A knock came at Isidore and Martha's door not long before they had meant to go down to dinner. Martha continued to fasten her earrings as Isidore answered it.

"Marmaduke?" Isidore stepped aside in surprise, allowing the younger man to come in.

Martha took one look at his face and shook her head. "You and Rosamund fought, didn't you?"

He nodded, bowing his head with a sigh. "Earlier. I've been hiding in one of the sitting rooms up here since then."

"Do you need to talk?" Martha led him to a chair and deposited him upon it, leaving her hand on his arm.

"I – I don't think I can." His voice broke, and Martha glanced up at Isidore. "And I can't go down to dinner."

After he'd closed the door, Isidore stood there with his hand on the door knob in silence. Now he spoke, tilting his head in inquiry. "Is there something that we can do to help, Marmaduke?"

Swallowing hard, Marmaduke nodded again. "I have a strong suspicion that Rosamund won't go down to dinner either. Can you – might you – tell the others something? Anything? I trust you to come up with the right thing." He raised moist eyes to Martha's face. "And will you make sure, if she isn't there, that some dinner is sent up for her? I don't know if she'll eat it, but I would like it to be sent up all the same."

"Of course we will, Marmaduke. Don't you want something sent up for yourself?" Martha felt awful for the poor man sitting in front of her, knowing what he and Rosamund must have fought about.

"No. I couldn't eat." He blinked back more tears.

Martha sat upon the arm of the chair next to his and bent her head down to look him directly in the eye. "Marmaduke, I want you to stay here while we go down for dinner. Okay? I'll come up as soon as I can. You shouldn't be alone too long, and you may want to talk sooner than you think." She gave him a small smile when he nodded once more, unable to speak.

Once in the hallway, she took Isidore's arm and clutched it to herself. "It's a shit situation they're in, Issi. I won't say anything else about it, but, believe me, I wish I could do more to help them."

"I know, Martha." He looked down into her face as they descended the staircase. "If she's not at dinner, I'll bring the tray up to Rosamund, look in on her, while you talk to Marmaduke."

"Thank you, Issi. That will make me feel better, and I can tell Marmaduke that too." She sighed. "Poor sweet darlings."

"We'll do what we can, Martha." He pressed a kiss to her temple and led her to the drawing room.

Rosamund never appeared for dinner. The lie Martha concocted – and fully expected Violet to rip to shreds – wasn't questioned. In fact, everyone was uncharacteristically quiet. Patrick and Violet didn't look at one another. Cora and Robert seemed wrapped up in their own world, Cora obviously still upset about Rosamund's earlier behavior.

Martha shook her head at Isidore. They'd known this would happen, hadn't they?

After dinner, Martha requested two heaping trays to be prepared. While she and Isidore waited for them, sharing a postprandial drink, she saw Violet slip out of the room. Cora made her excuses not much later, wanting an early night. Her mother heard Cora's whispered encouragement to Robert to stay with Patrick, that he looked as if he needed the company more than she did. With a kiss, she smiled at Robert and said goodnight to the others as she left.

By the time two maids brought the trays to Martha and Isidore, Violet hadn't returned. Martha silently praised her daughter for having the foresight and compassion to have Robert stay with his father. Saying goodnight to the pair, Martha and Isidore went upstairs with the dinner trays, parting at Rosamund's door with a nod and a soft kiss.

With a brief knock on the door, Martha went into her room, balancing the tray carefully as she shut it behind her. Marmaduke's head reposed against the back of the chair; he'd fallen asleep. Martha considered whether or not to wake him, but decided that if he was going to eat, he'd be more likely to do so when the food was still hot. Setting the tray down, she crossed to where he sat and gently shook him.

"Marmaduke, I brought you some dinner. You should eat."

"No, no. I'm not hungry. Did someone take Rosamund something?"

"Yes. Isidore did. He wanted to check on her, too. He still doesn't know, Marmaduke. I didn't tell him. But he can see something is wrong, and he wanted to be there if she needs to talk."

Marmaduke ran his hands over his face, nodding.

"You really should try to eat something. It won't do to starve yourself." She picked up the tray and held it out in front of her with a frown.

"I don't think I can eat, Martha. Not the way things are."

She took a step closer to him with the tray, pursing her lips together and raising her eyebrows, but saying nothing.

Marmaduke stared at her for a few moments, the two at a stalemate, until he had to blink. Had he felt lighter, he would have chuckled at her resolve – her stubbornness. "You aren't going to give in until I accept that tray, are you?" He lifted one of his brows at her.

"Nope." She shook her head and came to stand right in front of him.

"Okay, you win, Martha." He reached up and took the tray. "I think I have a bit more insight into Cora now…." He set the covers to the dishes down on the small table beside him and picked up his fork, knowing Martha watched him like a hawk. Or, really, like a mother.

Pouring him a glass of water from her bedside carafe, Martha added this to the tray across his knees and sat in the chair closest to his. She remained quiet, waiting for him to speak, if he was going to, when he was ready.

After a few bites – having discovered he actually was hungry, despite what he'd thought – Marmaduke wiped his mouth with his napkin and asked, "Do you think she'll speak to Isidore?" He kept his eyes on his tray, taking another bite and chewing thoughtfully while he waited for her answer.

"I don't know. As you haven't told me exactly what the fight was about or what was said, there's really no way for me to come up with a reasonable hypothesis."

"She's so hardheaded, Martha. And this has been so hard on her." He set down his fork and sighed. "I tried to make her talk. I was wrong to do it. I should have kept following your advice. We shouted at one another. I can't remember ever shouting at her. But I just had to find a way to make her hear me…." Tears fell into his soup as he picked up the spoon to begin eating it.

"Maybe it is a start. The two of you were always going to need to clear the air somehow. This probably wasn't the way you wanted to do that, but arguing – saying things you thought she needed to hear, in that unvarnished form – is certainly one way to start clearing the air."

"I feel horrible," he muttered, continuing to sip his soup.

"Well, I wouldn't like you half so well, Marmaduke, if you didn't. Shouting at your wife shouldn't make you feel good." She shrugged. "Admittedly, sometimes it's an acceptable form of release, but, on the whole, no. Yelling isn't an effective means of communication."

Marmaduke shook his head and put his spoon on the tray. "I can't eat anymore, Martha. My stomach is in knots."

Martha stood. "I'll wager your mind is too. Isn't it?" She met his eyes as she bent to take the dinner tray from him.

"Yes. Any words of wisdom on how to unknot things? Or at least to forget about it for a while?" He watched her open the door to put the tray on the floor just outside for one of the maids.

Leaning back against the door, Martha shrugged again. "Talking with someone can help. Talking to me, as I already know the situation. But, really, the only thing that will completely help is talking to Rosamund."

"I'm not certain I can talk about it much more than I already have. Not coherently at least."

"Well, then, it seems to me you have two options: sleep –"

"Probably not going to happen again," he interrupted, shaking his head. "Not for a good long while, anyway."

" – or hard liquor," she finished, tilting an eyebrow at him.

"Well," he said, clapping his hands together once, "I suppose I know where I'm headed. You coming along?" He stood up from the chair.

"No, I think I'll stay here, wait for Issi. But do be aware that your brother- and father-in-law are most likely already a few drinks ahead of you. And it doesn't seem as if Patrick had a good afternoon, either; although, I don't think it was quite as awful as yours was."

"I hope not," he said, with a brief shake of his head. "Thanks for making me eat something, Martha. And for being willing to talk again. I do appreciate it." He walked to the door and kissed her cheek.

"You're welcome. You're always welcome, Marmaduke. I do want things to mend between you and Rosamund. And I'll help in any way I can." She stepped aside so he could pass.

"I know." With another thanks, Marmaduke closed the door behind him and made his way to the library.

Martha dropped down in a chair, suddenly exhausted.


At first Isidore thought he'd have to leave the tray outside of Rosamund's room, since no answer came to his knock. He tried again, and then again, waiting several minutes between each.

Just as he was about to put the tray down and leave, Rosamund appeared at the door. Sympathy and concern rose up in Isidore's chest at the sight of her, her eyes puffy and red from crying, her face tear stained.

He didn't wait for her to speak, simply lifted the tray slightly and said, "I brought you this. And I thought someone should see how you were."

Rosamund said nothing, but moved to one side so Isidore could come over the threshold with the tray. He put it on a side table and turned to face her. She hadn't shut the door.

"How are you?"

She sniffled a bit. "I don't quite know, to be honest, Isidore." She closed her eyes briefly, then, opening them again, said, "I don't really feel like company though."

Nodding, Isidore walked past her as she went to the dinner tray. Once he'd gotten to the door, though, her voice stopped him. "Did he tell you what happened?"

Isidore turned. Rosamund had her back to him, her head bowed low. "No. He didn't. Only that you two had fought. From the looks of him, it was a doozy. He came to Martha and me simply to make sure that we brought you something to eat."

"Yes, that sounds like him," she said softly, still facing away from Isidore.

"Look, Rosamund, I don't know what happened between you two, but if you would like to talk, I hope you know you can come to me – or to Martha – anytime."

"Yes. I know. And I know Marmaduke spoke to Martha already," she said, her tone even.

But he noticed she trembled. "She didn't tell me. Well, she told me he'd confided in her, but she refused to say anything else. He'd told her not to; although she probably wouldn't have told me anyway, since it was told to her in confidence."

Rosamund nodded, Isidore barely able to discern this from the back of her head. He waited, but she didn't say more. He stepped closer to the door.

"I'll leave you, then. Please do eat something, Rosamund."

He'd almost made it out into the hallway when she said in a near whisper, "I could lose him over this. He might leave, and it would be all my fault."

Her trembling became even more noticeable, her voice cracking on the important words. Isidore, still unsure whether she would speak to him about it or not, considered it wise to close the door anyway. "Over what? The argument?"

"The argument, what it was about, all of it." She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, Isidore aware that she was attempting to keep herself from crying again. "He's wanted so long to talk about it with me, but I…. I couldn't. And when he said he'd gone to talk to Martha…." She shook her head vigorously, putting a hand to her mouth. "I just lost it."

Isidore crossed the room to her and lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Might you talk about it now? With me?"

"Okay," she said in a small voice.

He steered her gently to a pair of chairs in the corner. He could tell she wouldn't eat until she'd gotten things off her chest – if she ate at all – so he didn't press her to try. Once they sat, Rosamund took her time getting started. But Isidore merely gave her encouraging looks and words as necessary. She gathered momentum as she became more comfortable telling him, continuing until he'd heard the whole story, including the earlier fight.

"Rosamund dear," he said, handing her his handkerchief for her fresh tears, "that's a lot for any couple to handle. And no one handles it well. No one." He paused, furrowing his brow. "Have you heard of the five stages of grief?"

"Yes, I've heard of them. But I'll confess that I don't know much about them."

Isidore nodded. "Well, you and Marmaduke have been, in some ways, in a perpetual mourning since that first miscarriage. And, although they're called 'stages,' they can be experienced in any order, not everyone goes through all of them, and some people have to go through certain ones more than once or for longer periods of time, moving back and forth among them." He touched her hand and stayed quiet until she met his eyes. "I think that while Marmaduke has been ready to try to move past mourning – which is why he's been attempting to get you to talk, to get you to move past it with him – you've been in the denial stage. You don't want to talk, because talking means you have to face this reality head-on."

"But, I don't understand. I don't deny the loss of our children." She shook her head, staring at him through wet lashes.

"No, I think you've probably gotten to acceptance with that. The reality I see you endeavoring to push away, to deny, though, is the other part of it, and what it could mean for your marriage."

"The part where we can't have children," she whispered.

Isidore slowly nodded. "Yes. You're mourning the loss of any future chance of children, mourning the family you thought you'd be starting with your husband. You haven't told anyone, haven't wanted Marmaduke to tell anyone, because it makes it real, doesn't it? You can't deny it when everyone else knows."

Rosamund clutched at her stomach, her face contorting with sobs, even as she nodded her assent and understanding. "Yes," she finally strangled out.

Isidore moved his hand to pat her back. "I know you're frightened, Rosamund. You said it before, of what you're afraid most, I think: you might lose him. But I think you should consider something."

She'd calmed, her sobs turning into sniffles, and she looked around at him. "What?"

"He volunteered for the vasectomy. He chose to put your health first. Both times: when faced with the possibility of no children and when it came time to decide who would bear the burden of surgery."

Rosamund thought about this, wiping her face with the side of her hand.

"And I've seen him, how he is with you, even how he looks at you, Rosamund. He always puts you first. In my experience, that means that a spouse is doing everything within their power to hold on to the other person."

She met his eyes, taking this in.

"Trust me. He doesn't want to lose you either. And I'll wager that he's just as frightened as you are of that happening."

"That's why he's acted the way he has, tried to get me to talk to him, isn't it?" She couldn't seem to get her voice above a whisper.

Isidore nodded again. "I really think so."

Rosamund turned her head to stare at the floor, and Isidore sat quietly, letting her process what she'd just heard in her own way, in her own time. After a few moments, though, her brows drew together. "May I ask you something, Isidore?"

"Certainly." He could see something else troubled her.

She took a deep breath. "If he's ready to move on, why hasn't he – I mean, why haven't we – what is keeping him from, er –"

Isidore thought he knew what she tried to ask. "I take it that you haven't had sex yet. Since you've both been recovered physically."

Rosamund's eyes flickered to him in a curt nod. "I thought that this morning he might – we might…." She shook her head and closed her eyes. "But no."

"My best guess? Knowing the little I do about Marmaduke? He's waiting for you to initiate it – to tell him, or somehow show him that you're ready. He may have been wanting to talk to you first, waiting for that." He clasped his hands together in his lap, giving Rosamund a tiny smile. "What I can tell you, knowing Martha as well as I do, that she probably told him or encouraged his own inclination to wait until you were ready. As for the talking? She and I both tend to counsel spouses to exercise nonverbal communication when they find themselves faced with partners who don't want to talk. He's probably been telling you things that way. Or at least trying to."

Isidore found it remarkable how her face softened while she pondered this. "I think he has, actually. Been telling me things, I mean. I'm still rather worried though. He fusses over me, and I wonder if he sees me as fragile, breakable, and, despite all you just said, that's the real reason why we haven't had sex."

"Rosamund, please don't take this the wrong way, but haven't you been acting fragile?"

She turned and stared at him, an "oh" escaping her lips. "You're right, Isidore. I have acted that way, haven't I? I suppose that denial stage keeps you from seeing things clearly, doesn't it?"

"Most stages of grief do."

A quiet settled over the room, Rosamund running everything over in her mind. "Isidore?" she murmured. "I was so horrible to him this afternoon. Do you think he'll -?" Her voice caught, her breath hitching at the words she couldn't quite say.

Isidore took one of her hands and pressed it. "No. You won't lose him. It was an argument. Everything built up to where neither of you could hold it back any longer. Now that the dam has broken, perhaps you can move forward. If you're ready, that is."

"I think I might be. At least, to make a start."

"I'm happy to hear that, Rosamund. And I know Marmaduke will be glad to hear it too. You need one another. Neither of you can completely heal without the other."

"He said something like that. That he wanted us to get through this together. He needed me, and I let him down." She lowered her head.

"You can't blame yourself. Like I said before, this is difficult for any couple, and that no one handles it well. You simply have to start from where you are, Rosamund. That's all anyone can do."

She raised her head and nodded, giving him the smallest hint of a smile – but it touched her eyes.

"Now. I think a start includes dinner. It's probably a bit cold, but I'll sit here while you eat, if you'd like."

Rosamund's smile grew slightly. "Yes, Isidore. I'd like that. Thank you." She paused, then added, "For everything."


Waking with a jerk, Martha glanced at the clock. Isidore hadn't come back from Rosamund's room, and Martha hoped that this meant she had unbent enough to speak to him. But it was getting rather late.

She decided to go and check on the two, hoping that Rosamund had forgiven her for talking to Marmaduke. But as she walked down the hallway, passing Violet and Patrick's room, she heard a rather large crash. Martha paused, listening for any further alarming sounds. Then came a woman's voice in a rather sharp, "Fuck!"

Did I just hear what I thought I heard? Martha wondered. Her eyes widened, and she knocked on the door. "Violet? Is everything alright?"

Violet stood at the open door a moment later, holding a piece of broken glass and swaying slightly. "Do you need something, Marthaaaaa?" The fingers of her left hand had started to bleed where the edges of the glass bit into them.

Leaning forward, Martha sniffed, confirming her impression. "Jesus, Violet, I didn't think I could be this surprised by you. Step back so I can come in."

A wobble attended Violet's steps backwards. Martha closed the door and surveyed the room as she carefully pried the glass from Violet's hand.

"We need to clean these cuts." Taking Violet by the wrist, Martha led her into the bathroom, noting how unsteadily the woman walked. "Sit." She pointed to a chair by the sink. Violet nearly missed it as she sank down upon it.

As much as Martha found the situation humorous, she also realized that something very upsetting had to have happened to bring Violet to this state.

Picking up a washcloth, Martha ran it under warm water, then applied the cloth to Violet's hand.

"Am I injured?" Violet asked, peering down at where Martha attended the cuts.

"Yes. You – rather unwisely – picked up a piece of broken glass."

"That sounds like an outrageously stupid thing to do. Why would I do that?" She clutched at the side of the chair, feeling like she might fall otherwise.

Martha glanced up at her, her brows raised. "I would conclude it's because you're drunk off your ass, Violet, and didn't realize what you were doing."

Violet stared at the blurry woman in front of her. "Ah. Right." She nodded, then stopped, pulling her hand away from Martha to cover her face with a groan. "Why is the room moving? Aren't I sat down?"

This tickled Martha, and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "If you don't let me finish with your hand, you're going to get blood on your face." Tugging it away, she shook her head. "In fact, you have." Tutting softly, Martha located a clean spot on the washcloth and wiped the few spots of blood from Violet's face. She did her best not to grin at the situation.

"Why are you biting your lip?" Violet gazed at Martha's face in bleary-eyed fascination.

"I'm trying very hard not to laugh at you," she admitted honestly. She noticed the bleeding had slowed, and the wounds were now clean. "Antibacterial cream? Bandages? Where might I find them?"

Violet screwed up her face. "Um, I think in there." She pointed at the medicine cabinet. She continued to watch as Martha opened the cabinet and located the items. "Why are you helping me?"

Martha looked up from where she was about to apply antibacterial cream to the cuts. "Because you need help." She shrugged and attended to the cuts.

"But," Violet said, screwing up her face as she observed Martha wrap bandages around her fingers, "you don't like me."

With one last pass over the bandages to make sure they were properly affixed, Martha shook her head and stared at Violet. "I never said that." She placed Violet's hand in her lap and glanced around. "You should have some water, aspirin. Wait – I saw some aspirin in here…." Martha opened the medicine cabinet once more, putting the bandages and cream away and twitching out a small bottle of pills.

Her hand lying limply in her lap, Violet continued to gape at Martha with her brows drawn together. "But I'm not nice to you. Ever."

"So? What difference does that make?" Martha shrugged again and filled a glass with cold water. "I'll help you take these." She held two aspirin close to Violet's face. "Open up." Tipping the aspirin into Violet's mouth, Martha put the glass to her lips. "Nod when you're ready." At her nod, Martha tilted the glass so the woman could have enough water to swallow the pills. Then she grinned at Violet. "Besides, I like a challenge, Violet. Which you most definitely are."

"Is that true?" Violet inquired, feeling steady enough to take the glass from Martha and sip the rest of the water.

"Which? That you are a challenge, or that I enjoy one?"

"Either. Both." She put the empty glass down on the side of the sink and rubbed her eyes.

"Yes. Both are true. Although I have a strong feeling that you already know that you're a challenge. Even if you might not admit it." Violet opened her mouth to speak, looking offended, but Martha put up a hand. "Nope. Just leave it there. And I think you should get to bed, Violet." She wrapped her arms around one of Violet's, heaving her up.

Violet groaned, but allowed Martha to help her into the bedroom.

"Which side is yours?" After Violet pointed to the correct side, Martha guided her there and steadied her while she flicked back the covers. Situating her down, she left Violet to stretch herself out and cover herself up. "I would imagine you don't want me to help you undress. And I see you already took off jewelry." Martha bustled around, filling another glass with water and setting it on Violet's night stand. Then she went around to the other side of the room, where glass shards and baby powder covered part of the dressing table and had fallen on the floor. Picking up a trash can, Martha began to deposit the glass into it.

"Don't – Martha, a maid –"

Martha turned and looked at the figure on the bed who stared back at her. "I'm not leaving this for morning, Violet. And do you really want a maid to come up here and see you like this?"

Violet shrank back against the pillows. "I see your point." She closed her eyes with another groan.

After making sure all the glass was gathered and thrown away, the powder cleaned off the table, Martha turned to Violet's desk, picking up the large bottle of vodka. She saw nothing else, not even a glass, on the desk. "Damn, Violet, were you drinking this vodka straight out of the bottle?" She held the bottle up, gaping at Violet.

"You're thinking how pathetic that is, aren't you?"

"Hell, no! I'm impressed," she said, then, in a lower voice, "albeit fairly worried."

"Can you put the bottle away? I don't want Patrick to see it." For the first time since Martha had entered the room, Violet looked truly worried, this unmasked even by her drooping eyelids.

Martha took a guess. "Where do you hide it?"

She was right. "In the back of that wardrobe. Behind my tall boots." Violet waved her injured hand in the direction of the wardrobe.

Nodding, Martha made sure the bottle was securely closed, then hid it away. Then she sat next to where Violet reclined on the bed, facing her. She knew that Violet was probably too drunk to protest this. "Why were you up here drinking like that? That's not like you, is it?"

Violet heaved a deep sigh. "It was just an exhausting day," she mumbled, avoiding Martha's eyes, remembering her argument with Patrick.

"Right," Martha said, realizing that was as much as she'd get from Violet.

Having closed her eyes now, Violet's breathing grew deeper. Before she fell asleep, she murmured, "Patrick? Might you hold me?"

Martha smiled a bit, but wondered even more what had happened, knowing that Patrick, too, had most likely drunk himself into a stupor downstairs.


At the soft knock, Isidore jumped up from his chair to answer the door. Expecting to see Marmaduke standing on the other side, he furrowed his brow to see Martha there instead.

Nodding toward Rosamund, who had fallen asleep on the bed, Martha asked in a low voice. "How is she?"

Isidore shook his head slightly. "Worried. And more upset and afraid than she would like to let on." Drawing her fully into the room, he closed the door silently behind his wife. He smiled a bit. "And tired. She wanted to wait up for Marmaduke, but she didn't want to wait alone, so she asked me to stay and keep her company." He looked toward her. "She lay on the bed a little while ago, telling me she just needed to close her eyes for a minute."

"Poor thing," Martha remarked. "Marmaduke won't be coming upstairs, though. Not anytime soon."

"Why not?" Isidore fixed her with a perplexed expression.

Martha smiled softly. "I ran into Robert in the hallway a few moments ago. He had finally come upstairs after Patrick went to sleep in his chair. He told me Marmaduke actually fell asleep not long after he got down there. He didn't even make it through one drink."

"Well, I'm glad he's getting some sleep, but I hope Rosamund doesn't misinterpret his absence." He cast another look toward the figure curled on top of the bedclothes.

Noting the shadows under his eyes and the way his shoulders had begun to droop, Martha lifted a hand to his cheek. "Short of going downstairs and waking him, I don't see what else can be done. Besides, sleep will do both of them good. They need clear heads to deal with this. I presume that she did speak with you."

Isidore nodded, putting his hand over hers, caressing it. "You were right: it's a shit situation. But I think Rosamund might be ready to begin dealing with it. And Marmaduke is good for her, to her; he'll be her strength."

Pressing a small kiss to his lips, she smiled at him. "I think she'll find, eventually, that she's got deep reserves of strength as well. Being Violet's daughter, she would have to."

A low chuckle bubbled up from Isidore's throat. "They'll find their way together. I can see the beginnings of healing."

"So can I. Now," she whispered, "I do believe that you look just as tired as I feel. We've done a lot this evening, and we need our sleep too."

"Yes, darling," Isidore intoned, stepping away for a moment to switch out the lights as Martha opened the door. He slipped his hand into hers, allowing her to lead the way back to their own room.


Cora woke early, the bedroom still rosy-tinted from the sunrise. Stirring slightly, she felt Robert's arm draped over her and turned her head to where he lay next to her on his side. She smiled and nestled closer to him. The scent of his soap and freshly laundered pajamas met her nostrils as she dropped her head down to nuzzle against his chest. She recognized that he'd showered before coming to bed, and a wave of gratitude and love came over her, knowing how late it must have been when he came upstairs, since she hadn't woken when he came into the room or got into bed. Even though he had to have been exhausted, he'd washed away the odor of cigars and pipe tobacco before joining her.

Not wanting to wake him, she simply rested against him, eventually falling back into a comfortable sleep.

A few hours later, Robert woke as well, grinning to see Cora cleaved to him, her face half buried in his pajama shirt – which he'd only worn because of the drop in the temperature the night before. Her warm presence, her fingers curled around his forearm, the gentle rise and fall of her chest against him filled him with a breath-taking sense of contentment, and he wrapped his arm tighter around her.

At this Cora shifted a bit, the rustle of bedclothes accompanying her movements. One of her hands came to rest close to her head on his chest, and Robert bent down to kiss her hair, inhaling the sweet lavender fragrance. A low, involuntary hum of happiness attended his action, and Cora's eyelashes fluttered as she stretched and let out a yawn, the small noise having woken her.

Tilting her head back, she looked up at him, meeting his grin with a wide smile of her own. "Good morning," she whispered.

"Good morning, sweetheart. How did you sleep?" His fingers grazed over her back through her night gown.

"Very well, actually. You?"

"Once I got to bed, quite well." He chuckled. "I'm sure I slept better than either Papa or Marmaduke, as both of them fell asleep downstairs."

"You showered." He nodded, and she added, "For me." At his second nod, she slid up a bit and kissed him, her hand moving to his face. Then she gazed at him, thinking. "Darling," she murmured, unsure about how he might receive what she wanted to ask. "Would you do something else for me?"

Robert unfolded his other arm from where he'd had it beneath his head, under the pillow, and slipped it between her waist and the mattress, his arms meeting behind her and pulling her closer. "What's that?" His eyes glinted at her, his smile firmly affixed.

Cora took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for a few seconds before opening them and blurting out, "I want us to have sex in one of the rooms downstairs." Her eyes widened at her own daring.

Drawing back from her slightly, he shook his head in astonishment. "You want us to what?"

Growing red, Cora bit her lip, then said, "Never mind. It – it's just an idea I had."

"Oh no, Cora Crawley. You can't unring that bell." He stared at her, unmoving. Waiting.

She watched him, searching his face. "I thought you might like to take me downstairs and, well…." She paused, brushing her fingers across his cheek and jaw. "And have your way with me…." Her eyes darkened and her voice became breathy as she returned to the fantasies she'd been having over the past day and a half since her father had put the idea in her head. She moved closer to him as she continued, "…against the wall in the drawing room, or on the settee in the library." She observed how Robert continued to stare at her, but his expression became unreadable. Moving closer, she started to place kisses along his neck as she murmured suggestions to him, warming to her theme. "Or perhaps on that soft, soft white rug in the music room…."

Robert's mind reeled, and his eyes closed at her delicate attentions. "Cora, we can't do that."

"Why not?" she breathed, without pausing in her ministrations. "It's our house, isn't it?"

"Yes, but –" His breath caught when she suckled upon his pulse point. "Oh God, Cora." He pressed her closer, but managed to strangle out, "We could get caught. Servants, my parents…." Her low chuckle rang in his ears, and he couldn't help imagining hearing it – and her other equally delightful noises – during the scenarios she'd mentioned.

"Isn't that half the fun? The thrill of that possibility?" she whispered, her words warm upon his ear before she nibbled his earlobe.

His thoughts were being pulled in two directions, but the way Cora had put it – not to mention her accompanying actions – made him seriously consider granting her request. To be honest, it sounded… well, it sounded hot. He swallowed hard, his heart thumping against where she'd unbuttoned one of the buttons on his pajama top to slip her hand beneath the fabric and graze her fingers over his chest. "Your arguments are quite persuasive, I'll admit."

"So you'll think about it?" Here she draped her leg over his thigh and pushed her hips up against his. A wicked gleam sparkled in her eyes when she drew back just enough to give him a saucy look, her lips twisting with mirth. "But I think you are already thinking about it." She gave him no time to respond before slipping a hand between them to stroke her fingers over his hardening length.

Her eyebrow waggle on top of everything else drove him mad. Crushing his lips to hers, his arms tightened around her while he rubbed himself against her hand.

"Oh my," she exclaimed with a light laugh once he'd broken the kiss to concentrate on her neck. "Perhaps you'll do this small favor for me after all."

"We really shouldn't, Cora," he murmured into the hollow of her throat.

"I don't see why not," she answered. "How about you think about it some more while I take care of this –" she pressed her palm into his arousal, eliciting a low moan from her husband - "for you."

His breathing became more ragged as she moved away from him in order to push back the covers and press his hips down against the mattress. Accommodating her further, he rolled the rest of the way onto his back as she finished unbuttoning his pajama top and shunting the fabric aside so she could close her lips around one of his nipples. "Bloody hell, Cora, if you can imagine I could think about anything else at this point…." He trailed off, sucking in a deep breath and closing his eyes as she reached a hand under his pajama bottoms and briefs to curl her fingers more intentionally around him.

As Cora brought him into a sweet and blissful oblivion, Robert most certainly wasn't thinking about making babies. But he was, very seriously, thinking about what it would be like to fulfill her every wish or whim in as many rooms as she wanted to downstairs….