There was a warmth in the room. A warmth, and yet the fireplace had not been lit; no extra covers had been brought to the bed; her nightgown was only a fine, sheer silk one, and nothing more. No. There was a warmth in her room, but it didn't come from without. It came from within. It emanated from within her, from within the cage in which she kept her heart. It was a warmth that softly consumed her, and yet she yearned for more.

He had kissed her.

He had held her hand and smiled and said her name, and he had kissed her.

He had kissed her!

Cora bit her tingling lip that curled into a smile. She sighed.

She had to sleep. She had to try to rest, but sleep would just not come. The beat of her heart and the lightness of her head were altogether too new and wonderful to try and relax now. But, she had to try.

Nestling down further into the too-deep bedding, cocooning herself onto her left side in a small giddy bundle, Cora shook the lingering sensations from her mind to encourage rest. She slowed her breathing into its practiced rhythm. She relaxed her neck and shoulders, letting her body fall into the middle space of consciousness. She let go of her mind, allowing it to wander through her thoughts as leisurely as it pleased. The tightness of her brow relinquished. The taut elasticity of her cheeks gave forfeit. And she pushed out one final woken breath to lose herself into slumber.

Or, rather, she tried to lose herself into slumber, but, still, it would not come.

Somehow, be it from a twitch of the dying alertness of her hand or from her head falling more deeply into the downy pillow, the red duvet that covered her body faintly ghosted across the swell of her bottom lip, and her nerves caught fire. Her lip. Her sweetly burning, hotly tingling lip. And Cora smiled.

He had kissed her.

Her smile feverishly blossomed into a grin and she opened her eyes.

A breathy laugh escaped her, and she pulled it back in as quickly as it left, pulling the covers with it and pressing it against her nose and mouth.

She gave a conscious effort to calm herself, to relax, but still she smiled. There was a delicious ache in the apples of her cheeks and in her jaw. But she couldn't cool her smile.

She'd been kissed. He had kissed her. She'd been kissed and it was by Lord Downton. Tall, blue-eyed, endearingly teasable Lord Downton.

Robert George Crawley.

Her smile grew warmer. Robert.

The gentle ticking of the mantel clock lulled Robert into an easy languor. Drowsily, he closed his book and slid it onto the table by his bed. As he had done for the past two nights, he outlined the next few days, again, and again, as if it were his evening prayer. A prayer of what he'd say, what he'd do, what he'd have to do in the next three days to secure Miss Levinson's hand.

Riding tomorrow, he thought. Show Miss Levinson Downton from the folly; it was irresistible from there. Rosamund's birthday dinner the following day; Marmaduke and James would be there. His thoughts trailed a little, imagining the splendor that always was a Downton birthday. The delicious cake, the flowers, the laughter. Perhaps Miss Levinson would enjoy it. She'd feel as if she were part of the family.

Oh.

Robert frowned, his heart feeling more quickly than his mind could think. It was the word. Family. It jutted out of his thoughts and pressed against his better judgment, but he shook the feeling away. He quickly pictured his sister in his mind. Rosamund would, if nothing else, be encouraging, and he wagered he and Miss Levinson could both use some encouragement.

He yawned as he turned to his side, blowing out his candle, and he pulled the covers over his shoulder and settled deeper.

Barnes was coming in the morning. He punched the pillow into shape beneath his head. Barnes, with his father's final inquiry results. Robert had declined to meet with them at all, but truth be told, he was rather curious of what Barnes was sure to find. The results of just how much Miss Levinson was worth; just how much he and his father could request in lieu of a dowry.

Her dowry, if she accepted. The image of Miss Levinson's face from hours before appeared in his mind. The way her dark-lashed eyes remained closed moments after he'd kissed her, the way her parted reddened lips glistened from the wetness of the contact.

Robert frowned and pushed out another hard breath. He pulled the covers to his ears as he shook the image from his eyes, and as he wrestled the physical attraction his body felt from his hips.

There would be no if. In looking at her face, her achingly vulnerable face, there in the darkened hall, he knew. He knew she would accept. Miss Levinson would gladly accept.

One last hard breath, another punch of his pillow, a final severe scold to the heartless rousing he felt in his thighs. Not Miss Levinson. Cora. She'd asked him to call her Cora.

Cora had woken to the rain, its constant rattle-like sound lasting through breakfast, through lunch, and then through a rather awkward tea with Lady Grantham and her mother.

She had not seen Robert nearly all day, only catching him briefly on his way out with his father after breakfast. He had tossed some excuse of a meeting with his father and their advisor - some "estate business" - that was fairly more important than what he had anticipated.

And so she waited, and waited, and waited for him to return, finally nestling quietly into the grandly impressive, yet decidedly cozy library with her mother, Lady Grantham having gone up to rest.

She could hear Martha chuckle across the room at something in her book, no doubt a scandalous one, and Cora allowed a small grin before dipping back into her own, going back to the story she read of love, and wealth, and independence. Her fingertips grazed over the ivy and floral cover as she read, her fingers played with the bookmark where she'd sketched out her name, and she read. And as she read, her heart quickened a little in its cage. Images of Lord Downton kept coming to mind and she had to remember to breathe to keep them at bay.

"There was an indefinable beauty about him—in his situation, in his mind, in his face. She had felt at the same time that he was helpless and ineffectual, but the feeling had taken the form of a tenderness which was the very flower of respect. He was like a skeptical voyager, strolling on the beach while he waited for the tide, looking seaward yet not putting to sea. It was in all this that she found her occasion. She would launch his boat for him; she would be his providence; it would be a good thing to love him. And she loved him—a good deal for what she found in him, but a good deal also for what she brought him."

Cora looked up again into the room, her eyes going to her mother who had stopped her giggling. Martha's words of warning suddenly echoed around her mind, the thought that these English suitors, that most of the gentlemen she had danced with, that most of the Lords that had come to call, Lord Raynham and…and Robert…they were after one thing. Robert was after one thing. And the logical confirmation of this fact did nothing, nothing, to the way that her chest felt upon thinking of him. And in fact, the mere thought of it only seemed to confirm that she didn't altogether mind it. She didn't mind that Robert may need a portion of the money that would one day be her dowry. In fact, the longer she thought of it, the more sure she was that if he in fact did need some of her money, she'd give it freely, happily; she'd even offer. For the fact was, Robert was kind. And honest. And he liked her, perhaps even…even loved her. Cora swallowed the thought down to the butterflies of her belly, her lips tingling with the memory of his kiss from the night before. Yes, he may very well even love her.

"Cora?"

Cora broke her gaze from the thoughtful place of middle distance and to Martha who stared at her curiously.

"You alright? You look…" her mother paused, trailing off, and narrowed her eyes skeptically, "contemplative."

In quick response, Cora gave her a smile laden with an exhale of stilled breath. She readjusted herself on the red velvet sofa near the empty fireplace. "Fine, Mother," she answered, returning to her page.

But Martha continued, her critical eye still clapped onto the tender expression her daughter wore. "What," she more said than asked. "What are you so light about over there?"

She watched as Cora lifted her shoulders with her brows and shook her head. "I don't know what you mean."

"No?"

Again, she shook her head.

Martha opened her mouth to speak, but before she could do so, he strode confidently into the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, and smiling, a book gripped in one of his hands, Lord Downton beamed down at her daughter as he came in.

"I'm glad to have caught you!" Martha followed him with her eyes toward Cora, and she watched carefully as he sat on the sofa opposite her child and nearer to herself. "Walters said you were in here, so I thought perhaps I'd join you, if I may."

Cora's face lit up immediately at his presence and Martha eyed her knowingly.

"Of course you may!" Cora said happily, sitting up straighter and keeping her sparkling eyes on his. The two looked at one another for a moment before Martha felt it appropriate to interrupt.

"So, how was your meeting? Anything productive?"

Her voice seemingly startled him, for he jumped, however subtle, and brought his attention to her. "Oh," he stumbled. "Oh, yes. Informative, really." His gaze went to Cora who was leaning on her lap toward him, her book hugged in her arms and crushed to her chest. "A slew of numbers, which to be honest confuse me no end."

"Aren't you masterfully skilled at Arithmetic?" Martha heard Cora tease. "I thought you'd have to be, to be in charge of a big estate."

Robert laughed. "Masterfully skilled? No." He continued to chuckle. "I'm not a complete loss, though. Barnes says there's still hope for me yet."

"Barnes?" Martha interrupted again, curious, sure, but also uneasy in the way Cora still smiled up at the boy, her cheeks rosy and her eyes twinkling.

"Our accounts advisor," Robert answered shortly, barely looking her way.

Cora acted as if she didn't hear the question at all. "Well then. After a day of looking at rows and rows of numbers, I'm happy you can find a moment to read."

"As am I! And be thankful for the rain, otherwise I'd have you tramping about the grounds. I had wanted to show you the follies."

"Well I'm not sure why you didn't; after all, the rain didn't stop you yesterday."

Martha looked between the laughing couple, her eyes still narrowed, her lips sucked into a tight purse, her book lying open on her lap.

"I thought you'd forgiven me for that," Robert said, raising one his brows playfully.

She watched Cora sit back into the couch and study him, as if she were deciding if she had or not. "Well," she sighed, tilting her head and giving a lopsided grin. "I suppose you are rather easy to forgive."

Robert grinned back at her. "Good." He said quietly. "I'm glad."

Martha grimaced. She felt sick, as if she'd had too much spongy coffee cake, the sugary flirtation between Cora and her fortune hunter settling in her stomach the way over-indulgence typically did. She had to stop it. Or if not stop it, she had to at least just calm everybody down.

"I'm reading."

It was all she could think so say, which surprised even her, for Martha was never at a loss for words. But she'd said it and the two younger people looked at her and after a moment nodded, Cora returning to her book and Robert opening his own and flipping through some pages before the fluttering finally stopped.

Ah, yes. Now then, this was better. They could exchange glances all they wanted, but Martha was rather sick of the silly little giggles of their silly little game. And sure, a part of her was glad that Lord Downton seemed to be coming 'round. She was glad and even a bit relieved, but if she thought London had been bad, Yorkshire was infinitely worse and half a week of being cooped up in this great estate had her more irritable than she'd been all trip.

They continued on, reading in peace, until Cora spoke again.

"What are you reading?"

Martha frowned again, but she didn't look up, she only listened to them beyond her page, thankfully both calmer than before.

"Frankenstein."

"Are you really?" She could hear the smile in Cora's voice.

"Yes; I'm nearly through it now."

"And do you like it?"

"No. No, I don't believe I do."

Martha heard Cora softly gasp. "What?"

Robert closed the lid over his thumb and Martha rolled her eyes. Here they go again.

"Well it's rather ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Well, I don't think creating a living creature from dead body parts is supposed to be realistic…"

"No, I mean the Monster. He's rather ridiculous in his request. And his actions."

Martha could see out the corner of her eye as Cora sat up again, her mouth slightly agape. "Oh, I don't think so!"

"No?"

"No, not at all, the poor Monster. He's lonely. He only wants a companion. And Victor won't make him one."

Lord Downton sat up, too, and Martha flipped her book closed, slapping it together, annoyed.

"As well he shouldn't."

"Oh, that's unfair, isn't it Lord Downton? After all, the monster is an intelligent creature. And he's forced to feel an outcast for reasons completely out of his control…"

"Well…"

"…And if it weren't for Victor Frankenstein he'd never be so unhappy. True, he would've never existed. But Frankenstein made him grotesquely hideous - perhaps unintentionally though, I don't quite know what he expected – and then refused to make him a partner. I find it rather unkind…"

Robert only furrowed his brow. "Unkind?" he pointed to the book he held, his furrowed brow quickly jumping up in debate. "The Monster's a murderer…"

"Oh," Cora was shaking her head dismissively.

"A murderer of a young boy, Victor's brother. I think that is rather unkind."

"All the same," Cora pouted her lip as she looked into Robert's lap where he held the book. "I find it all rather sad."

"Sad? Oh, no." Martha watched Robert drop his book to his side, rising to his feet, turning, and dashing a few steps toward a second shelf near the door. He ran his large finger along several spines of several books until at last he stopped with a small, "Ah ha!" He held the book in the air. "This," he announced, "is, as you say, rather sad."

With the enormous tome in his grasp, he maneuvered his way around the sofa he had risen from and went straight to Cora's side. Martha watched as he rested the book in her daughter's lap, her own book having been stashed to the side as his had been, and Cora's long fingers touched the title.

"War and Peace," she read and she lifted the cover and fingered through the thin, yellowy, pages. "I've not heard of it. It looks rather…well…daunting," she confessed as she examined the size. "Is it about…war?"

"The French invasion of Russia, but only toward the end." Martha watched as Robert began to gesticulate, as he had done in the carriage on the way to Kew Gardens. His face lit up, his eyes grew wider as he explained a quick synopsis of the book, that in its size could not easily have just a quick synopsis.

Martha watched Cora's reactions carefully; she did not really listen to the words they spoke, but rather watched the way Robert explained how it'd only been recently translated, how a Russian author had written it, his name Martha did not pay much attention to. She watched her daughter's eyes sparkle as she listened, and she heard Cora's soft voice ask questions, but Martha didn't care to know the answers. She merely watched. She merely observed, and as she did, Martha's unsettled stomach had slowly resolved to becoming better, the choppy seas now calm as a lake. She looked between the two of them, her brow softening when her eyes remained on her daughter. In her pale pink dress, surrounded by books and books of this fortu – no…of Lord Downton's family, she looked very much like she belonged. And the boy did seem to want her there. Love her? No. It was clear to Martha that he did not. But in listening to them, in hearing their teases and then their easy discourse, she thought that perhaps, in time, he may. He may, that is, if he ever proposed.

Abruptly decisive, Martha cleared her throat, and both Robert and Cora looked up and over at her from the couch.

"Well," Martha lied. "I've forgotten something."

She stood, clutching her book, and moved to the door. She turned on her heels at the threshold and grinned, pointing a finger at Lord Downton. "I'll be right back down, now," she said in a warning tone. "You behave all alone, hmm?" She winked and then, she was gone.

Cora moved slightly beside Robert, readjusting her position on the couch. "Please excuse my mother," she sighed with a slow wag of her head. "She isn't quite as funny as she thinks."

Robert could only chuckle lightly. "It's quite alright. She's rather a breath of fresh air." However exhausting, he thought to himself.

She was grinning appreciatively next to him. "Well," she conceded. "She's never been one to conform." She leaned in closer to him. "I know your mother would disapprove of our being without our chaperone."

"Oh, indeed she would," Robert agreed. He inched closer to her. "I rather feel a bit guilty about poor old Lutcher. Mama was sure to give her quite a tongue lashing, I imagine."

"Oh no," Cora's features fell heavy with guilt, her brows dipping above her glittering eyes. "Was your mother very angry with her?"

He chose his words wisely, the numbers written out in Barnes's exact and precise strokes appearing in a flash before his eyes, blocking out the pretty blues of her searching eyes. "If I know my mother, yes."

"Oh, dear…"

"But I'm not a bit upset with Lutcher."

Cora was silenced for a moment, and he saw as she took in a breath, making her taller beside him. "No?" she finally asked in a quiet voice.

"No," he answered. …at least thirty million US dollars, Barnes's voice resounded in his head. Robert swallowed. "Because it allowed me to be alone…with you."

She blinked up at him, her mouth softly agape, but then curling into a tight smile. And then a pink blush. She did look so very pretty.

Downton will go within a year's time. Barnes again.

A dark curl brushed against her fair throat.

She'd be worth two, maybe three million, I dare to estimate.

Her chest rose in nervous breaths.

Plenty to save the estate. Plenty to secure it…

He inched ever closer, and closer, covering her soft hand with his own.

…for your son,

She smelled of jasmine. His other hand went to her cheek.

…and your son's son.

He didn't want to do it, but he did it anyway. He pulled her toward him, his book slipping from her lap, and he kissed her. Again.

This time it startled her, he could tell, for he felt her pull in the air that lingered between their noses, and her lips remained stiff for much longer than they had the night before. He thought he may try to part her lips, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. And so, just as her lips softened around his own, he pulled away, leaving her as breathless as he had the first time. She was breathless, and she was glowing, but he felt nothing. Nothing. Not even guilt as he studied the lovely face before him. The darkened eyes that told him that Downton was saved.

"You've both been good, I hope." Martha's voice preceded her back into the library, and Robert nearly jumped away from Cora, smiling congenially when he spotted her mother's bright red, bouncing hair.

He watched as Martha's line of sight moved from the open-faced book spilled onto the floor and then to her daughter's flushed appearance. Finding his gaze, Robert noticed the way she cocked her brow, as if she knew.

She knew. Oh, God. She knew.

He stood from the sofa. "Mrs. Levinson," he turned to Cora, "Miss Levinson." No, he remembered, Cora. "Cora," he rephrased with a smile. "I must be getting on. My sister's birthday dinner is tomorrow, and we're expecting them in the morning, so I should see if my mother and father need any help."

Martha kept her brow high and curious.

"I'll see you both at dinner, then." Robert fled, but not without one final grin at Cora.

Cora could hear her mother speaking, but her head was spinning too quickly to pay any mind to her. "Hmm?" she asked half-heartedly at the sound of her name.

"What have you done?" Martha asked again, dropping like a stone onto the couch beside her. She leant down to scoop up the book, putting it on the side table closest to the fireplace. "For whatever it is seems to be working. It won't be long, I say."

"No," Cora's voice responded for her. "No. Won't be long."

Robert's face, strangely resolute as he studied her eyes, was in the forefront of her mind. His warm hand against her cheek as he pulled her closer to him. And then his mouth, as he had pressed it hard against hers. She thought of her mother's question. What had she done? Their kiss from last night, the softly blooming kiss, seemed natural following yesterday in the garden. But here, she wasn't sure what had come over him. What he suddenly felt so strongly about to cause him to crash his lips to hers the way he'd done. And though she didn't necessarily mind it, it did rather perplex her. It perplexed her, and, well, excited her.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he was falling for her.

Cora bit her lip, and she could hear her mother yammering on around her, but her mind was elsewhere. Her heart beat faster. She bit her lip harder, the taste of his mouth still lingering there beneath her pearly teeth.

Perhaps Robert Crawley was falling in love with her, and perhaps…perhaps it would be soon.

"You have told her."

Robert looked up to his mother's stern face. It was just he, Mama, and Papa left in the library now, the Levinsons having gone to bed a short time ago.

"You have told the girl your plan..."

"Violet," his father interrupted. Robert looked at the brandy in his glass and he listened to his father's, although quiet, still booming voice. "Leave it to Robert, please. He'll know when best to say something."

"So you haven't!"

"Violet..."

"Robert. Robert!" Robert brought his eyes obediently to his mother. The large blues of them were opened wide and she stared at him incredulously. "I demand honesty in this."

He could only keep quiet as he looked up at his mother. She leaned toward him as she sat on the same red velvet couch that Miss Levinson had sat on this afternoon. The same red couch on which he'd kissed her.

"If you are indeed intent on going against my wishes in choosing this girl, then there must be honesty."

Something in his chest hardened and fell cold at that. He wasn't sure what, but something felt offensive in the way his mother said that. "But why should she be against your wishes?" he challenged. "Why should she be against anyone's wishes?"

His mother let go an exasperated breath, "Oh, here we go..."

"Must I remind you of my wishes?" Robert began to shout, "Must I remind you that I did not wish to marry so soon, that I am doing this for you, for the estate?" His heart began to beat faster in his anger. "Must I remind you of my own sacrifice in this?" He could sense his father move to calm him, but he ignored it. "I am the sacrificial lamb, being brought to the altar! Excepting, of course, instead of a knife waiting for me there, there will be a bride!" His mother only blinked at him, appalled. Patrick, on the other hand, tried again to interject, but he was quickly rebuffed. "I am the one who will have to live with this decision for the rest of my days, not you, not any of you!"

"And is Downton not worth it, then?"

Robert immediately felt nauseous at the word. Worth. That's all anything slowly became equated to eventually. Monetary worth. The home in which generations of his family had served the land and King now reduced to the ever compiling taxes and debts his father accrued; the institution - nay sacrament - of marriage to be tallied up in stacks of golden coins; the young, pretty girl that he was wooing, luring into falling in love with him, she was now only a long list of sums that the accounts advisor had added, multiplied, and divided. Worth.

He was shaking his head as he stood. "I've had enough talk of worth today."

He deposited his glass on the table, left the room, and climbed the stairs two at a time. He hoped that sleep would come easily tonight. He'd need his rest. He'd need his strength to play along again and again. For tomorrow was to be the day.

Yes, tomorrow, he decided with finality, tomorrow he'd ask her to save them.

italicized quote from Henry James's Portrait of a Lady, (42;2)