2.
"Going away for a few days?" Robert repeats in confusion. "Surely not now when you just got back from London?"
"I'm afraid I would have to disappoint you, but it has to be today," Matthew confirms regretfully.
"Is it really an urgent matter?"
"I believe it is, Papa. Why would Matthew even bother to go if it is not?" Mary speaks, staring at her tea cup as if it is the only thing in the room that captures her attention. She never meets Matthew's eyes ever since they joined the room for breakfast.
"Well, that's unfortunate, but I believe there's nothing to do about it then?" Robert looks back at his son-in law—his heir, who can only throw a bitter smile as a confirmation.
Matthew looks at the woman sits across the table—his wife, his Mary, who keeps talking to their mothers most of the time and staring down at her food for the rest of it.
He looks at her elegant manner of having breakfast, captivated with her soft, husky voice every time she lets out a word or two to respond to their respective mothers. How he misses everything about her, from the way the morning rays fall on her hair like an angelic halo to the blush on her pale cheeks, from those amazing brown eyes to the way her fingers move as if they were dancing. God only knows how he aches for missing her so very bad, how much he longs to circle his hands around her, to pull her in a tight embrace, to caress every single inch of her skin with so much love, to kiss her and to have her kissing him back to assure him she loves him just as much as he does.
"Matthew?"
Robert's voice draws him back into reality, where he can only stare at her so longingly without being able even to touch her, let alone embrace. What did Robert ask? Something about his departure time, if he's not mistaken.
"Not long after lunch time, I suppose," he answers.
"When will you be back?"
"In about three or four days, I'm not quite sure. But I'll return home as soon as I can."
"May I know why you did not tell me anything about this trip?"
Matthew raises his eyes, leaving the book he is currently reading to find Mary standing in front of him, her face frowns in confusion. The last thing he needs before leaving is to have another fight with her over something so simple.
"I tried to. You didn't give me a chance."
"Of course," his wife responds in sarcasm. "It was always me, of course. Every time we argue, it must be either because of me being so insensitive or practical or selfish or stubborn."
"I never said that."
"But that's just how it sounds to me."
Matthew breathes, then closes his book and stands up. "I'm sorry, my darling. I never meant to make it sound that bad. It was a sudden plan, anyway, I thought of it while I was at London. And I really wanted to tell you, I really did, but I couldn't find the right moment."
"Do you really have a right moment just to inform me that you were planning to go somewhere?" she asks.
He doesn't answer, unable to think of anything with her standing there, so close to him he can almost feel her breaths on his skin. He lifts his hand in despair, silently begging her not to back away. She does not, thank God, Matthew thinks as he cups her cheeks with his hands, strokes his thumb across her soft silky skin with such tender.
"I miss you," he finally lets out those three little words. He does, he terribly terribly does. His voice cracks, heart bursts with joy from being finally able to touch her again. To feel her warm skin, kiss each of her eyes and nose and neck and, of course, her sweet lips. To finally be able to inhale that nice, relaxing fragrance she always has. He cannot remember how he could manage to stay in the dressing room last night without going crazy.
Mary releases a little sigh at his touch, her way of telling him that she misses him too, encouraging him to pull her closer, not wanting any distance between them.
"I know you do," she murmurs, tightens her hands around Matthew, feeling the urge to embrace him tight, hates the idea of having to let go. But she has to, of course.
"Kiss me," she pleads in his ear. Oh he will, he surely will even without her asking him to. And so he does, without any intentions to hold back. And she responds with no less passion. Lips are crashing, tongues are taking and giving as much as they can, gratifying their hunger towards each other.
Rather than a kiss, it's more like he's ravishing her lips. She clings to his neck, unable to trust herself not to collapse once she let go. He groans, she gasps for breath, both aren't willing to pull away.
Matthew is the one to finally break the kiss. He needs to, or he won't be able to stop. Resting his forehead against hers, he leans against the table to keep both of them stand. His breaths are uneven, heart races twice faster. He smiles at the sight of his wife, noticing that Mary is no better. Her lips swollen, cheeks blushed and warm when he reaches for her.
"Promise me you won't be away for long," Mary says after she managed.
"I'll be back as soon as everything is finally… settled," he whispers.
"And Matthew," she adds when he's about to leave the library. He turns, glances at their still-entwined fingers before looking back at her.
"We won't let Downton fall, will we?" she asks. She needs him to answer, to assure her.
"We will do anything we can." He kisses her slightly parted lips one more time before finally leaving.
"We will do anything we can," Mary murmurs once she is alone. "But you never promised me Downton won't fall."