. That was a tragedy of your own doing."

"So I'm not forgiven."

Mary hugged him, feeling like her eight years old self, desperately clinging to her father when he had come back from the war, intending to never let go.

And as she felt her him relax in her embrace, she whispered "There's nothing to forgive. After all, you wouldn't be the first Crawley to make a mistake."

He chuckled, releasing her. "But I'm afraid there's still nothing we can do about Carlisle."

"Oh, Papa" she began. He looked again at his daughter: he saw the woman she had become, he noticed her confident smile and knowing eyes as she raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, channeling his own mother. And he knew she had entered this room with the intent to fight back. "Don't be defeatist. It's so very middleclass."

TBC

A/N: First of all, thank you for your support and for your patience. I hope you're not too tired by this fanfiction, bear with me and with my muse. Your appreciation, shown in any form, spurred me to finally write more. I'm sorry if this chapter was somehow boring, but I needed to shift my attention to Carlisle and Robert, and to somehow justify his attack (hence Matthew's quoting of the 1888's law). I hope it didn't sound too OOC, but I wanted Carlisle to react in a cruel yet calculating way. We'll see a different, less collected side of him in the next chapter. I've struggled with Mary and Matthew's love scene, I'm unable to write it. And I've spent a week on the dialogue, failing. Let me know what you think in a review nevertheless, because it makes me happy.

PS: somewhere in this chapter there's a Dumbledore's quote. Who finds it first gets a spoiler.