Hello, dear readers. I was blown away by the reviews of the previous chapter, and I thank every one of you for the support and love you give this story. :) This was a part of my respite during an extremely busy and stressful week, written in patches and paragraphs at night until I was too tired to write anymore. It is sheer stress-relief for me, so I hope it is enjoyable for you, as well.

As always, my thanks to Cls2011, miscreant rose and KP for thoughts, read-throughs, friendship, and laughter. :) Downton Abbey and it's original characters are not mine. Only the ones I've created in this AU.

Oh...there are a few "Easter Eggs" in this chapter. One referring to DA, two to two of my other favorite shows. Let me know if you spot them!


The drive to her office is horribly uncomfortable, and she shifts in her seat as best she can, intent on not disturbing her knee, determined not to dwell on him. That's rather difficult to do, however, when the man in question sits but arm's length away. She stares at his dimple, studies the way his hair curls over one ear, and wonders just how he would react if she leaned over and did to his neck what he had done to hers.

Damn it. What in God's name is she supposed to say to him after they…after she…after he…

Oh God. After that kiss.

"Are you sure about this, Mary?"

His question draws her attention, and she makes herself look at him, trying not to stare at his mouth—that mouth that had done things to her she had wanted him to continue, those lips that had set her skin on fire even as they branded her soul.

"Yes," she returns, returning her focus to the road ahead. "I think it's for the best."

She has to put some distance between them simply to settle her treacherous feelings and clear her muddled head. She can't think around him anymore, unruly feelings racing ahead of her, tripping on strands of emotions he does not share, tangling her in cords of entanglement that possess the power to strangle.

"Just call or text if you need me," he instructs, giving her that look that reminds her all too much of her father. "I'll be at my flat."

"I heard you the first ten times," she retorts. "I damaged my knee, not my hearing."

He chuckles, and it half-infuriates her, that he can be so unaffected, that he can smile, joke and be so casual with her after the physical contact they just shared. She shouldn't let it matter, should simply re-apply her armor and seal off her heart.

But it does matter because he matters. He matters far too much.

"I repeat it to make certain it gets through that stubborn head of yours," he tosses back. "Sometimes I have to chip through the layers."

"I'll chip your head if you don't watch it," she murmurs. "And I'm not talking about the one on your neck."

He licks his lips slowly.

"You've been quite colorful in your descriptions of how you would like to mutilate my manhood today," he muses, enjoying this conversation far too much. "I think you're secretly fascinated by what lies within my boxers."

"I've felt what lies within your boxers," she states. "And fascinated is not the word I would use."

"Astounded? Overwhelmed? Blown away with admiration, perhaps?"

"I'll blow you and your over-inflated ego out the door," she retorts, the spark of banter addictively energizing.

"You can blow me any direction you wish," he grins, making her neck and thighs flush simultaneously. Damn.

"I'm not sure you could handle it," she dares, eyeing him squarely, noticing a slight bauble in his throat.

"I'd prefer you do the handling," he breathes, and she detects an edge to his tone that makes her wonder. "But not here. I'd rather not end up on the side of the road."

"Keep your pants on, Lord Ogre," she fires back, thrown horribly off-kilter once again. "Who said I wanted to handle anything of yours?"

She waits for his comeback, but he inhales quietly instead.

"One can always hope," he returns softly without meeting her eyes. She stares at him, uncertain of boundaries, unable to detect set lines, and her breath catches stubbornly as her chest hollows and fills.

He pulled into a parking place just in front of a simple but elegant town-house bearing a sign that reads Designs by Mary, his gaze travelling from the structure to the woman whose name it bears.

"Very nice," he muses, nodding his approval. "How long have you been in business?"

"On my own?" she questions. "Four years. It took quite a bit of work to get to where I am now."

"I have no doubt," he returns. "Pursuing your dream takes drive, determination, and the ability to ignore those who continually tell you that you'll never succeed."

"That sounds as though you speak from experience," she observes.

"Heaps of it," he confesses with a weighted shrug.

"Your parents or your wife?"

He purses his lips, looking directly into her as he raises his brows.

"Freda," he answers, shoving his fingers through his hair. "My parents have been my greatest supporters my entire life. I'm very lucky that way."

"Yes," she breathes. "You are."

"You seem fairly close to your mother," he states, turning in his seat to face her.

"Somewhat," she admits. "Mama and I get along well most of the time, and we do love each other dearly. We just don't always see eye to eye."

"Does anyone always see eye to eye with his parents?" he asks, eliciting a sound of acknowledgement.

"I suppose not," she returns. "But she can be particularly vocal when she disapproves of my decisions."

"She and my mother would get along famously," he sighs, easing a small smile out of her. "What about your father?"

His question doesn't surprise her, she knew it would pop up at some point. It would have to for them to convince her mother and his family that they were lovers, wouldn't it? But that doesn't stop the familiar sting and that hits every time his name is mentioned, icy talons wrapping around her ribs at the memory of his face.

"My parents divorced when I was nine," she states flatly. "I never see my father anymore."

His cheeks puff, and he shakes his head sadly.

"It was ugly, then?" he guesses, and she gives him a tight smile.

"Horrible," she clarifies shakily. She knows she has to tell him, that their charade will never fly with her family if he is kept in the dark. But that doesn't make it any easier.

"I had another sister, you see."

His face registers utter shock, his brow creasing in concern.

"What happened?"

She breathes out heavily.

"I was seven," she begins, feeling inexplicably like the girl she was, standing alone on the staircase, the scent of freshly cut lilacs washing over her at the moment her world changed forever. "Sybil was just a baby, and Edith was four."

His hand has covers hers, and she doesn't pull away, his touch grounding her in a manner she wishes were unnecessary.

"She drowned on a simple outing to the lake with Papa. They were going fishing, but he dozed off in the sun, and…well…"

There was no need to go into further details, images she didn't want intruding yet again. She still had nightmares about it on occasion, waking up in a sweat crying out for someone impossible to find.

"Mama never forgave him," she whispers, feeling his grip tighten. "I don't think he's ever forgiven himself, to be honest. She withdrew, he was rarely home, and one day she packed our bags, put Sybil and me in the car and drove us to London. And that was that."

"And he didn't try to see you or Sybil?" he asks gently. "His own daughters?"

"Not very often," she admits, wishing it didn't bother her to the extent it still does. "I think we remind him too much of Edith, of what he lost, of what he could have prevented." She swallows down regret, breathing in deeply to lighten lungs that feel oddly heavy. "I don't think he's ever gotten over Mama, to be honest. I doubt he ever will, although he did marry again a few years later. A younger woman, and she finally gave him the son he always wanted."

"So you have a half-brother," he observes, her hand still securely encased within his.

"Teddy," she smiles, shaking her head. "He's ten. Sybil and I send him gifts on his birthday and at Christmas, but Geannie doesn't like us making further contact. She's rather possessive of him and of Papa. She says we depress her husband and have a negative influence on her son."

"Bullshit," he states with conviction. "She feels threatened by the fact your father has another family, and she's too insecure to suck it up and do what's best for her child. Teddy shouldn't be deprived of his siblings. As much as my older sisters still enjoy tormenting me, I cannot imagine life without them."

She tries to imagine a Blake family gathering, the thoughts of it enticingly alarming.

"You're very close, aren't you?" she asks, a dull ache of longing tugging on her insides.

"Too close at times," he laughs. "My family doesn't refrain from sticking their noses in where they don't belong or offering opinions whether you want them or not." He sighs, toying lightly with her fingers, wrapping fragile emotions around his ministrations she is helpless to untangle. "I'm so sorry about your sister, Mary. So very sorry."

God, how she wants to dissolve into this man, to let past pain evaporate into a misty memory, to allow fragile hope to strengthen, even as the mere possibility terrifies her.

"So am I," she breathes, wondering just what Edith would look like had her life not been stolen from her, just how her family might relate differently if tragedy hadn't stepped in and altered their course.

"Did your mother ever remarry?" he questions.

"I think marriage is the furthest thing from Mama's mind," she returns with a small smile. "But she always has a rich beau or two around to spoil her rotten and keep life interesting. She's horribly charming and knows how to make men dance to her tune within moments of making their acquaintance."

"A genetic trait, then," he tosses in, flicking his brows playfully.

"Don't play with fire you can't control," she warns. "She has mastered the tango. I tend to dance the Paso Doble."

"Going in for the kill," he grins, flashing his teeth in her direction. "Why am I not surprised that courting you is laced with blood magic and danger? Remind me to speak softly and carry a red cape."

"Remind me to sharpen my horns and dodge your spear," she returns, taken aback when he brings her fingers to his lips and kisses them lightly.

"Ole," he grins, and she shivers from the top down.

"Bulls-eye," she retorts, and they laugh softly together, deepening a delicate intimacy that pulls so deeply it aches. He has wormed his way in, established a foothold, created a need she can't afford yet refuses to release.

"Well, Mary. Are you ready to go in?"

No, she thinks, not wanting to step back into a reality without him and she chastises herself for such entertaining such foolish thoughts.

"Of course," she lies, fairly certain she hasn't fooled him one bit.

"You don't have to, you know," he reminds her. "I can take you back to your flat and let you prop your knee up and rest."

"No," she states. "I need to do this. For my own sanity. I can only stare at the walls of my flat for so long."

He squeezes her hand in a gesture of understanding.

"The Queen must survey her kingdom," he teases good-naturedly. "Complete with her magnificent carriage and faithful ogre of a chauffeur."

"Something like that," she muses, wondering just what sort of kingdom she has actually constructed over the past several years. He smiles, and she looks back at the building, this structure that represented so much yet had cost her a king's ransom in more ways than one. She cannot help but remember the time she brought a very different man here to get his opinion of the building and location.

It's very nice, Mary. But don't you wonder if it's a bit ambitious for someone just starting out? You'll be working all the time.

I already work all the time, Matthew. And so do you.

Precisely.

He had stared at her in silence, hands in his pockets, something on his face she was too nervous to translate at the time, seeing clearly what she had refused to acknowledge.

"Going into business for myself was the beginning of the end for Matthew and me."

It seems like still from another lifetime, yet flutters with the treachery of a tender nerves. She hears Charles breathing beside her, but he says nothing, giving her the room she needs, allowing her to set the pace.

"He was so supportive at first, but my work took so much time," she continues, staring at her own hands. "We saw so little of each other between his practice and the demands of trying to secure a client-base. When he asked about the possibility of having a baby…"

Her voice trails off in time with her thoughts, and she remembers the hurt etched on his face as she told him it wasn't the right time, that it might not be for a few years yet, that if she took time off to be a proper mother, she would be throwing away a piece of herself she had fought for tooth and nail.

He tried to understand, but he hadn't. Oh, God, if he had known.

If he had known, nothing would have changed.

"Well," she interrupts herself. "That's another story for another day."

"The hardest stories usually are," he observes, allowing her to see something broken behind eyes that tease and shine. "Then they are pushed to another week, another month, then another year, and before you realize it, the finer details have devoured half of your insides and robbed you of too much of your life."

His declaration reverberates painfully, and she winces at the truth of it.

"I'm sorry," he begins, "I shouldn't have laid that on you. Not now."

"When, then?" she tosses back. "Another week?"

He stares at her intently, and her gaze flickers between his eyes and his mouth, craving the heady depth of his kisses, longing for the shelter of his arms.

"I wonder what would have happened if we'd met in another lifetime?"

His inquiry slides under flesh and muscle, striking nerves and stilling blood as she attempt to process its implications.

"No Matthew, no Freda, no divorce, no ugly break-up," he continues, now staring at their joined hands. "No therapy, no alimony, just a boy meeting a girl at a bar one night."

She can no longer tell if she is breathing.

"You might never have noticed me if I hadn't been three sheets to the wind," she attempts, her voice barely strong enough to stand on its own two feet.

"I'd notice you anywhere, Mary," he voices. "You're impossible to miss."

Something flutters in her rib cage, shooting sparks of life intravenously until she tingled all over.

"Venus flytraps usually are," she whispers, clasping this lifeline of disbelief least she lose herself all over again.

"Why do you do that?"

His exasperation is palpable, and her eyes sting instinctively as her gaze drops from one who sees too much.

"Do what?" she murmurs, knowing her ruse is pointless.

"Put yourself down so often," he sighs. "Make yourself out to be undesirable and unattainable when you're anything but those things."

"You don't know my history," she argues weakly as fears and emotions engage in a mental tug-of-war.

"And you can't see past it towards your future."

Her mouth falls open, but nothing comes out, her head shaking against something she can't quite piece together.

"You can have one, you know," he continues, her body shuddering in a heated shiver. "It's not as though Matthew was your last chance or determining factor."

"How do you know?" she questions, ire welling up in defense of what remains tender.

"Because I believe in you, Mary," he fires back. "Damn it—you're worth believing in."

"Oh really?" she argues, her tone rising to meet his. "And why should I listen to a man I've known for such a short period of time who still allows his ex-wife to determine his value?"

God, he couldn't look more stunned than if she had slapped him, and she regrets her words instantly, still too shaky to apologize.

"You're right," he breathes, and she shuts her eyes to pain and regret, his mingling with hers within the confines of his car. "I have no right to lecture you on relationships, none whatsoever. But I wish you'd stop ripping yourself into shreds because past relationships didn't work out, especially the one with Matthew. Two are usually to blame when things fall apart."

"Are you accepting partial responsibility for your divorce, then?"

His eyes narrow slightly, and he clears his throat.

"Of course," he returns, his voice barely discernable over a passing car. "I could have been a better husband, I have no doubt of that. But damn it, I should have realized Freda and I were doomed before we ever married. If I had listened to my family and not been such a pig-headed ass who refused to see what was right in front of him, I could have saved myself a lot of heartache."

"And can you see what's in front of you now?"

His stare is uncertain, questioning, searching, turning into one of near panic that must mirror hers as she realizes what she has just implied. God—if she has exposed herself too soon, if she is misreading everything between them…

Then he kisses her. Hard.

Her breath catches in her throat as his mouth finds hers, sealing tongues, searing lips as his hands wind into her hair. She is frozen at first, shocked, disbelieving. But his breath tickles her skin, his touch unravels nerves and restraint, and she opens to him fully, allowing him to plunder her mouth as she drinks him in. Her soul soars, her mind reels, and she hasn't the heart to reign them in. This is too glorious, too wondrous, too addictive to all parts of her now humming his tune.

"We're being watched."

His whisper draws her up short, everything airborne now plummeting into a pit of her own making. She trembles as his lower lip traces her neck, wanting to push him away, needing to hold him closer, too shocked and terrified to do either. His lower lip draws languidly up her neck, his teeth on her ear. "You are far too easy to kiss."

She braces herself to push him back when an insistent rap on the window makes her jump, and she stares into an expression she wants to smack and embrace. Drugged lids, flickering dimples, full lips still moist from the juices of her mouth…this game is going to be the death of her.

"Mary!"

The distinctly American squeal makes her sigh, and she stares out the window as brilliant burgundy lips framing white teeth shine back at her.

"Hello, Ruby," she returns, knowing there will now be hell to pay in her office as she will be expertly probed for information.

The car door is opened by her assistant without an invitation, and Charles smiles back at the woman as a tinge of jealousy rears its ugly head unexpectedly.

"I'm Ruby, Mary's assistant" the woman offers, leaning in and giving them both a full view of pert cleavage. "I don't think we've met."

"I'm Charles," he returns, and she fights back an urge to sock him in the gut for reasons too tangled to dissect. "We haven't. I'm Mary's…"

"Current pain in the ass," Mary cuts in, giving him a shove and a glare that just broadens his smile.

"But it's such a lovely ass," he hums with a stroke to her cheek, and she watches Ruby's eyes brighten further as she silently mouths Oh my God!

"Shall I fetch your crutches, my lady?" he croons, laying it on thicker as Ruby drinks in his every word.

"Get to it, Lord Ogre," she snaps back, becoming only angrier when he plants a passionate kiss just below her ear. God—her spot! He knows that is her spot—she told him it was her spot. What the hell had she been thinking?

"Ass," she whispers for his ears only, his grin tickling her nipples and firing up her wrath.

"Later," he hums, giving her a wink she wants to smack into oblivion.

"I'll get the crutches," Ruby volunteers, rushing to the back of the car to stand close to Charles, no doubt. Forget her knee—it's her blood pressure that's going to be the end of her.

"You carry these, then," she hears him instruct her assistant. "And I'll see to the queen."

"What if the queen decides to see to you?" she bites as his arms slide under her legs, hoisting her back up against his chest, much too close for her own comfort.

"The things you say to me when we're out in public," he retorts, making Ruby giggle as she races ahead of them to open the door.

"Better than what I'll say to you when we're in private," she growls, punching his shoulder as his lips touch her cheek.

"Don't worry, darling," he croons. "I'm certain Ruby can arrange a bit of privacy for us once we get to your office." Her eyes shoot daggers at him, only egging him on to irritate her further. "It would appear we can't control ourselves. So sorry if we've shocked you."

"I don't shock easily," Ruby assures him as they move past her into the building. "Trust me. And I can be the soul of discretion."

"More like the soul of indiscretion," Mary sighs audibly, making both Ruby and Charles laugh as if sharing a private joke.

"It's not as if we've been horribly discreet since we've met, now have we?" he muses, and she's not certain whose eyes widen further—hers or Ruby's.

"Details," Ruby whispers as Charles ushers her into her office. "I want details."

"Not on your life," Mary shoots back, watching Ruby smile and wiggle her eyebrows.

"I'll hold all your calls," she promises with a lick of her lips. "And I'll turn up the radio. In case things get a little noisy in here."

"You're a gem, Ruby," he observes, making Mary roll her eyes and Ruby beam as if she's just been crowned Miss America.

"You have no idea," Ruby hums, clicking the door shut and leaving them alone and unarmed.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she spits as soon as they are out of earshot. "Kissing me like that, making those remarks?"

"Why, being your devoted man slave, of course," he grins innocently, and she shoves him back on to her desk, making him bang his shin in the process.

"Ow!" he returns, rubbing his thigh. "What's wrong with you? I thought we agreed to play this charade."

"With our families," she clarifies, her heart beating treacherously in his direction. "Not in front of all of London."

"I hardly think one woman qualifies as all of London," he expounds, his brows moving into his hair line.

"Don't test me, Charles," she warns, wishing her knee were working properly and she could stalk out of the room.

"Does your family ever communicate with Ruby?" he questions with a shrug.

"Sometimes," she replies with some reluctance. "Mama stops by for lunch occasionally."

"And how much more believable is our ruse if Ruby is convinced?" he continues, and her head begins to hurt as the ramifications of their plot begin to settle.

"Alright," she exhales. "I understand. But give me some warning next time. When you kissed me like that, I thought, I wasn't sure…"

She stops herself, rubbing her temples to disguise her frustration.

"You weren't sure of what, Mary?"

He has leaned down until his mouth is a mere breath from her own, and he tips up her chin, confusing her even more as velvet brown renders her helpless.

"How I let you talk me into this mess in the first place."

Her reply flies out, all sharp edges and icicles, and he draws back slightly, stroking her hair.

"We can stop if you like. Just say the word."

The suggestion rips through her, and she gapes back at him, needing direction, craving a sign, something to let her into that complex mind of his so she can determine what is fiction and what is fact.

"That's not what I meant," she attempts, knowing she is stumbling over her own words, feeling horribly off of her game. "I only meant I don't like being ambushed. If you're going to kiss me, tell me beforehand so I can prepare."

He grins slowly, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger.

"So my kisses are so profound you need to prepare yourself properly?"

"You're impossible," she breathes, shaking her head until he cups it in his hands.

"Perhaps," he states. "And you're not exactly a walk in the park, I'll have you know. But I am going to kiss you now. Consider yourself warned."

Her eyes round yet again as he makes good on his word, coming in close, nudging her mouth with his nose, opening her as a flower to the sun after the passing of torrential rains. This kiss is gentle, almost too gentle, tickling senses, pulling on heart strings with the insistence of a hungry feline.

"Was that better?"

His breath is on her mouth, his forehead touching hers, and he is hot, she realizes, his skin warming to her touch. Her tongue is restless for more, making her incapable of speech as she nods her head in assent.

"Good," he whispers, still connected to her, still getting into her psyche. "Shall I pick you up in three hours as we discussed or sooner?"

"Three hours," she replies, reeling in her breath as best she can before he takes her hand and brings it to his mouth.

"I have to be allowed to keep you guessing, you know," he explains with a wink, standing and walking to her door at a slower pace than necessary.

"Which is why you're an ass, Lord Ogre," she explains, receiving a smile from him that slams into her rib cage.

"Your business is impressive, Mary," he states as frivolity is unexpectedly shoved aside. "You should be proud of what you've built here. Truly." Then he casts a look in her direction that nearly sucks the air from her lungs before closing the door behind him.

Damn it all. What in God's name has she gotten herself into?

His scent is still on her skin, the spice of his mouth still tingling on her palate. He's everywhere, actually, trespassing on her thoughts, intruding on her emotions, making himself at home in a flat she believed she would share only with her cat. She's on the verge of falling in love with him, she realizes with a sharp pang, and she wraps her arms about herself, not knowing what to do with this most unexpected turn of events.

She can't afford to fall in love again. But can she help herself when it comes to Charles Blake? She's afraid the damage has already been done, her defenses compromised, her heart engaged without her permission.

Just what is she supposed to do now?

She settles down to unanswered mail, scanning through the past week's agenda, checking meetings Ruby rescheduled while she's been laid up with her knee. Thank God Ruby is talented enough to take care of the field work, and she knows the two of them need to sit down for a personal consultation so she can catch up and keep her clients happy and their projects on schedule.

Just how often she'll be forced to field questions about a certain rogue with more charm than should be legal is her only concern. Her head throbs once again, and she presses her thumbs into her temples, attempting to summon her absent peace of mind.

Her phone vibrates, and she sighs to see Ruby's name glaring back at her.

He's hot. Bet he's steams up your skirt and wets your willy big time.

Leave it to Ruby to throw decorum out the window.

I'm not paying you to send me lewd and inappropriate texts during office hours.

You don't pay me enough not to.

She laughs in spite of herself.

Why are you so interested in Charles, anyway? I thought your mind was all taken up with Lord Pouty-lips.

Ruby falls in and out of love with the frequency of a light set to an automatic timer.

He's old news. Got way too serious too fast. Great in bed, but proposing on the third date was just a bit creepy.

I agree. Who's the current flavor of the month?

A Scottish hottie, actually. Red hair and everything. Damn, I'd like to see him in a kilt. And out of one.

Get back to work. Kilts will have to wait until after hours.

She wishes for a moment for Ruby's ability to detach herself from relationships with the ease of unfastening a coat. She's never been like that, and has held most of the world at arm's length for fear of bruising what does not readily heal.

Then there's a knock at the door, and she's thankful for the distraction, hoping it is something that will keep her brain occupied for quite some time.

"Yes, Ruby?"

The knock sounds again, and she sighs in exasperation as she sets down her pen.

"He's gone," Mary informs her flatly. "We're not snogging madly, we're not having sex, and yes, I am properly dressed, so you needn't fear opening the door."

The door creaks in protest, as a well-manicured hand pushes it forward.

"I'm sorry to intrude," an unfamiliar voice returns, a petite brunette stepping into her office. She is well-dressed and immaculately accessorized with a simplicity that catches Mary's eye.

"I'm sorry, do we have an appointment?"

The woman advances slowly in her direction, eyeing her with a curious familiarity that makes Mary sit up taller.

"No," she admits with a smile. "I took a chance on being able to meet with you today. You're Mary, aren't you?"

Mary smiles, making a mental note to remind Ruby of her duties in screening visitors before they waltz into her private office.

"Yes," she returns, spreading her arms out apologetically. "I'm sorry I can't stand to greet you very well. You see I hurt my knee."

"I know," the woman replies, smiling back at her with an excitement Mary cannot register. "You told me that you sprained it. I'm so sorry to hear that."

"Forgive me, I'm confused," Mary tosses back, shaking her head slightly in an attempt to clear it. "Do we know each other?"

"Not formally," her companion admits. "But I've been anxious to meet you, and we have conversed via phone, albeit my brother's."

Her breath catches in her throat as realization hits her soundly. The shape and color of the eyes are identical, the manner in which they both quirk their brows, the smile, the thick, dark head of hair.

Could this day get any more surreal?

"I'm Lucy," the woman states, moving forward to take Mary's hand within her own. "Lucy Maguire. Charles's sister. "