Her hair smelled faintly of flowers, and he breathed it in, slow and deep. Strange, he thought, that sunkissed, floral smell; it reminded him of the sunroom, but they'd neither of them seen the inside of the sunroom for days. How, then, could the scent of it cling to her? Perhaps it was not the sunroom that smelled of juniper and joy; perhaps it was simply that the sunroom smelled like her, and not the other way around. Before now he'd not had the chance to test the theory for himself, had not ever been close enough to her to identify the notes of her particular perfume, at least not while he was sober.

Just now he was close to her, though. Quite close indeed, for the gentle rocking of the train had lulled Jean to sleep, and she was resting with her head on his shoulder, her soft, dark curls tickling his chin. When they took their seats Lucien had reached for her hand, taken it in his own and wound their fingers together and brought those two hands to rest on his thigh, and Jean had smiled at him softly, sweetly, and not pulled away, though there was something anxious in her bright, keen eyes that made him wonder if she thought perhaps she should. In sleep Jean's hand had gone lax in his, but he held it, still, brushed his thumb absently against the delicate skin of her wrist, stilled it, now and again, to press against her pulse and count the steady beats of her heart. There were worse ways, he thought, to pass the time.

The journey was not a particularly arduous one; Melbourne to Balllarat by train took less than two hours. At first they had held hands, and spoken softly to one another, but a contemplative sort of quiet had fallen over Jean, and he'd not known how to break it, or even if he should. There were a good many things Lucien Blake did not know, just now.

Something had happened, in Melbourne.

They had gone to Melbourne together, Lucien and Jean, to visit with Matthew, to try to cheer him as he recovered from the dreadful accident that had shattered his leg. Lucien's old friend had been glum and moody, but then Matthew often was, and Matthew had managed a smile for Jean, and Lucien supposed that was the most they could have asked for. It would have been an utterly unremarkable trip, but the train schedules were not in their favor and Lucien had arranged for he and Jean to spend the evening in a hotel. In separate rooms, of course, but when they left Matthew at the hospital they found themselves quite suddenly alone, in a city where no one knew them, where they could go anywhere they pleased, and do anything they wished.

It was a strange feeling, being alone with Jean in a city where people did not wave to her on the street, where she was not stepped every few steps by a friendly neighbor looking to chat. It was a strange feeling, being alone with Jean in a city where she was not his housekeeper, and he was not the doctor, and to the eyes of everyone who passed them by they were no more than another ordinary couple, smiling at one another and strolling down the pavement with their shoulders brushing together. It was a strange feeling, but a welcome one, he realized. How he longed, with everything he had, to walk through the streets of Ballarat with her like this, open and honest, and the words he had been trying so desperately not to speak began to bubble up in the back of his throat as the evening wore on. There was an expression on Jean's face like melancholy when she took the final sip of the sherry he'd bought for her at the hotel bar, when they suddenly had no further excuse to linger together, and it made him wonder if perhaps she wanted him to say those words to her. If perhaps he was not the only one who longed.

For the last two years he'd kept his longings to himself, convinced that however much regard he might hold for Jean, however beautiful she was, however the curve of her hip and the arch of her brow and her clever, unbreakable spirit might sway him, she surely would not welcome any advances from a man like him. If he pressed her, and she was in no mood to be pressed, it would throw his life into disarray, for Jean had become dear to him, and he knew that should he displease her he would lose her for good. And what joy would his house hold, without her in it? How could he call Ballarat home, when the woman who had made it so was no longer by his side? No, he told himself, better to leave things as they were, better to not distress or dismay her, than to risk losing the best thing in his life.

That look in her eyes gave him pause, however, and there in a hotel in Melbourne, far from home and far from everyone who knew him, his heart began to cry out for her. What if, his heart pleaded with him, what if she was more amenable to him than he first thought? What if she was only waiting, as was proper for a woman of her age and station, for him to come to her, rather than revealing her wants to him? What if she worried, as he worried, that her desires were not meant to be, and needed only one word from him to loose the fervent passion of her heart in earnest? Could he forgive himself if he never spoke, and denied them both the chance to find out?

Life is too short to spend it wondering, his heart whispered to him.

He had found his courage, standing in the corridor outside the doors to their rooms. He had thanked her for her lovely company, and in a fit of daring he had taken her hand. Taken her hand, held it close, and watched her eyes widen, watched her cheeks flush pink, watched her thread her fingers through his own and not pull away from him.

Jean, he'd whispered then.

Oh, she interrupted him quickly. Don't spoil it.

There was a twinkle in her eye that eased his anxieties, infinitesimally, but he had questions still to ask her, words still to say, only she'd told him no. Asked him for quiet, when he was by his very nature loud, and he had tried, with all his might, to do as she had asked, to be good, for her. They stood, looking at one another, palm to palm, fingers interlaced, his thumb sweeping gently over the back of her hand, and no further words left his lips, and Jean said nothing at all, but he felt it, still. Felt the ground shifting beneath his feet. Felt his heart opening to her, and hers to him, and affection like electricity crackled along his skin.

Good night, Lucien, she said at last, and then she raised herself up onto her toes and brushed a kiss against his cheek, left him frozen and gawping at her as she slipped away from him and disappeared into his room.

In the morning she had been shy with him, and that was strange, too, for shy was not a word he would have ever used to describe Jean Beazley, only she was, shy, and lovely, and smiled at him brilliantly when he took her hand while they waited for their train.

And now they were here, on the train, and Jean was asleep beside him, on top of him, and they'd be pulling into Ballarat station in the next ten minutes or so, and he would have to wake her, and take her back home to Mycroft Avenue, and…and then what? He asked himself. Would she continue to allow his touch once they were home? Would she welcome it? She'd not given him a chance to explain himself; was that because she knew already what he meant to say, and felt the same, or was it because she was not prepared to hear it? Truly, this woman had confounded him, and Lucien had no idea what he was meant to do with her, for her. No idea what she expected from him, or what this change in the state of affairs between them might mean for their future.

The only thing left for it, he supposed, was to wake her, and find out.

"Jean," he murmured, turning his head and pressing his lips gently to her temple. "Wake up, Jean. We're nearly home."

She stirred, gave him a sleepy hum in response that made him grin like a fool to hear it. Would she make such a sound, he wondered, if she were lying in his bed, content and warm and with him?

She gave his hand a little squeeze, and then she pulled away from him, stretching lightly and running her hands over her hair to make certain she was still presentable.

"I'm sorry, Luicen," she said, refusing to look at him. "I'm afraid I didn't get much sleep last night."

"No," he agreed. "Nor did I."

How could he have slept, when Jean was lying in bed in the room next to his, when Jean had kissed his cheek, and given him such cause to hope as he had not known for quite some time?

An uneasy sort of quiet fell over them as the train lumbered ever nearer to Ballarat, as they watched the landscape outside the window resolve itself into something familiar, and comforting. Ought he to say something? He wondered. Ought he to ask her if she would hold his hand again? What he wanted, more than anything, was to hold her, and keep right on holding her, to take her out for a nice dinner, a proper date, as she deserved. What he wanted was to woo her, with flowers and dancing and the earnest proclamations of a heart quite in love with her. But don't spoil it, she'd told him, and he remained constrained by his own ignorance as regarded her desires.

When the train reached the station he rose to his feet and brought down their bags from the luggage rack above their heads. With a bag in each hand he had no hand left over to hold hers with, and Jean stepped away from him, moving slowly, sinuously through the press of bodies, and he followed along behind her, quiet and thinking hard. The vision of her from behind was every bit as lovely as the front, but he wanted to see her face, now. He wanted to look into her clear, ocean-grey eyes and discern her thoughts in them, wanted, desperately, for her to offer him some piece of guidance.

The moment they disembarked from the train Charlie Davis called out to them; he had come in one of the police cars to fetch them and ferry them back home, and they greeted him warmly, quietly. Lucien stowed their luggage in the boot and Charlie escorted Jean to the front of the car, held the door open for her so that she could slide into the passenger's seat. That left Lucien in the back all by himself, and he clambered in, trying not to scowl. It was childish, perhaps, but he wanted to sit next to Jean. He wanted her warmth beside him, wanted to brush his fingertips over her knuckles, if she would not let him hold her hand outright, wanted the softness of her skin against his own to remind him that the night before had not been a dream, that he had not imagined her gentle kiss pressed to his cheek.

It was not to be; Jean was too far away to reach. As they drove along Charlie inquired politely after Matthew's health, and Jean spoke to him kindly, and Luicen sat silent in the back, staring moodily out the window. He'd been so happy, the night before in Melbourne, but now they were back in Ballarat, and all the old constraints had been once more put in place. Would they be lifted, when he and Jean were home again, and alone? Would she welcome his touch, when Charlie was not there to see it? Or would returning to the house just remind her of her role there, and draw her away from him? It no longer mattered to Lucien, that she was his housekeeper, that he was not meant to dream of her; Jean was a woman, and dear to him, and he wanted her, desperately. He'd rather she be his lover, be his wife, than his housekeeper. The house could hang; he wanted her to keep him.

"I've got to go back to the station," Charlie said as he pulled to a stop in front of the house. "Do you need any help taking the bags in?"

"No, that's quite all right, Charlie." Lucien could manage two small carpet bags by himself. Jean had already slipped out of the car, was marching smartly towards the front door, fishing around in her handbag for the keys. She had left him far behind.

It took a moment or two for Lucien to gather the bags, to close the boot, to watch as Charlie pulled away, and then he sighed, and trudged into the house. The door had closed in Jean's wake, and it took some wrangling for him to get it open again with his hands full. As he stepped into the foyer he found that Jean had already vanished deeper into the house; her coat and bag were hanging in their customary place by the front door, but Jean herself was nowhere in sight. He tossed his own luggage into his bedroom, and dropped Jean's at the foot of the stairs. He listened, for a moment, wondering where on earth she had got off to, but then he heard the soft clink of china in the kitchen, and he made his way there at once.

She was already hard at work, was Jean. The kettle was on, and she had drawn teacups and saucers down from the cabinets, was bustling efficiently by the stovetop, the picture of domesticity, and she was not looking at him.

"Jean," he called her name softly. He had no idea what he meant to say to her, but he felt so lost, and he wanted, more than anything, to see her face. If he could only look into her eyes, he thought, if he could only see her, then perhaps he might be able to understand what it was she wanted from him.

"I thought I'd make us a nice cup of tea," she said, not turning to face him. There was something tight and uncertain in her voice; did she regret it? He wondered. The kiss she'd left on his cheek, the liberty she'd allowed him to take, holding her hand not once but several times? Did she regret showing him so much of her heart? Did she regret giving him cause to believe she cared for him, as he did for her? Or was she only confused, as confused as Lucien himself? If it was the latter, he meant to set the record straight at once.

"Jean," he said her name again, and she stilled by the stovetop, her hands coming to rest on the counter in front of her, her posture rigid, tense. Whatever he did, whatever he said next was going to change things between them forever, and he knew it, but he could not bear to keep himself from her, not for a moment longer. Perhaps it was foolish, and perhaps it would mean losing her forever, but he was beginning to think it would be better to lose her, and know, than to continue on uncertain and desperate for all the rest of his days.

Slowly, very slowly, he closed the space between them until he was standing just behind her, until he was almost touching her. If he had taken in a deep breath, in that moment, his chest would have brushed against the plane of her back. He didn't, though, didn't breathe, didn't touch her, didn't reach for her, didn't box her in between his heavy bulk and the stove, though he wanted, very much, to settle his hands on the curve of her hips, to hold her close to him. It would be too much, he thought, to put his hands on her in such a way in this moment when everything between them was so undecided, and confusing to them both.

"Can I say it now?" he asked her, very quietly. She'd not let him speak, the night before, and his heart was full to bursting inside his chest with the words he'd not yet given voice.

Jean drew in an unsteady breath, turned her head to the side as if she meant to look at him over her shoulder, but she closed her eyes at the last moment and only stood, waiting.

"Yes," she breathed.

"I think you're wonderful," he told her then. "You are so lovely, and so kind, and so good. You…you've made this house my home. You've made Ballarat my home. I would not be here now, if it weren't for you. And I…I don't want to lose you, Jean. I couldn't bear it."

It was not the speech he'd intended to give. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her, that if she only let him he'd sweep her off her feet and make her his, forever, but he feared such a confession would only terrify her, and so chose what he hoped was a gentler path.

"I'm not going anywhere, Lucien," she answered softly.

He shifted on his feet; that was good, he thought. She knew he cared for her and still had no designs on leaving him, was not planning to walk away from him, now that he had opened his heart to her. But it still was not enough, for he still did not know, not for a certainty, just how she felt about him.

"I want…" I want to kiss you. I want to touch you. I don't want you to be my housekeeper, Jean. I want you to be mine. "I would like," he tried again, "very much…what I mean to say, Jean, is, that I would…I would…"

He was floundering. There was no delicate way to say what was on his mind. There was no subtle phrasing that could convey all the longings of his heart. No poetry came to him, no ardent promises. He stumbled over his words, feeling a fool, and it was Jean, in the end, who saved them both. Of course it was; Jean always knew best.

In one graceful movement she turned round to face him, and she was not smiling, but there was such warmth in her eyes, such hope, that it made his heart sing in his chest to see it.

"I think," she said, "I would like that, too."

Well, then.

Perhaps he didn't need poetry, after all. Perhaps he just needed her to see him, standing in front of her with his heart in his hands. Up close like this she was so beautiful, so stunningly, heart-stoppingly beautiful, and clever, she was so clever, she knew just what he meant, even when he could not find the words himself. With one delicate hand she reached for him, cradled his face in her palm, and then she raised herself up onto her toes, same as she had done the night before, only this time, this time her kiss did not land against his cheek. This time she leaned into him slowly, and their eyes fluttered closed together as her lips brushed softly, sweetly against his own.

It was a brief kiss, a gentle kiss, and when she pulled back from him she was blushing, again, but smiling, this time, and what little restraint Lucien still possessed deserted him. One of his hands landed steady at her hip, and the other reached up to tangle in her dark curls, pulling her back to him for a second, more fervent kiss. A soft, startled gasp escaped her, but she melted against him at once, all the softness of her pressed against all the hardness of him, and her sweet lips parted under his, and they grinned, both of them, eager and willing.

This kiss lasted far longer than the first, and they were both breathless when they parted.

"Well," she said. "That's that. Now, do sit down, Lucien. Let me bring you some tea."

"Yes, dear," he said, and she drew a dishtowel up from the counter, swatted at him playfully with it.

"You are incorrigible." she said, but her tone was fond, and Lucien was grinning like a fool. He went to the table as he had been bid, and sat down there, watched her dancing gracefully through the kitchen. He did not know, yet, where this road might lead, but they had made a start. Together.