The night was drawing to a close.

Mary was exhausted. This was exhausting. All the fake laughter, the forced conversation, the endless battles for her attention. Was this to be her life now? Was this it?

Where were the thrills, the breathless excitement, the riveting discussions? Where was the risk, the danger, the fun?

She felt empty.

How was she supposed to decide between four men as to the one she wanted to spend her life with by weighing up the disadvantages?

She sighed.

There was movement around her; the men were fetching their coats and hats, chatting away to each other, trying their hardest to keep an air of nonchalance about them, but she could feel their eyes continuously darting to her.

And yet none of them seemed to actually notice her.

But then she looked over at them, and all she could see were Tom's beautiful, concerned eyes fixed on hers and she felt all at once like she couldn't breathe.

"Can I give you a hand there, Mary?" It was Charles. No, Henry. Tony?

Whoever's it was, she accepted the hand, rising gracefully to her feet.

"Right then, chaps, I'm afraid this looks like the end. I've had a marvellous evening, thank you all for your most pleasant company." She didn't even bother identifying the voice. Either way it was met by a chorus of agreements; a sea of echoes of the same empty sentiment from an ocean of empty men.

Mary smiled and nodded her dainty head.

They walked outside onto the street. It was quiet, the moon shining, the paving stones wet from yesterday's rain.

She stepped a little bit away for a second, breathing in the night, praying it would help her choose.

She looked back at them all, hovering, waiting for her.

Nothing.

She approached them.

Evelyn acted first. He took her hand, pressed it to his lips, desperately tried to look flirtatiously into her eyes.

She felt cold.

Charles bowed his head, took her hand, pulled her closer, pressed it to his lips, whispered something.

She didn't hear him.

Tony was next. Took her hand, to the lips, brush of the fingertips on her face.

All she could think was that he had clammy hands.

Henry. Hand. Lips. A smile.

Nothing.

He stood back.

They were waiting for her to choose.

But she just couldn't.

"Can I walk you home, Mary?" One of them asked.

"It would make much more sense if I did that as I'm staying just down the road."

"I don't mind."

"I could do with the fresh air."

Mary's mind started spinning. All these empty, blurring voices; these empty, blurring faces; these empty, blurring men. Fading into a nothingness around her.

Someone touched her arm. A jump. A jolt. A shiver.

"I'll walk Lady Mary home." It was Tom.

A silence descended upon the group.

"It makes much more sense, seeing as I do live in the same house as her."

None of the men could argue with that.

"Mary?" It was Charles.

"Yes. Tom will walk me home." Mary's brisk, factual voice surprised even herself.

"I suppose I'll see you another time then?" Evelyn's voice echoed towards her.

"Certainly, come up and visit again anytime. You're always welcome. All of you."

"Goodnight then." Now it was Tony.

"Goodnight."

"I had a delightful evening." Henry.

"Goodbye."

The figures retreated away into the night. Distant, blurring, cold, empty shadows of men.

Mary let out a rickety breath. Then she came to her senses. They had all gone. And she was left alone with Tom.

Who was still holding on to her arm.

She looked at him.

Sparks.

She wrenched her arm away as if he'd burned her.

"Mary?" he began.

"Why did you do that?" Mary gasped.

"What?" he seemed genuinely surprised.

"Why did you say you'd walk me home and send them all away like that?" her tone was demanding.

"Oh come on, Mary. Don't pretend like we both don't know you hated every minute of that evening." Tom's voice raised to match hers.

"Not every minute." Mary's mind flashed back to the politics conversation, of Tom's eyes flashing mischievously at her from across the table and she almost smiled.

"Well, you still don't want to spend the rest of your life with any of those men and you know it." Tom shot.

"That's not true!" Mary protested.

"Isn't it?" Tom fired back.

They were starting to get some shocked looks from the people surrounding them, so Tom grabbed Mary's arm and tugged her along the street a little. They walked in silence until they'd escaped the passers-by.

Mary did her best to ignore the explosions dancing throughout her at the mere touch of his hand. She pulled herself from his grip again.

"I don't understand, Mary." Tom sighed, stopping dead in his tracks. "What was wrong with any of them? And don't try and pretend; you know that's never worked with me."

Mary closed her mouth reluctantly, turning to face him.

There was a pause.

"I don't know." She eventually sighed. "They just… all of them… so… dull… empty."

"What do you mean?" Tom pressed.

"I mean… when I… they just don't mean anything to me… Their conversation bores me, their attempts at flirting embarrass me, their touch…" She trailed off.

Another pause. Mary risked a glance at Tom and practically melted into his concerned gaze.

"You know it's all your fault anyway!" Mary burst suddenly.

"Mary… what are you…" Tom began.

"If you hadn't kept distracting me all night perhaps it would have been easier!" Mary didn't understand why she was getting so angry. Well, she did, but she was stubborn and didn't want to admit it.

"If I remember correctly, you were the one that allowed yourself to get distracted!" Tom's face flushed with his steeply rising anger.

"Well you shouldn't have been so interesting!" Mary knew she sounded childish but she couldn't help herself. "Why do you get to stroll in here looking all dressed up and handsome in a simple evening suit discussing politics at the dinner table and… and… making me pay more attention to you all night than any of the men that I should have been paying attention to?"

"Mary…" Tom breathed.

Mary's desperate heart rate slowed and red haze lifted. She blushed. And Lady Mary did not blush. Ever.

"I'm sorry, that was unfair of me. I've had a long evening. Please forgive my atrocious outburst."

"Mary, don't do that. Don't think you can smooth over feelings like that… like, like…"

"Like what?" She could feel the cold exterior slipping back into place, saving her from herself.

"Like… I don't know, Mary… Like they don't mean anything!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Or have you forgotten what it's like to be in love?"

Images of Matthew flickered into Mary's mind. But then suddenly, Tom's face appeared, uninvited, flashing up before her eyes. Her heart lurched.

She marched forwards.

"I'm tired, Mr Branson, so if you'll excuse me…"

Tom grabbed hold of her arm and spun her against the wall of the nearby house, catching her body with his arms before she hit it and then imprisoning her there.

"Mary, I'm going to ask again. What was wrong with all the men tonight?" Tom's eyes looked almost pleadingly into hers. Or was that simply wishful thinking? Mary didn't know. She couldn't think straight with him so close.

"I told you." Mary insisted, breath hitching involuntarily. Shivers scorched her skin simply from his proximity. What was wrong with her?

"No you didn't. You said some things that might have been true, but they weren't the whole truth."

"I… I don't know what you're talking about." Mary breathed.

"Yes you do." Tom pushed imploringly.

"No I don't, I…"

But her words were cut off by two soft, Irish lips pressing gently onto hers and a strong, Irish hand gripping her face with a tender passion that sent thrills racing through her.

Her whole body jerked as though someone had vigorously kicked her in the stomach. Tickling flames shot throughout her nerves, dancing right from her frantic heart to her fingertips, and her head felt like it had disengaged itself from the rest of her body and was now floating somewhere up near the clouds. Multi-coloured lights flashed before her eyes and a pounding like the beating of a drum started within her.

But then suddenly he was gone and everything stopped.

She stumbled forwards in a desperate attempt to cling to the moment.

She vaguely registered him backing away.

A cold, empty, longing sensation seeped back into her.

A voice, a lilting, Irish voice, floated across to her from a million miles away.

"I… I… I'm sorry." It said. "I… I shouldn't have done that… I just… I'm sorry… I'll go…"

"No."She wanted to say. "No, don't be sorry. Don't go."

But she was too dazed and by the time she came to her senses, the street was empty.

She stood as though in a dream until she felt a biting cold moisture on her face.

She looked up. No rain.

And then she realised she was crying.

So she started to laugh.

She couldn't remember the last time she had genuinely laughed this hard.

She stood on the street for some time, laughing her head off, tears pouring down her cheeks.

None of the men tonight had ever made her feel anything like this.

'What was wrong with them?' She heard herself asking herself yet again.

And finally she knew the answer.

They weren't Tom Branson.