Thanks so much for all your reviews and alerts. I have been sans computer this weekend and a little under the weather today, so please excuse any mistakes.

Disclaimer: I still do not own them and earn nothing from them.

Charles realized quickly that the best thing about luncheon was that the butler was going to be absent. He was serving the midday meal to the gentry at the folly on the grounds. Charles hated these types of meals at Downton. They were always the most difficult to manage. To be out of doors and out of one's element while serving was completely disconcerting. Observing the mechanics from the outside, as it were, however, was very interesting. Luncheon for the staff that remained at the house including the maids, himself, and Sir Charles's valet, George, consisted of bread and a pot of soup in the servants' hall. It was a hearty soup and filling, but the best part for him was that he only had to deal with the glares of the housekeeper since the butler would be busy at the folly throughout luncheon.

He was also able to secure his spot beside Elsie because there was no groom in sight either. The square-jawed hulk must have to be on the grounds dealing with horses at the hunt. Charles just felt like his day was getting better and better. If the housekeeper had not been glaring at him, he might have hummed. Despite the watchful eye of the housekeeper, he was able to steal several glances at Elsie and let his knee rest casually against hers. When he had left it there for just a moment too long, she nudged it away with her own and shot him a surreptitious glare through her eyelashes. The small smile on her lips and pink tinge to her cheeks made him think that she didn't find his advances entirely unwelcome however. What he wasn't prepared for was what happened while he was speaking across the table to George. He almost jumped out of his seat, and his voice did rise very slightly in pitch when he felt the light caress of her foot on the back of his calf. The sensation was gone almost as soon as he felt it, and he could have almost convinced himself he imagined it had he not stolen a sideways glance at her. The way that she was studiously applying herself to her soup made him certain of her guilt. The housekeeper looked at him suspiciously, and he quickly devoted himself to his soup as well.

When luncheon was over, he decided that his best course of action would be to slip outside to the bench for a bit of quiet and perhaps to get started on his book. He sat down with a sigh and after a moment's rest withdrew the book from his pocket. Before he could even look down at it, however, he heard footsteps and looked up to his surprised joy to see Elsie approaching. He stood and waited while she sat down on the bench. This time she sat a little more toward the middle of the bench, so he followed suit. He was not quite beside her, but not scrunched up against the opposite end either. She looked down at the book in his hand, and asked, "Is that the book that you've brought to read? Fanny Hill? What sort of book is that?"

His face flushed furiously and he looked down at the book in his hand in surprise. In his distraction, he must have put his book in Master Robert's bedside table and this one in his pocket. It would never do for Elsie to find out what sort of book this was. Then he realized exactly how big of a quandary he was in. If he denied that this book was his, she might realize that it was the Viscount's, exposing him to gossip. If he pretended that it was his, she might find out what sort of book it was and despise him for it. He was going to have to make sure the Viscount paid for the uncomfortable situation that he'd put him in in a very subtle way.

"Charles?"

He was startled out of his reverie and realized that he had taken too long to answer the question, "Elsie, this is not the sort of book that I could really explain to someone like you."

"Why not? Do you not believe that I could understand it?" she asked with a bit of heat in her voice and blood rushed to Charles's nether regions as the picture of her understanding and putting into practice some of the things in the book sprang into his mind.

"Um, ah, that is, it is not the type of book that a lady should read or indeed even have knowledge of," he said evasively, with his face growing progressively more red.

"I am not a lady, Mr. Carson," she said with an arched eyebrow.

His mouth dropped open, but he refused to believe that she knew exactly what she was saying, "I believe that you are a lady, at least in the way that I mean the word. If you were not, you would have taken me up on my suggestion of a need for a bed warmer."

She blushed now herself and gave him a short nod, "I suppose I am then, but if this book," and she indicated it with a wave of her hand, "has such unfitting material in it, why are you reading it?"

"I am not reading..." he exclaimed before he could stop himself, then tried to salvage the situation, "that is, I have, many years ago, when I was less respectable than I am now, read this book, but I would not read it now." He thought back to his time on the stage with embarrassment but banished those thoughts. It would do no good to dwell on that now. "I merely picked up this book for a friend. I must have put the wrong book in my pocket when I came down." No real lie there unless it was in calling Master Robert his friend, especially at the moment when he'd like to throttle him in his sleep.

"Less respectable than a man who proposes that every woman he meets warm his bed within ten minutes of meeting her?" she asked in disbelief, crossing her arms and moving away from him on the bench.

He groaned and passed his hand over his forehead, then looked down at the book in his hand again. Things had been going along so well until she had seen this blasted book that didn't even belong to him. He entertained himself briefly with the thought of letting Master Robert go down to dinner with his pants unfastened and then just as quickly dismissed the thought; no use in getting himself fired.

"Elsie, I do not propose that every woman that I meet warm my bed," he said quietly.

"You do not?" she asked archly, "Then what was all that about looking for 'a bit of fun'?"

"I am a man," he said, "If I find a woman attractive, I make advances. It is up to the woman to either accept or reject those advances."

Her jaw tightened, and she ground out, "Did it never occur to you that it might bother all those women to be constantly subjected to your 'advances'?"

He looked at her in astonishment for a moment, "No, as a matter of fact, it did not. I just thought..."

"Obviously, you do not think, Mr. Carson, or you would act differently." With that pronouncement, she stood to her feet and started toward the house. His own anger rose to the surface now, and he started after her.

"Miss Hughes, Miss Hughes," he called and in two swift strides was in front of her and blocking her path. He did not lay a hand on her, merely stood patiently waiting for her to give him a chance to have his say. She glared at him for a moment before crossing her arms over her chest. A very ample chest, he couldn't help noting.

"I do not force my attentions on any woman," he said tightly, "I do look for 'a bit of fun' from time to time, but only with women that are looking for the same. I will admit that there are things in my life that I am ashamed of, but I have never been ashamed of the way that I have treated any woman."

She took a deep breath and stared into his eyes for a moment. He noticed that she seemed to come to a decision and asked, "And what if they are not interested in having 'a bit of fun'?"

"Then I will be their friend, I suppose," he said, "If they will have me." After a moment, he added softly, "If you will have me."

That caused her face to relax and the smallest of smiles to come to her lips, "I will, I suppose."

He released the breath that he hadn't known he was holding and stepped aside to allow her into the house. When she turned around and started back toward the bench instead, he almost couldn't contain his gratitude.

They sat together in silence for a few moments before she turned to him, "Mrs. Reynolds said your mother's name is Grace. Does that mean she is still living?"

He smiled gratefully at the change of subject, "Yes, as a matter of fact, she is the housekeeper at Downton."

"A married housekeeper? They are progressive," she said with surprise.

"No," he corrected her, "a widowed housekeeper. My father died when I was a boy, and we came to Downton not long after. I suppose you can see how I came by my job."

"You may have come by your job that way, but I have no doubt you have kept it by your skills," she said with confidence, "Remember that I have seen your work."

His cheeks tinted and he studied the pattern of wood on the bench. He was proud of the work that he did now, and that had not always been the case. For some reason, it made him unreasonably happy that she noticed his skills. To turn attention away from himself, he asked, "And you? How is it that you have journeyed south?"

"My sister left home early. She was a live-in maid, cook, and housekeeper all in one in Yorkshire. When my mother died, she came to fetch me to live with her. Her mistress was kind enough to let me live in my sister's room while I did day work at other houses. She did charge me room and board, though," she said with a small smile, "When my sister married, I took over her position."

"So you are an orphan then," he said with a nod.

"No," she corrected him grimly, looking out over the courtyard, "my father is still alive."

He looked at her in confusion, "Then why did you not stay with him?"

She glanced at him for a moment then returned her gaze to the courtyard. Her voice still grim, she said, "My sister felt it best that I be with her." Seeing that he was still confused, she said softly, "Not every home is a happy one, Charles."

His answer was just as soft, "I see." But he did not see, not really. He had a sudden urge to find her father and thrash him or anyone that hurt her. "You still haven't explained how you came to be here," he urged her to continue.

"Simple, really. My mistress knew Mrs. Reynolds. When her sister's husband died, she moved in with her and no longer needed my services. She enquired of Mrs. Reynolds regarding any open positions that she knew of and so I came here."

He squinted his eyes at her a moment, "Your mistress knew Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Reynolds knows my mother. What village were you in?"

When she gave the name, he looked at her in astonishment, "That's not three miles from the estate I grew up on."

"Just think, if you had remained there we might have met years ago," she said smiling at the thought.

"Oh, I think there is no 'might' about it. I would have certainly made every effort to meet the most beautiful girl in the village," he said, grinning.

She blushed furiously, "Mr. Carson, I thought we had agreed to be friends. One should not be so fresh with a friend."

"One also does not rub a friend's leg under the table with one's foot," he said boldly.

"That might have been an accident," she defended herself.

"It might have been," he agreed thoughtfully, "but I think that it was not."

She blushed again and tried to look at him sternly for a moment but was unable to hold back a laugh.

He laughed with her and then leaned toward her to say conspiratorially, "Perhaps even if we don't have 'a bit of fun', we could be a little more than friends."

She watched him for a few moments before nodding, "Perhaps we could."

She stood again and said briskly, "I have work to do. I'll leave you to your friend's book."

He stood as well and shook his head, "This book holds no interest whatsoever for me."

She looked at him through her lashes as they started toward the door, and his heart did that curious stutter again. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to actively discourage or encourage those glances. Seemingly unable to contain her curiosity, she asked in an almost whisper, "Is it a book with pictures of, of people? That is, I have heard of such things."

He barked a short laugh and rubbed the top of his ear vigorously, "No, there are no pictures. Thank God." He sighed, "Elsie, if I tell you generally what the book is about, will you promise to drop the matter?"

She nodded, but he merely raised his eyebrow at her. She was going to have to give more of a commitment than that. Seeming to realize what he wanted, she said, "I will drop the matter."

"It is about a young girl from the country and her 'adventures' when she comes to London."

She scoffed, "Well, from how reticent you were, I thought it was something terrible. That doesn't sound so bad."

He watched her levelly until she caught on which happened a little quicker than he thought, "Oh...Oh, I see. Well, that is...That's interesting."

She glanced down at the pocket that held the book with an interested gleam in her eyes, and he shooed her toward the door, "Inside with you, Miss Hughes. You have work to do, as do I."

He smiled at her back as he held the door for her. Who would have thought his prim Scottish lass would be curious about something like that?

This was definitely shaping up to be a very interesting trip.

Reviews are welcome as always.