Thanks so much to all of my amazing readers for your constant support of this story. Special thanks to those who continually support and encourage me in its writing: Cls2011, miscreant rose, KP, and thefoodofloveismusic.

I do hope all of you out there enjoy, and your feedback just fuels my desire to write more. :) Downton Abbey does not belong to me in case you were wondering.


He feels her stir at some point, restless and cool against him, and his arm reaches over her stomach automatically to calm her. It is then his mind registers that she is naked, completely and utterly naked.

And so is he.

His eyes fly open, and he surveys her room in the dark, blinking bleary-eyed at the clock that is telling him it is 3:47 a.m. He turns his head to make certain he hasn't been dreaming—God knows he's had his fair share of dreams about this woman, most of them involving little to no clothing—but she is real, she is there beside him.

He swallows in amazement.

The blankets have shifted off of her breasts, and her nipples shimmer in the etchings of moonlight peeking in on them mischievously. A goddess, he thinks to himself, his body heating anew at the sight of her, a grand a glorious being certainly far beyond what he deserves.

God, the way her lips felt on his shoulder, how her nails raked over his back, that sound she made just as she was about to hurl over the edge…

Mary Crawley is going to be the death of him.

She makes a sort of humming noise that pours over him like molasses, arousing him to full consciousness in more ways than one. Shit—he doesn't need this at such an ungodly hour, and he tries to talk that part of his anatomy down, knowing it's a lost cause when she her arm stretches over her head and she moans groggily yet again.

He falls down on his back, shaking his head in the pillow as he tugs the blankets back over her both for her warmth and his own state of mind. Should he go and relieve himself in the bathroom, he wonders, cursing himself silently for allowing the sight of her breasts to get him in such a tither. But it's more than that, he understands, so much more. It's everything about her that fires him up and revs his motor—that flick of her eyebrow, her biting wit, her unguarded cackle that slips out when she's completely exhausted or somewhat tipsy. He's completely under her spell and has put himself there all too willingly.

And now…now…Just what does all of this mean?

He knows what it means to him, but what about her? Are her emotions as involved as his are, or is she teetering on a brink of some sort, trying to decide just how far things should proceed between them. They certainly went further than he had thought they would tonight.

You're not the only one in want, she murmured, and his blood had overheated at light speed. But it's more than want-I'm in love with you, he had wanted to tell her, completely and ridiculously head-over-heels in love with you.

But he hadn't. He had taken the easy way out and kissed her instead.

Want is well and good, but his want goes beyond what happened in this bed. It stretches into weeks, months and years, into nights by the fire and lazy mornings in bed, into ultrasounds and midnight feedings, into dance recitals and football games.

And he complains about his mother and sisters running ahead of reality. God, he practically has their children named, and she very well may decide to kick him out tomorrow.

He shifts uneasily, reprimanding his own wayward thoughts for taking him down this road that may lead to his own ruin. But her silhouetted form beckons him, and he turns on his side to face her again, staring at all that she is with a heart both full and terrified. Shit, can't she snore or something—anything to distract his growing arousal becoming more adamant by the second. He shuts his eyes and buries his head into the pillow.

"Are you alright?"

Her voice cracks with sleep, her body stretching languidly as she reaches out for him in the darkness. He takes her hand and brings it to his face, kissing her palm and melting at the slow, cat-like grin that emerges.

"Better than alright," he states, edging a bit closer. "You?"

A throaty chuckle answers him, the fact that her eyes are still at half-mast making him burn for her even more.

"I'm cold, actually," she hums, giving him a slight tug in her direction. That's all it takes.

He is on top of her in a second, lips seeking and nudging, one hand lost in her hair as the other balances himself deliberately, always wary of her knee.

"You're not hurting me, you know," she whispers, her breath tickling his cheek as long fingers snake around his neck.

"Is that an invitation?"

Noses nudge, his lips just fanning over hers in a deliberate tease.

"Take it as you like," she returns with a smirk he could eat.

The words barely make it out of her mouth before his tongue nudges its way in, tangling with hers, instigating a kiss that makes him throb all over. She tastes like sleep, sex and woman, laced with hints of lavender and his own musky scent. It's an elixir as addictive as any drug, and he practically inhales her, her mouth and tongue making their own demands in return. Then her hands are on his back, stroking and prodding, her palms sliding down to cup his ass in a way that makes him groan into her mouth.

"Did you wake up like this?" she teases, wrapping her hand around his now almost painful erection.

"Don't act so surprised," he manages, the words nearly strangled in his own throat as she squeezes him just so. Sweat beads on his forehead, and he wonders how in God's name she can actually be cold.

"Are you implying that this is my fault?" she inquires with a tone so saucy it could be poured over meat. "I've been asleep, you know."

"That's no excuse," he tosses back with a smirk. "And those games don't work on me. I can see through that tangled maze of yours, my lady."

He feels her sharp inhale, and she clasps his face in her hands, drawing him back to look at her directly.

"And just what do you think you see, Lord Ogre?"

The future, my life, my heart, everything I thought I'd never want to give to anyone again.

But he can't say those things to her—not yet—not until he knows her feelings mirror his own or at least are travelling in the same direction. Shit, he could get lost forever in those eyes of hers, and he traces a brow with his thumb, wondering if she feels as nakedly vulnerable as he does.

"The most beautiful woman I know," he confesses, swallowing hard to get the words out. His heart is pounding, her mouth going inconveniently dry as she stares at him in silence for a second too long. Her lashes blink several times in succession, and her eyes continue to flit over his face as soft thumbs trace the lines of his cheekbones repeatedly.

"Is that the best you can do?" she challenges softly, but he hears a catch in her voice, a trace of something he recognizes as out and out fear.

"You're no ice queen, Mary," he breathes, dropping his lips to her the small crease between her brows, reveling in the warmth of her exhale onto his neck. "But an enchantress. One with eyes of onyx and crimson lips who spins intricate webs of silver and sapphire to protect herself, one whose kiss renders any man lucky enough to receive it completely hers to command."

He feels her pulse pounding rapidly beneath him, and he clasps her hand in his own, kissing her fingers again, losing yet another piece of himself to this woman who might run from him if her knee would allow it. One hand makes its way down her shoulder to her torso, tracing a circle around her naval that makes her gasp softly. His lips then touch where his fingers just were, and her hands clasp the back of his head, silently pleading for more.

"You're quite the man of words," she whispers before speech morphs into a sound that turns him up another notch.

"And you're beyond description," he murmurs as his fingers trail downward until they hover over her hidden depths. "Which is hard for a man of words to admit."

His mouth moves down just a fraction, just enough to make her shudder, just enough to make him reach out to steady her leg.

"Don't stop," she gasps. "Please."

He raises his face to look at her, his resolve nearly buckling at the expression of raw want on her face.

"As much as I hate to say it, I think we still need to be very cautious," he breathes, receiving a groan of protest as her head flops back on her pillow.

"Then do something, damn it," she instructs, and he can't help but smile at her—at them—at this entire ludicrous situation. It's almost farcical that the very thing hindering them from engaging in oral sex or actual intercourse is the very thing that brought them to this point in the first place.

"What are you grinning at?" she asks, her tone a heady mixture of need, sleep and frustration.

"You," he states plainly. "This—"

Words actually fail him as he waves his hand over the bed before returning his touch to her body.

"Us."

The final word is breathed into the hollow of her throat, and he thinks he will combust alive at the feel of her nails on the back of his neck.

"Is there an us, Charles?"

Her question still his hands and mouth but notches his pulse forward several paces.

"Isn't there?" he hums, reclaiming her lips, sensing an affirmation in the desperation of her kiss, sharing her fire as kindling is stroked and fanned. He steadies her lower body to keep her from any questionable movements, edging his fingers further down as his mouth blazes a trail across her collar bone and towards her rib cage. She grabs his shoulders as his nose nudges her nipple, already hard, pebbled and waiting, and he lowers his mouth to her breast, watching entranced as her head leans back, exposing more of that glorious neck.

"More," she whispers as his fingers tangle in her dark mass of curls, and she tries to push up towards his hand, a movement he cannot allow.

"Patience," he soothes, his mouth hovering over her nipple just seconds before he lowers it for a hard suck. She clasps the back of his head with a soft cry, keeping him close as her fingers work his scalp until he can barely think.

"I'm out of patience," she interjects, tugging his face to hers for a kiss that nearly makes him lose it right then and there.

"Greedy," he muses, chuckling before his kisses her again, this time finally stroking her where she wants him most. A low, guttural sound makes him shiver everywhere at once, and he fights for control of his own body as he rubs and coaxes her forward. She is already shaking, and he realizes with a bit of a shock that she's as close to hurdling over the edge as he is. A finger slides in, then another, pumping and circling as she hold on to him for dear life. He then returns his attentions to her breasts, hearing her response as he tugs and suckles just before she shudders underneath him, her nails digging into his scalp, her core rocking against his hand.

"That was fast," he muses, continuing to apply the light pressure she had shown him earlier to bring her down slowly. Her breathing begins to settle as a lazy grin slides across her face.

"Do you think you'll be any longer?" she quips breathlessly, reaching for him and squeezing, nearly sending him out of his mind.

"I may be longer already," he hums, and she laughs—a throaty, sensual sound that tickles his buttocks until they clench.

"You're such an ass," she observes with a coy grin that makes him want to kiss the hell out of her. So he does. She gives back as good as he gives, biting, tasting, holding and clasping, and he pours the truth of all he feels for her into her mouth, holding nothing back, nearly trembling with the force of it.

"Mary, I—"

The words nearly fly from his mouth in a wave of emotion, and he catches himself just before uttering a declaration that might make her retreat.

"You what, Charles?"

Her chest is fluttering, her eyes as wide as he has ever seen them. God, if he could only just tell her—just jump that hurdle and let the pieces fall where they may. But he can't, he can't risk losing her, not when they've just found each other in a new way. Not when the thought of her pushing him away sickens him to the point of physical pain.

"I want you," he whispers. "So badly." Her gaze never wavers, but something in her expression shifts. He can't tell if he has said the right or wrong thing, and he's not certain she knows either. Then she exhales into his skin, a small smile tugging at those lips that taste like ambrosia.

"Soon," she states as her fingers bury themselves in his hair. "Alright?"

She looks so vulnerable it hurts him, and he caresses her face, her eyebrows, any part of her he can touch to assure her how much she means to him.

"More than alright," he smiles, touching his lips back to hers with a delicacy warring with the fire in his lower body. "You're worth waiting for."

A myriad of emotions play out in the slight flicker of her eyes, and he wishes he could make them out one by one rather than catching just a fleeting glimpse into a realm he knows she guards with her life.

"You'd better be," she smirks, falling back into this game of theirs they both know is getting away from them.

"You've already had a sample," he quips, following her lead and pushing up the stakes. "And if I'm remembering correctly, your reaction was more than favorable."

She grabs a hold of him again and strokes, working him over until his eyes roll back in his head and sweat beads along his spine.

"I haven't heard any complaints, either." The words ooze through her teeth and fire him up even more until he is practically seeing stars under the warmth and pressure of her touch.

"Mary," he tries, knowing he is about to spill all over her. "Let me—"

"It's alright," she breathes as she finds that spot that did him in the first time, working it insistently. "Just let go. I don't mind."

He makes a sound he can't identify and crashes into her hand as his forehead makes contact with hers. His life spills out onto her stomach, but he can't stop, not now, his body clenching and throbbing until everything inside of him is completely spent. His breath has run ahead of him, his body now somehow lagging behind as a soothing stupor tries to take hold of his mind.

"God," he manages, reminding himself to swallow and inhale after crashing into the pillow beside her. "I've made a mess, haven't I?"

"You said it," she grins, reaching out to weave her fingers in his hair once more. "Not me."

He tosses her as much of a reproving glance as he can manage under the circumstances before lapsing into laughter.

"Is that your way of instructing me to clean it up?" he questions, goaded on by her own deep chuckle.

"Well, you are my man-slave, aren't you?" she quips. He's more than that—they both know it now, at least that much is obvious. He leans over and finds the towel they discarded earlier, and he wipes her belly, never releasing her gaze.

"Is that what I am, Mary?"

The hitch of her breath seizes his heart, and he feels her go rigid under his touch.

"I don't know," she finally admits, her limbs trembling at the confession. "I don't know what we are, actually. Do you?"

He hears her swallow and kisses the tip of her nose, clasping her shaking fingers within his own unsteady ones.

"We'll figure it out," he assures her, wondering if he sounds as unsteady as he feels. "Together."

She nods, and he draws her to him, holding her as close as he can without causing her pain. God, he wishes he could pull her into his skin and protect her from anything and everything that could hurt her, even though he knows he is directly responsible for the state of her knee. He kisses her forehead, she burrows in closer, and he knows then he is truly and completely lost, that she is exactly what he needs and wants out of life, that everything else is secondary, that he will do whatever it takes to convince her this is right without scaring her away.

"Sleep, Mary," he breathes, and he feels the noise she makes in response reverberate into his ribs.

"Yes, Lord Ogre," she hums, making him chuckle yet again, making him love her even more. And with the feel of her wedged perfectly into his side, he eventually follows her into oblivion.


She wakes to an empty bed, reaching out for warm skin and muscle only to clutch bunched sheets instead. She blinks repeatedly, understanding that he hasn't been up long, that she smells coffee, that everything between them turned some sort of corner last night in this bed.

God—what happened in this bed. The way he touched her, how he held her body steady, how he kissed her with a tenderness that shook her hard. It wasn't empty, what happened between them—she's sure of that, at least. She knows the difference between blind physical desperation and actual intimacy, and they were intimate last night. But how deep is he invested in this odd relationship of theirs, how much of himself is he willing to give her?

For that matter, how much of herself is she willing to give to him?

She presses herself up on arms still shaky from sleep and smells the evidence of what they shared on her skin and her sheets. It makes her want to cuddle up next to him again and forget the world outside these walls, to lose herself in his kisses and conversation, to wrap herself in breathless caresses and sighs, and then to…to…

To what? To tell him that she loves him? To risk admitting she actually wants to take a chance on building a relationship with him, to risk her heart again, even if it scares the hell out of her?

Was he about to say something similar to her last night?

The way he had looked at her, had held her, it had reminded her of how things had been between her and Matthew before their relationship had gone sour. Real, open, intrusive in all the right ways, but still different somehow. Charles is a very different man, she knows this and smiles to herself at the thought of such. Her edges don't seem to bother him, and she's not used to that, to the fact that she doesn't need to soften any part of her to be considered attractive or desirable.

He has as many rough edges as she does.

God—if only she could read him with the clarity he seems to read her, but he's tricky, he's complex, he's a maze of alleys and bends that she cannot stop exploring for the life of her. To be honest, it's that very complexity that continues to draw her in further.

She only hopes he feels the same way about her.

"Awake, are you?"

He pushes open the door and sticks his face in, carrying to cups of coffee to her side of the bed before sitting down beside her. His grin is infectious, his dimples disarming, and she pushes herself up to a sitting position, allowing him to set down their cups and adjust the pillows behind her as she scoots back and settles in. Her body trembles at the touch of his fingers on her cheek, and her eyes close of their own accord as they move forward into her hair.

"I won't stay awake if you keep doing that," she murmurs just before he chuckles and leans in for a kiss. It is soft, a remembrance, an unspoken yet firm declaration that daylight won't erase what was hewn between them in darkness.

"Which is why I brewed the coffee," he returns, nodding towards their steaming mugs. "I thought with the hours we kept last night the jolt of caffeine might do us good."

She can't help but blush at the intensity of his gaze, and she watches as he bites his lower lip, his eyes travelling along bare shoulders and crumpled bedding.

"Where did you learn to love coffee as you do?" she questions, picking hers up and indulging in a warm sip. "I mean, I like it, but I'm far more accustomed to tea."

He takes a drink himself and eyes her directly.

"I lived in New York for two years," he answers, and her brows fly up in amazement. "I became quite addicted to the local brew while I was there, I must admit, and now I have to have my coffee every morning in order to function properly, as you well know."

"Why, you're practically an American," she laughs, and he smiles along with her, both drinking from their cups at the same time. "A complete bear without your morning drug." He rolls his eyes playfully as she indulges in another sip.

"At least I have an excuse," he dares, and she flashes him a glare that only makes his dimples more clearly defined.

"Don't make me growl," she bites back, noting the delicious spark in his eyes at her playful admonition.

"But I like it when you growl," he hums with an expression that could charm a cobra. Damn it—how does he do that so easily?

"It's better than your snoring," she goads, and he tosses her a silent touché before taking another drink of his coffee. "So what took you to New York?"

He clears his throat and eyes her meaningfully.

"I worked as an editor for a large publishing company in Manhattan," he answers with a small shrug.

"So you're an editor," she surmises, straightening her spine just so. "Somehow that makes sense with all of your lauded vocabulary and such."

He grins at her with a slyness she tosses right back at him.

"I take it you approve?" he asks, his free hand painting a curved line down her arm.

"Why wouldn't I?" she returns. "It's a profession well-suited to a man of words."

"And if I sometimes prefer to be a man of action?"

He brings her hand to his mouth, kissing her palm, never dropping his gaze from her own.

"Words without actions can become rather tedious," she breathes, setting her coffee back down alongside his as he leans in for a real kiss. She drinks him in, reveling in its newness, in how it makes her spine tingle, in how he cups her breast under the sheet until she moans into his mouth.

"I'm glad we agree on this," he whispers, leaning back to cup her cheek. "I would hate to argue at a time like this."

"So why are you still on that side of the bedclothes?" she questions, her back arching into his fingers as he rubs over that bare expanse.

"Because I have a meeting," he states, his face transforming into one of displeasure. "And you have a lunch date with my sister."

"It doesn't take me that long to get dressed," she quips with an arched brow.

"No," he agrees. "But we'll need a shower, won't we?"

She feels her lips tug upwards in spite of herself.

"And just how long do you think we'll take to shower?" she inquires, watching as his expression contracts comically.

"I'm not sure," he returns with an exaggerated shrug. "But at least we won't have to bother with bathing suits and boxers anymore."

A flush runs from her toes to her scalp.

"No," she concedes. "I suppose we won't."

His eyes burn a hole into her even as they soothe what aches.

"But we'll have to behave ourselves," he sighs, and she throws him a deliberate pout. "I'll be damned if I'm going to drop you in the shower."

Her eyes concede his point for her, and he reaches for her hand, kissing her fingers, her knuckles, her palm. His mouth warms her as well as the coffee, even as her nipples harden under the blankets. Then something passes over his eyes, something painful, and she watches as he tries to shake it off unsuccessfully.

"What is it?" she questions, somehow feeling entitled to know his thoughts after the intimacy of his touch. His sigh reaches her in time with his kiss, and he pulls back just far enough to look at her directly.

"Your miscarriage," he whispers. "I'm just so sorry you had to go through that alone."

Whatever she had been expecting, it hadn't been that, and her lungs constrict unexpectedly.

"It's alright," she responds, dropping her gaze to her lap. "And I survived. It's not as if we'd been trying or planning to have a baby, and I have no idea what Matthew's response would have been if he'd known, anyway." She clears her throat, her mind spiraling back to a time she'd rather not remember. "We were in a bad place then. His decision to end our relationship was final, and I'm not one to want someone to stay with me out of obligation. It would have been unhealthy to bring a child into that sort of environment."

Her heart aches as it always does when she allows herself to dwell on that short and unfulfilled chapter of her life.

"Perhaps," he breathes. "But it was still a loss to you."

She cannot argue.

"A loss you understand," she adds quietly, and she squeezes his hand. They sit in silence for a moment, touch speaking louder than words ever could.

"I'll always regret losing my child," he finally whispers, the pain in his tone too pierced to disguise. "Even though Freda and I were doomed, even though a baby would have complicated things immensely."

He pauses, unable to let go of her grip.

"Don't children always complicate things?"

Her question draws a rueful smile from him, and he puffs out his cheeks with an exhale.

"I'm certain they do," he answers. "But not all complications are unwelcome."

She feels his thumb stroke her palm, sees something in his eyes that she has no difficulty interpreting for once.

"No," she agrees. "No, they're not." She bites her lower lip, sucking in a breath she feels to her toes. "Do you ever wonder? I mean…"

Her sentence fragments itself somehow, and she swallows in an attempt to complete it.

"What they would be like?" he finishes for her, nodding slowly. "Yes. You?"

She nods in return.

"The strange thing is that I really didn't when I was actually pregnant," she admits, startled at how odd claiming that condition feels on her tongue. "It was afterwards, after I lost him that I began to wonder what he would have looked like."

The hollow spot aches in her stomach, reminding her of its emptiness.

"He?" he echoes with a small smile. "You think your baby was a boy?"

Her baby. It still stuns her somehow that she had carried another life in her body, even if only for a few weeks.

"I'm not sure," she confesses with a sigh. "Just somehow, when I think of what happened, it just fits in my mind. Does that sound strange?"

He kisses the top of her hand yet again.

"Not at all," he answers with a shrug. "I think of my baby as a little girl." He pauses, stroking her knuckles with his thumb, the creases around his eyes cracked but soft.

"Even with all of the boys in your family?" she questions, drawing out a thoughtful grin.

"Especially with all of the boys in my family," he returns. "My mother is panting for a granddaughter in the worst way. You should probably be aware of that before you actually meet her."

"Forewarned is forearmed?" she muses, his soft chuckle releasing something inside of her smooth and rich.

"Something like that," he agrees. "I'd hate to have her frighten you off."

"I don't frighten easily," she quips with a half-smirk. "Besides, my mother already suspects that we're pregnant, no thanks to you."

Something presses in her rib cage at the thought of it—of carrying his child, and she's certain she sees her feelings mirrored in his expression. God, it's far too soon to even be contemplating such things, they haven't even established the depth of their feelings for each other. And she has never been one to make a hasty decision when it comes to long-term relationships.

Perhaps that is her problem—she thinks too much and risks too little.

"Until you drank her under the table, that is," he muses with a raised brow, making her cheeks heat in spite of herself. "That just may have possibly convinced her otherwise."

"Well," she returns with a low hum. "There is that. Although I wouldn't bet on it. Mama has a way of seeing only what she wants to see sometimes."

"Don't we all?" he nods with that sideways smile that gets to her. He touches her again, on her arm, and then progresses to her shoulder, her neck, until his hand rests just under her ear. His thumb caresses her cheek, and he looks at her—really looks at her in a way that makes her feel both exposed and covered.

"And you, Lord Ogre," she breathes, half wanting to halt the words already forming in her mouth. "What is it you want to see?"

She hears his breath hitch softly and watches as his eyes lower then refocus on her face.

"You," he breathes shakily. "All of you."

A sheen of sweat beads on the back of her neck.

"Be careful what you wish for," she warns. "Parts of me are not so nice."

Her heart flutters precariously as he chuckles into her shoulder.

"Parts of me are downright ugly," he admits, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger before kissing the side of her neck. "But I think you already know that."

Ugly is the furthest word from her mind as her hands trace the surface of his chest.

"You have an odd way of recommending yourself to me," she muses, hearing his approval vibrate under her ear.

"What was it you said?" he whispers. "Forewarned and forearmed?"

"Do I need to be warned away from you?" she questions, a low, insistent pounding beginning to pulse in her ears.

"Only if you scare easily," he replies. She traces his eyebrows, noting the hopeful yet fractured expression, emotions she understands all too well. "Ogres aren't to everyone's taste, you know."

"Neither are Ice Queens," she muses quietly, swirls of panic and assurance taking up a precarious waltz.

"I find them strangely tempting," he grins, licking his lips suggestively. "And horribly addictive. In fact, I'm experiencing a rather strong craving for frozen royalty right now."

"An ogre with a taste for ice," she hums in her chest as his teeth nip her earlobe.

"Fire and ice," he breathes into her skin before branding that spot on her neck with his mouth. "Two elements you possess in equal measure."

She leans forward to kiss him this time, drawing something deeper than lust or physical want from him. Parts of her soul merge into his lips, and she holds him with trembling hands, needing what he offers, wanting more of this—of him—of them, this here and now, this living and touching in the present even while dealing with the pain and loss of their pasts.

"I need this complication," he breathes into her mouth headily, his palms cupping her face.

"So do I," she manages, tugging his mouth back to her own, branding him with her teeth and tongue, marking him as a part of her life in ways she could neither decipher nor release. He tastes like coffee and cream with just enough of his own flavor to make her tingle all over. Then tingling morphs into a low pulse, one that reverberates into his hands and chest, one that spurs him on to kiss her with a need that consumes her.

"I thought you said we didn't have time for this," she questions before his lips cut hers off rather abruptly.

"I'm an idiot sometimes, Mary," he states, that raw, husky edge creeping back into his voice. "And you must pay no attention to half of what I say. I thought you knew that by now."

"Can I get that in writing?" she questions as his mouth begins its descent down her throat.

"Only if I'm given editing rights," he returns, his fingers silencing her comeback until all thoughts of further conversation completely leave her mind.


"Do you need anything else?"

She is sufficiently comfortable on the sofa, her knee propped and pillowed, her crutches and a glass of water both within arm's reach.

"I think I can manage," she answers. "I'm not an invalid, you know."

"You have a strange way of acting like one when there's something you don't want to do," he quips with a pointed glance. "Such as washing the dishes, doing the wash…"

"That's enough," she interrupts with a reluctant grin. "Besides, I'm just waiting on Lucy to arrive. How difficult can it be for me to get up and open the door?"

He doesn't answer at first, his eyes tracing the short journey from her seat to the door two or three times in a row.

"Just be careful," he instructs, and she tosses him an eye roll at his over-protective behavior. "Shall I lock Andromeda in the bathroom so she won't get in your way and trip you?"

The cat eyes him warily, and he wrinkles his nose at the feline in return.

"Careful," Mary cautions. "I think she heard you."

"I hope she did," he returns. "If that cat makes you fall again, she'll find herself on the balcony tonight." Andromeda stretches languidly, clearly unfazed by his threats. "Alright, I'm off," he continues, rubbing his hands together anxiously. "Text or call—"

"If I need anything," she finishes, smiling saucily as Andromeda decides to curl up on her lap. "My phone is right here."

She holds it up obligingly, wiggling it in the air as he raises his brows into his scalp. He walks to her and leans down for a kiss, his hand reaching back to cup her head, her lips parting for his most willingly.

"Don't listen to anything Lucy says," he adds as he steps back reluctantly, stroking her cheek. "Unless it's flattering towards me. Then listen by all means."

"Is that why you're dawdling?" she questions pertly, feeling his sigh on her cheek before he moves to open the door. "Because you're afraid of what your sister and I will discuss?"

"I fear it may be the stuff of nightmares," he muses, adjusting his jacket. "Are you sure…"

"Good-bye," she tosses back, picking up her magazine and turning her face away from him. "Shut the door on your way out."

She sees him bow out of the corner of her eyes and fights off a grin as she hears the lock click into place behind him. How utterly quiet and cold it suddenly seems.

They have finally moved his clothes out of his suitcase and into her closet, and he has constantly teased her about barely having enough space to hang 3 pairs of trousers and two shirts. She knows he is bringing back more of his clothing today, and she stares at her flat, amazed at just how natural it now feels to have him here, even though he is technically still a guest. Does she want him to stay on in a more permanent basis? God knows her bed is certainly warmer than it was just weeks ago. How can the flat in which she has lived alone for years feel so spacious when he's been gone for no more than five minutes?

And just how pathetic does this fact make her?

She sighs, staring at the clock, refusing to spend the next half hour brooding over whether or not she should just break down and ask Charles to move in, flipping mindlessly through the pages of Vogue as her eyelids begin to sag. Her sleep had been lacking last night, and she smiles at the reason for it, her breasts tingling yet again. She sets the magazine down, knowing she isn't paying any more attention to it than she is to the cars passing by outside, and she allows her eyes to close.

God, this feels good. Her mind goes blank, her body feels boneless, and she allows herself to drift off into blessed nothingness.

A sharp rap on her door wakes her immediately.

How long has she been sleeping—twenty minutes? Thirty? She blinks repeatedly at the clock, realizing it has been closer to fifteen, and she shakes herself awake, reaching for her crutches and hobbling toward the door.

"You're early," she begins as she opens the door. "I wasn't expecting you until…"

Her voice cuts off mid-sentence as she stares at another dark-headed woman in confusion.

"I'm sorry," Mary recovers. "Can I help you?"

The shorter woman eyes her warily, sizing Mary up with eyes even darker than her own.

"I don't know," her unexpected visitor answers. "I was given this address, but I'm not sure that it's correct. I'm looking for a Charles Blake. Does he live nearby?"

"Was he expecting you?" Mary questions, certain Charles wouldn't have left one pending appointment for another had it been planned.

"Who are you—his secretary?"

The remark bites like arsenic, and Mary feels her ire rise at the derisive sneer gazing back at her in designer pumps.

"And who are you—his hair dresser?"

Mary flicks her brows meaningfully, standing as tall on her crutches as she can manage.

"You're too saucy to be a secretary," the curly-headed woman muses as her eyes narrow. "You must be the new flavor of the month."

Mary's throat goes dry at the ugly implication.

"Excuse me," she returns, preparing to shut the door. "I'm very busy at the moment, so if you have no further business with me—"

The woman slides past her, gliding into the flat and sizing it up with the precision of a realtor.

"He could have done worse, I suppose," she hums as Mary stares back at her in shock. "How long has he been staying here with you?"

"I don't recall inviting you in," Mary states firmly, nudging her body up against her open door.

"You didn't," the woman admits with a shrug. "But that hardly matters. I'm not here to see you."

"Then get the hell out of my flat," Mary states, her temper on the verge of exploding.

"Not until I've spoken with Charles," the woman insists, taking a seat on the large chair next to the sofa and setting down her clutch.

"You have no right to be here," Mary argues, hobbling back to the table and clumsily and retrieving her phone. "If you won't leave, I'll have you escorted out."

She searches her contacts for the correct number, feeling the desire to sit but unwilling to do so while this bitch is making herself at home on her furniture.

"Will you?" the intruder smirks with a dismissive shake of her head. "Well, then, if you must." She breathes out an exaggerated sigh before returning her gaze to Mary. "And you're wrong, you know. I have every right to be here, actually."

"And how do you figure that?" Mary questions, fighting back the urge to throw a crutch at the woman's curly head.

"Because I'm his wife, and I think I have a right to know who he's sleeping with these days," the woman bites back, clearly enjoying Mary's discomfort, flashing her teeth rudely in her direction. She then stands and moves fluidly towards Mary, extending a manicured hand in a gesture that is anything but friendly.

"Freda Blake," the woman half-hisses, half-purrs. "And you are?"