Author's Note: Again, thanks so much for the fantastic feedback, you guys! I hope this chapter is as good as the last. This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful Yankee Countess, considering that it's her birthday today! I've said it like three times, but happy birthday!


You hit me once
I hit you back
You gave a kick
I gave a slap
You smashed a plate over my head
Then I set fire to our bed

-"Kiss With A Fist" by Florence and The Machine


Even though their train wasn't scheduled to leave until nine o'clock that morning, Sybil's eyes had snapped open promptly at six. She'd spent the next hour tossing and turning, looking between the clock, that damned invitation, and her phone to make sure Tom hadn't yet texted her with second thoughts. She was still finding it so hard to believe that he had agreed to her mad plan, especially since his words to her in the pub had been absolutely right. It was crazy of her to do this, desperate and crazy and more than a little selfish. So then why had this perfect stranger said yes? The question haunted Sybil as she struggled in vain to get back to sleep, finally giving up around seven. Then she began an anxious final clean-up of her flat, deciding that there was no better time than the present to scrub the kitchen counters and clean out the refrigerator. She had intended this frantic cleaning project to calm her down, but with every passing minute she only found herself getting more anxious. What if he changed his mind? What if she got stood up and abandoned by not just her real boyfriend, but the fake one she had hired as well? It was becoming more and more obvious to Sybil that she had probably made a terrible mistake in hiring Tom like this, and her only consolation was that she hadn't paid him in advance. If he wanted his money, he had to live up to his end of their bargain…she just hoped he would.

Once her kitchen was passable and Sybil's heartrate was approaching dangerously high stress levels, she tackled the multiple suitcases she had packed for the wedding weekend, all but throwing her carefully folded clothes across the room. She swapped out certain outfits for others, changing her mind three times about which cocktail dress she would wear to the party that would be held that afternoon to kick off the weekend before throwing in several different options and deciding to choose when she got there. She swapped out sexy underwear for practical underwear and then back again, not knowing what would be considered proper to bring for a weekend away at your sister's wedding with a hired boyfriend, before finally settling on a mix of each. By the time she was finished unpacking and repacking, her closet looked like a hurricane had just blown through, and she was out of time to clean it. She jumped in the shower and got ready as quickly as she could, her thoughts still going a hundred miles an hour in her head as she brushed her teeth so vigorously it started to hurt halfway through. Finally, as she threw her phone into her purse—along with some printouts of Tom's column she'd found online the night before—and zipped the bridesmaid dress that Mary had painstakingly picked out into her garment bag, it was time to go.

Or, she realized as she glanced at the clock above the stove in the kitchen, past time to go.

"Shit."

Sybil ran the rest of the way out of her flat and down the steps to her car, waiting for her at the curb where she'd left it yesterday. She'd gotten her headlight fixed, but the dent in the hood looked worse than ever, and she was thankful that they would be driving a rental car once they got to York. She threw her stuff into the back and took off down the street towards King's Cross, once again drumming nervously on the wheel as she had done the day before. Please, just show up, she whispered in her mind over and over. Please, please, please….

The crowd at King's Cross Station was less hectic than she had been expecting on a Thursday morning, and she managed to get to her train with no problems. She arranged to have a ticket waiting for Tom when he arrived, trying to ignore the panicked feeling she'd gotten the moment she had realized he wasn't waiting for her on the platform. When they called for the passengers to begin boarding, Sybil's heart almost stopped altogether. One of the porters helped her to her seat, and Sybil tried to hide the frantic look on her face—failing miserably, of course, for he noticed right away. "You all right, dear?" he asked as he helped her stow her bags away.

Sybil nodded as she turned towards him, pasting on a smile. "I'm fine. I've made this trip hundreds of times—I'm from Yorkshire. It's just," she added before she could stop herself, her mouth running ahead of her brain just as it had yesterday with Tom. "Any minute now my date is going to come in and sit next to me, and I can't explain why but I need him to look really, really, really good today…"

Suddenly Sybil felt a pair of eyes on her, and the porter smiled as he looked over her shoulder. "I don't think you have anything to worry about," he told her before slipping out of the compartment and leaving them a bit of privacy. Sybil took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart before, slowly, turning around.

He did look good. Tom Branson stood before her in jeans and a gray suit jacket over a classic white button-down, worn without a tie in what was probably an attempt to be casual. In one hand he held a slightly battered suitcase, and in his other a bottle of water. Sybil's mouth dropped open for just a second before she caught herself, surprised and secretly delighted that the bedraggled writer she'd rear-ended in the rain 24 hours before could clean up so nicely now. She found her eyes roving over him more than they should have been, noticing how his shirt and jacket seemed to fit snugly in just the right places. He was a catch, really—much better than Larry had ever looked, if she was being totally honest with herself. It was his voice speaking to her that startled her out of her reverie, and she snapped her eyes back up to his face. "Sorry I'm late," he said softly in that Irish lilt of his. "For a while there I thought about just going to Hogwarts instead." At Sybil's blank look, he clarified. "Harry Potter. King's Cross, Platform 9 ¾, you know."

"I know," Sybil said quickly. "I know the Harry Potter books. I'm a book editor, for god's sake." Neither of them had moved yet, and she was still staring at him. "I…I wasn't sure you'd come," she said somewhat breathlessly.

He gave a shrug, setting his suitcase down and taking a few steps towards her. "The bumper fell off my car this morning,'" he told her matter-of-factly. "Couldn't even drive it over here, had to take a cab. But I would have come anyway, don't worry." He smiled at her before, impulsively, leaning over to place a kiss on her cheek. His lips were soft against her skin, but Sybil stiffened in surprise anyway. He pulled back away from her with a grin. "Just getting used to it," he clarified as he sat down in the seat across from her. Sybil, after a moment, sat down too, although unlike him she could not bring herself to relax. While she sat ramrod-straight, he draped himself over the seat across and put his feet up onto the one next to her as if he were in his bed at home instead of on public transport. Sybil nudged his feet away. "No feet up," she scolded. "You're in public, for God's sake."

He promptly put them back up again, and she moved them once more back to the floor. He raised an eyebrow, smirking at her. "Someone's a bit nervous, eh, princess? Not having any second thoughts, are you?"

"I won't as long as you keep your feet where they belong," Sybil said pointedly. "You're not a child."

"What if I do it again?" he spoke up. "Are you going to turn this train around?" Tom's eyes sparkled with mirth at that, bringing his water bottle to his lips as the train began to pull out of the station. Sybil rolled her eyes and didn't answer him, not wanting to dignify that with a response. They sat in silence for a minute as Sybil rummaged through her purse and pulled out her phone. Not surprisingly, she had two new texts from Mary and one from her mother, not to mention a misspelled mess that could only be from her grandmother, who hadn't yet mastered the precise art of the cell phone. Sybil let the phone drop back into her bag, the texts unanswered for the moment.

The next thing she knew Tom was sliding into the seat next to her, so close their legs brushed. She could smell him, soap and a hint of cologne and something else that seemed entirely him, and her breath caught in her throat. She wasn't sure why she was so nervous around him, although it was probably due to how wrong this whole arrangement felt. Yes, she was just paying him to come along to the wedding with her, but it still felt dirty somehow. She glanced over at him, her eyebrows raised as if asking why he'd joined her.

"We should probably have a story," he said amiably.

"A story?"

He grinned again, and Sybil felt her knees go weak for just a moment even though she was seated. Damn it, Sybil, keep it together here…this is a business transaction, nothing else. The fact that he's attractive is just…icing on the cake. But keep it professional, or I swear to God…

"You know, a story. Every couple has a story, how they met and everything…I take it you don't want to tell them the truth."

Sybil thought about that a moment. "We can tell a version of the truth," she said finally. "You're a writer and I'm an editor, there's nothing wrong with that. Most of them would probably think its cute. Um…" she bit her lip, thinking. "We met at a party—that part's true—and started dating…a month ago? Or is that too soon to bring someone to a wedding?"

"It's our story, love," Tom said gently, and Sybil almost jumped at the endearment. "It can be whatever we want it to be."

"F-fine," Sybil stammered. "A month…maybe a month and a half. Any longer and we'll get my family demanding to know why I didn't mention you sooner. That sound good?"

He shrugged. "You're the boss here, Sybil. If it sounds good to you, then that's fine. Now…about your family…maybe you should tell me a little bit about them. A crash course in the Crawley family, if you will, just so I know the basics."

Sybil tried to smile, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Um…okay. My father's an earl, like I said…the Earl of Grantham. More or less just a title these days, but…anyway, he'll be there obviously, along with his sister, my Aunt Rosamund, and my grandmother. You'll want to avoid her if you can—I love her, I do, but she can be a bit…difficult to deal with. My mother is American—"

Now he looked interested, as if surprised that someone as seemingly English as her would have American blood. "American, really?"

"Yeah, born in Ohio—Cincinnati, I think—but she grew up in New York. Her family is very, very old and wealthy…" She ducked her head, not knowing why she found that embarrassing in front of him. "And then I've got two older sisters, Mary and Edith—Mary's the one getting married. She's been with Matthew forever, so it's about time, or so everyone's been saying. They're great together, though…Edith's been with her boyfriend, Anthony, for a while too. He's…" she trailed off, looking up at him hesitantly. "He's quite a bit older than she is, though, so try not to stare at them or anything. She's happy, and it's taken my family a long time to accept their relationship, so don't you go judging them and making things worse. Edith doesn't deserve that again."

"American mother, old money, don't mention the cradle-robbing boyfriend. I think I follow you so far, princess," Tom said with a smirk. Sybil kicked him. He didn't seem to notice.

"I'm not a princess, and Anthony is not robbing the cradle," she said petulantly. She was starting to regret this already now that she knew he was apparently planning on pushing her buttons for the entirety of the weekend, but the train had already left King's Cross and she was stuck with him for better or worse. "Any more than you're a true published writer."

Tom chuckled, his hands coming up to his heart. "Oh, Sybil, you wound me. But tell me this, then. If you're not a princess—don't give me that look, I know you're not, I'm just trying to have a bit of fun—then what are you? What exactly does one say when addressing an earl's daughter? It's a…a countess, right?"

Sybil allowed herself a tiny smile. "Close. My mother is the countess."

"Ah, of course. And you are….?" He grinned cheekily at her, clearly not ready to let this go until she gave him an answer. Once again, Sybil was wondering whether this whole mess was worth it. I should have just mailed him a check for the car…

Sybil shrugged. "They just call me Sybil. Technically my full title is Lady Sybil Patricia Crawley, but really that's just for show. Not even the servants call us by our titles anymore—not much, anyway. I'm just Sybil, and you can call my parents Robert and Cora if you want." She gave a wry smile. "Just one of the perks you get from dating me."

"Clearly," Tom replied, and Sybil found her smile widening in spite of herself. He asked about Edith and Anthony a bit more, and she did her best to warn him about the unspoken yet ongoing feud between her two grandmothers. As he had done on the way to the pub, Tom listened intently the whole time, only stopping her to clarify certain points. "Okay, how about your oldest sister, the one getting married? What's she like?"

"Mary's…well, she's Mary," Sybil said with a smile. "She's sort of our father's favorite. She's always been the most driven one of all of us, the most stubborn—although I can give her a run for her money when I feel like it. She's very proper, a bit of a perfectionist—okay, that's an understatement—and I know she loves Matthew more than anything."

Suddenly Sybil realized she had left out one rather crucial detail. "Oh…and by the way, the man she's marrying…Matthew. He's, well…don't freak out, but he's sort of our cousin…"

Tom, in the process of taking his last sip of water, choked again. "God!" Sybil cried out as she clapped him on the back. "Is this a habit of yours, doing spit-takes like this?"

"He's your cousin?!"

"He's our fourth cousin, once removed or something like that," Sybil corrected him, her tone sharp. "I'm fourth cousins with probably hundreds of other people. It's hardly related."

"I guess so," Tom said, but he did not seem convinced in the slightest. "But they're…they're happy, yeah? They're good together? How did they even start dating anyway? I mean, no offense, but…now that's got to be a story."

Now Sybil smiled, finally settling herself against the seat as she allowed herself to relax. "It's a bit of a long one…"


All the way to Yorkshire she found herself telling Tom about her family, until finally her sleep deprivation caught up to her and she found herself dozing off on Tom's shoulder. The next thing she knew he was nudging her gently and telling her that they had arrived in York. While he began to collect their baggage, Sybil reached into her purse and grabbed her compact mirror, desperate to see what damage her nap had caused. There were faint purple circles under her eyes that could be easily dealt with, but her hair looked a fright, and she slumped down in her seat, mortified that he'd had to see her like this. "Great."

"You look fine, princess," came Tom's voice, and she looked up to see him smirking down at her. "Come on, let's get going. You said your da put aside a rental car for us, yeah? I'm guessing you're the one they need to sign for it, not me."

"Right," Sybil said, standing up so quickly she almost felt dizzy. She looked down at her rumpled black jeans and shirt and sighed. "One more thing," she said, throwing her purse over her shoulder. "We're going to have to find someplace to change."


For the second time in two days, Sybil found herself in a pub.

Tom had changed quickly, swapping out his jeans for a pair of slightly rumpled suit trousers and adding a pale blue tie to complete the look. He sat down at the bar amongst Sybil's many suitcases, occasionally reminding her of how much he hated suits as she tried on dress after dress, trying to figure out which was the best for the look she was trying to go for. Unfortunately, it was hard to find the perfect dress to say, "I have completely moved on with my life and look damn good doing it," and so she had tried on and modeled for Tom at least half a dozen different dresses so far. "How about this," she said, stepping out of the restroom again, this time in a blue strapless number with a full skirt. She did a little twirl, setting her hands on her hips as she waited for her "boyfriend" to give his opinion.

"Gorgeous," he said confidently.

Sybil regarded him for a minute. "Yeah, okay, but how gorgeous? Just normal gorgeous, or 'I was crazy to let you go' gorgeous?"

"If it helps, I'd shag you," said the man behind the bar, his tone suggesting that he truly thought his input was both valid and needed. Tom glowered at him, and the man shrank back. "I mean…if it's all right with you," he stammered, clearly thinking that was enough to dig himself out of the hole his words had just created. Tom thought otherwise, for the next thing Sybil knew his arm had come around her protectively.

"Bugger off," he told the bartender, who quickly disappeared back into the kitchens. He turned to Sybil triumphantly, pasting on a smile to hide what looked like genuine jealousy in his eyes. Careful there, Tom Branson…this is a business transaction, nothing more. "This one's my favorite," he said, gesturing to the dress she had on. "The black backless one was great too, but maybe that's more of an evening dress." He smirked at her when she realized he was parroting back to her the same thing she had told him when she'd tried on the dress a few minutes ago. "Seriously, Sybil, you look fantastic. He's going to be so sorry he lost you…but we have to get going or we're really going to be late. You ready?"

They gathered up their things and left the bar, retreating back to their rental car in order to drive the final half-hour to Downton Abbey. Sybil helped him throw their bags in the back before reaching for the keys, but Tom snatched them out of her hand before she could get behind the wheel. "Oh no you don't. I've had enough of your driving to last me a lifetime, after what you did to my baby"

"It's a car, not a baby."

"Matter of opinion, princess. I'll drive."

Sybil wasn't about to argue with him anymore, so she settled herself into the passenger seat and soon they were driving through the country along a route she had taken so many times in her life she was sure she could do it in her sleep. Soon she found herself drifting off again, taking care this time to not let her hair turn into the disaster of before. Tom only woke her when he needed directions, and before she knew it they were pulling up into the massive drive of Downton Abbey, packed to the brim with cars. Tom swore under his breath as he looked through the window at the sprawling estate. "You didn't tell me you lived in a palace."

"It's not a palace," Sybil protested. "I've seen much bigger."

"Yeah? Where, Windsor?"

"I've just seen bigger, okay?" she snapped, and Tom gave that infuriating smile of his, the kind that made it nearly impossible to be mad at him. "And don't park here, this is for guests that aren't staying the night. Go around to the garage. It's this way." He obediently followed her directions, and soon they found themselves pulling up beside Mary's car in the massive garage. Sybil got out first, stretching her tired legs. Tom got out as well, casting an admiring gaze at the other cars in the garage. He went around to the back to get their luggage, but Sybil stopped him. "Don't worry. I'll find William and he can take care of all that for us after the party is done."

"William? One of the servants?"

Sybil blushed, nodding, but Tom had already become distracted. "What's this?" he asked curiously, walking over to a car covered by a thick tarp to protect it from the elements

"That's the Renault," Sybil said, as if the answer should have been obvious to him.

"The Renault?" Tom repeated. He began to pull at the tarp, pulling it up and revealing thin, old-fashioned wheels straight up out of another time. His eyes widened and suddenly he threw the whole thing back, ignoring Sybil's cry telling him to be careful with it. Sybil almost had to smile as she watched him take in the sight that to her was as familiar as anything else in this garage. Tom, however, once again looked like Christmas had come early. "This…you have a vintage Renault? God, this has to be from…1915 at least!"

"1912, actually, and it's not mine. It's my father's. He has a bit of a thing for vintage cars. This one's been in the family since it rolled off the assembly line, but it was just gathering dust for years and years. A couple years ago, though, he had it completely restored, all new fixtures and everything but trying to stay as close to the original design as possible. It even runs now, he likes to take it out driving every so often…" She bit her lip to hide the smile that threatened to cross her face as Tom ran his hand over the hood of the car, so delicately it was as if he thought it might shatter if he touched it the wrong way. "Just be careful with it, he's a bit overprotective…kind of like you and your car." Tom still didn't answer her. "Maybe I can convince my father to let you take it out for a spin later," Sybil said mildly. "That is, if you promise to be gentle with it."

Tom whirled around to face her, the expression on his face like an eager child who has just discovered one more present on Christmas morning. "D'you mean it?" he asked, and Sybil couldn't help the smile that came over her face.

"Hey, it's like I said," she told him with a shrug. "Dating me has its perks." He grinned at that and crossed over to stand beside her, offering her his hand to take. She gazed at it a long moment, as if wondering if it was really a good idea before lacing her fingers through his. Her small hand somehow seemed to fit in his large one, almost perfectly it seemed, and once again she felt her breath catch in her throat. "Are—are you ready?" she asked awkwardly, but Tom only smiled and kissed her cheek again. Just practicing, Sybil told herself. That's all it is, just getting used to it…

"I'm ready whenever you are, love. Let's go meet your family."