A/N: A little levity after the last chapter. Also, not edited well so please forgive mistakes. A strong T-rating.

The family is upstairs preparing their departure to Mrs. Patmore's scandal-ridden bed and breakfast and Charles hopes that the visit does not sully their reputation nor that of the house in which he serves. He truly worries about such matters even though he knows that his wife is right and that the Abbey, itself, has been riddled with scandal over the years. Scandal of the Crawley's own making. Even his beloved Lady Mary has seen her fair share of scandal if that long ago letter sent by Laird Flintshire's valet is to be believed.

Then there is the little girl who simply appeared one day, brought from Yew Tree Farm and the capable care of the Mrs. Drewe, and installed in the Downton nursery. The little girl, who favours Michael Gregson in appearance and so easily has captivated the heart of Lady Edith, has been a source of idle chatter among the housemaids when they think Mrs. Hughes is not listening.

Many in the house think that he does not know things, that he does not catch on as his wife does. Perhaps he does not catch on as quickly, but he is not a success at his job without having keen powers of observation. Like Mrs. Hughes, he has perfected the art of blending into the background, of hearing snippets of conversation, and piecing them together.

But he's distracted now, his mind flutters away from thoughts of Mrs Patmore's disgrace, and to thoughts of a decidedly more intimate nature. His cheek still burns in the most electrically exhilarating way where his wife kissed him. Kissed him right there in Mrs. Patmore's kitchen where all and sundry might see them. And he wanted so badly to kiss her lips, to taste to tang of her lip colour and to feel the warm silk of her tongue slip across his lips. But she has tortured him, denied him the fullness of his prize, and then stalked off to her sitting room. Bewitching creature.

Now, after he has watched his lovely wife walk away, he is torn between duty and desire. His job requires him to see off the family. While he usually has no trouble setting his mind to the task at hand, he cannot get her out of his thoughts.

He revels in the notion that for once, he has proved her wrong. She has blossomed into the wife he knew that she would be, the woman he has always seen her as. Beautiful, sensual, strong. She is so far removed from the insecure woman who stood in his pantry and confiding her fears that she would be a disappointment to him. Oh, she has been anything but. She is a siren calling him into the tempest. She is his lighthouse safely leading him home.

He climbs the stairs that bridge the engine room of the whole works with the style and show that he revels in. The moment he passes across the threshold into the library, his posture straightens and his stride becomes strong and confident. He is Carson, the man on whom the whole operation depends. Only the woman below stairs holds the real power. Were he leads with bombastic authority, she has claimed power with quiet authority.

She has claimed him on so many levels. She has had his trust for longer than he can remember. Since before she became housekeeper, he always knew that she was the one for a secret or the one for an encouraging word. When he has felt foolish or uncertain, she has propped him up, made him feel worthy.

She has had his heart for almost as long. He believes that he has the upper hand, is head of the house, downstairs, as well as at their cottage. If he were to contemplate it long enough, to be truly introspective like the Greek philosophers that he has read, he knows that she has the upper hand. Her's has been a gradual usurpation of his authority, a coup d'état. As she has taken over his heart, he has allowed it. Though he might bluster, he does not mind, not really. If he did, he'd have put a stop to her meddling years ago. Put a stop to her rummaging through waste bins and listening at grates (and encouraging him to do so). He would never have allowed her to give Molesley permission to take the job at the school when she hadn't the authority to do so. The look on her face brooked no argument at all.

But he is hers now and that makes all the difference.

As he thinks of his wife stating her claim on him, the feel of her lips on his cheek, how she seemed to glow from the inside out, and the look that silently told him there was more to come later, leaves him feeling hot under the collar. He finds himself impatient and wanting the more to come later, now.

Thoughts of undressing her, of peeling away her clothing, occupies his every thought. He imagines his fingertips dancing across the warm alabaster flesh of her bare chest as he slowly unfastens each button of her long nightgown. She still has not bought new ones; still has not ordered from that new catalogue she borrowed from Mrs. Patmore. But he does not mind because he doesn't know a thing about ladies nightgowns and slowly undressing her is part of the fun.

His lips caress her neck in gentle kisses until he makes his way to that spot just behind her ear. The spot that he has learned makes her breathe deeply and call his name in a deep, raspy sigh.

He is very distracted by the thoughts of what comes next. Of her hands are threading through his hair pulling him in for the deepest of kisses and how his hand will graze along her thigh.

Carson closes his eyes hard and swallows. He ties to banish all of these thoughts while he is working.

It is all very unprofessional. Very discomfiting.

His efforts are in vain.

Walking across the great hall, he still feels her hand clutching his shoulder, as she gently drew him to her in the kitchen. Tugging at his waistcoat, Carson is flush with memories of the first time her fingertips curled into the bare flesh of his shoulder as she pulled his hovering body closer to hers. The way she urged him closer, called him to her in the most passionate of ways, while her the fingers of her other hand cupped his cheek, her thumb smoothing across his lips. He remembers the first time his lips glazed across the smooth skin of her breasts and how she encouraged him in his adoration of her. How the warmth of her hips meeting his and her ankle hooking over his upper thigh, how when he first felt the welcoming warmth of…..

Carson coughs and straightens his tie. He feels his whole body flush and he immediately begins to think of the wine ledgers, of columns and rows, things that are orderly and under his control. It will not do for him to appear out of sorts in front of the family.


He has managed to speak to His Lordship and they have come to an understanding about Mr. Barrow. He's pleased the under butler will be allowed to stay at least for the time being, it takes a weight off his shoulders and absolves him of the guilt he's been carrying since that awful day Miss Baxter found the young man unconscious and bloody in the bathtub.

Carson knows that Lady Mary will be pleased that Thomas is staying on; he knows that Master George will be delighted as well. Things are finally beginning to settle, he thinks. All except for Lady Edith and perhaps and Lord Hexham will find their way back to one another soon enough.

After he sees the Granthams off, Carson's thoughts return to his wife. With the house empty except for Lady Mary and Mr. Branson, he is free once again to allow his mind to wander. He makes his rounds of the rooms and finishes in the library where suddenly he sees himself and his wife sprawled across the crimson sofa that she had convinced him to settle on with her days before.

He sees what might have happened if Mr. Barrow had not interrupted them. How he might have stretched out his arm and pulled Mrs. Carson close to his side. How she might have tucked her head close into his shoulder or to his chest and how he might have dropped sweet kisses to her hair and told her how lovely she looked.

Or maybe he would have reached across and tugged at her hand, pulled her into his lap. Perhaps she might have wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, her fingers coursing through the hair there while her other hand rest securely on his shoulder. Perhaps, he might bury his mouth in her neck, kiss her, nip and tug at the soft flesh there until she giggled. He just might let his hand slide down her back to rest on her bottom as he deftly manoeuvres his free hand under skirt, tantalizing her as his finger slipped beneath her garter.

Oh, yes. That is what they would have done, he thinks. If only Mr. Barrow had not interrupted.

Carson scrubs the back of his neck with his hand and the pats his hair down. He is convinced that he must look quite flustered as he tugs at his waistcoat. He straightens to his full height and with determination strides toward the door that will take him down the stairs to his wife.

"Carson," he hears a clear, authoritative voice ring out behind him.

"Yes, My Lady. How may I help?" he inquires as he turns to meet the smiling, yet serious countenance of Lady Mary. She looks like the cat caught liking the cream and for a moment he wonders if she has caught him out, if she's watched him standing idly in the library as while he thought of ravishing his wife.

"Mr. Talbot will be arriving this afternoon, we should be prepared that he might stay so if you could have Mrs. Hughes prepare a room and we will need some coffee when he arrives."

He knows now that if Lady Mary is smiling about Mr. Talbot's arrival, things must have thawed between them and Carson is pleased for her. He genuinely hopes that his favourite will finally be happy.


With the coffee prepared and Mr. Molesley told to give it moment so that the newly engaged couple could indulge in a celebration of their agreement, Carson finally strides downstairs to his awaiting bride.

He passes by his own office and then comes to hers, to the shut door, and his fingers wrap around the door handle. He pauses a moment so that he does not rush in, pull her from her chair, and crash his lips into hers. He must not lose himself that way. Not at work where they are constantly interrupted.

When he finally opens the door, she is not sitting at her desk pouring over her ledgers but instead she is tending the little plant that she has potted. He watches for just a moment as she delicately folds back the new growth, takes the small scissors that hang at her hip, and clips the dead away.

"It's doing well," she says looking up at him, smiling. "My mother always had a green thumb. I suppose I took that from her."

He only nods as he closes the door. She places the bits she has removed from the plant into the bin and dusts her hands off on a cloth.

He stands stock-still and she watches as he tugs at his waistcoat.

"Mr. Carson, I there something that you need?" she asks. Her voice is soft, a near whisper. The look in his eyes is her answer. She's seen the passion there before. The night he first kissed her in his pantry. Again on their wedding night, so serious and loving at the same time. He may be an old curmudgeon but he has never not made her feel wanted or desired, loved and adored.

She knows that she has started this, lit this fire that burns within him, burns within them. She teased him earlier and know he has come calling.

She holds out her hand to him and their fingers interlace as they move closer. He pulls her body flush to his and makes sure that she knows, feels, the power that she has over him. He claims her lips in a gentle kiss that quickly turns passionate.

"My, my Mr. Carson," she laughs as the kiss ends.

"Temptress," he grunts.

"Curmudgeon," she retorts, as she wraps her fingers around his neck.

He draws her in for another kiss and neither of them hear the door creak open but both hear the distinctive voice of the first footman calling for Mrs. Carson. The Carsons, amorously embraced, stare down Mr. Moseley who withers under Mrs. Carson's gaze.

"I know," he begins as he closes the door. "Give it a moment."


TBC… thank you for reading. I would love to know what you think. And yes, you did see an homage to Downton Wars, pt. 2.