Was going to upload this earlier, but then I decided to write a St Valentine's Day piece after the epilogue (that should really have been uploaded yesterday, too) and so I didn't exactly have time. As with the others chapters, please inform me of mistakes, review nicely and/or with constructive criticism, oh, you can still guess what I don't own (like DCs, unfortunately).

-pureclass

It was nearly midnight when the 'party' stopped. It had clearly been a while since the whole family had gathered and, once the whole 'The Heir has died without a Will' problem was fixed, a little get-together was held. Really just because of the reunion but also for some relief over inheritance matters, it was really just what they'd been doing before, but with more beer. Sort of like New Year's '08 at his Cousin Shaun's, Tom thought. There had been a marquee almost erected outside, as there was no convenient conservatory for the après-ski celebrations. They weren't so traditional, either, that they would use a drawing room where the women would adjourn to first but it was a bit impossible with the recent blizzard.

"I'm sorry," Robert announced when everyone was suitably smashed, "Looks like you'll have to stay the night, Tom." At least he didn't have anywhere to be until Thursday – he'd come up early to be the typical tourist and go sightseeing, but he'd done that already. Then the housekeeper came up, seemingly knowledgeable that the poor bloke would be staying and whispered to Mr Crawley. "Thank you, Mrs Hughes." Was all he said in reply before turning back to Tom, "Again, my apologies, but there are no other guest rooms made up – we had not foreseen your staying – but I am not so unreasonable as to refuse you stay in Sybil's room." He seemed quite chuffed and almost guffawed, was that the right word? Yes, there seemed to be an in-joke here. "In fact, I'd say the bed in there is large enough for three, if not more." Hilarious. But this man was generous and kind, decent and maybe humble, or modest, to say he almost owned the world; so Tom wasn't going to be sarky - or snarky - in front him when he offers him lodgings. To put it lightly, he was surprised that he wasn't made to sleep in the servants' rooms. Or the dungeon, if it had one.

He'd been sure he was the only one eating his prize lasagne with his fork held like a digger – Sybil's eldest sister, Mary, made using cutlery look so elegant. She didn't appear all too pleased with the delicacy but at least had the decency not to mention it to its chef. He almost swore that she held her pinkie finger out, too. Yet Sybil mentioned, hanging over him trashed on the way back to her bedroom, that he'd been the perfect gentleman, much more decent than half the millionaires that had been invited previously. Something slurred about how she thought he'd have great table manners from the train journeys and stuff became incoherent as they nearly fell into her room, and began giggling.

"You know," she said, strained voice comprehensible again, "You are the best guy I've ever met, Tom. Like the kindest, sweetest, man; all the ones I usually meet are stuck-up and superficial, with egos that barely allow them through that 'bloody massive' door." She was sat on the floor when she paraphrased him and lent forward to where he was half-led, half-sat up straight on the floor between her and the door, so close that her breath (it smelt strongly of wine) tickled the almost non-existent hairs that covered his face and drunkenly simpered, slightly hysterical, "I'm gunna get changed now." She giggled, was this usually funny when women were drunk? Not from his experience, but socialites seemed a whole different breed. Some of her family were posh, yes, but she was entirely – amazing. No, that wouldn't do, he'd have to make up a word to describe the staggeringly unique young woman who he now turned away from. She pulled her top over her head and grabbed Tom round the waist from behind and giggled again. "You don't have to turn away. I thought you'd be getting changed, too." She began to unzip his pants, standing behind him, and then flung them both backwards onto her bed.

So that was how he'd ended up where he was now, having just rolled over and kissed her neck. "You're drunk." He muttered, face in the crook of her neck. She was again giggling, biting on her bottom lip in anticipation as she was in, well, just her underwear. He kissed her again, where her collarbone jutted out beneath her perfect olive skin. "You'll regret this." He uttered, but it was too tempting. He realised from the tan lines that her skin was really quite ivory – much unlike his natural tan, and continued his line of kisses down, then up to her lips, mumbling retorts of how she really didn't want to do this between the smothering. He hadn't noticed she'd been fiddling with his pants all the while until she shuffled the nearly-chinos down his legs and chucked them across the room. He thinks they hit, and then slid down, the door. Deep in the kiss, he only removed his hands from either side of her to allow for his shirt to be pulled off, (Had his cardigan been discarded downstairs, too? He remembered unbuttoning it to dance; it was on a pouffe or chaise thing somewhere.) and thrown in the approximate direction of his jeans. Both items were grey, but the shirt was more navy and the jeans were charcoal, almost black. His cardigan was a mid-tone grey, about central on the greyscale spectrum.

He was only thinking about the shade of his clothing – his socks had Wallace and Gromit on, his loafers were a complimentary chestnut-caramel colour – because he was in his boxers, laid on his back, with an equally naked girl crouched above him. He wasn't doing anything but relishing in the groans that occasionally escaped her. Then she seemed to come round. The first thing she had had to drink, besides that wine at the rugby, was Taittinger. She didn't appear to be drunk anymore.

"Tom?" she tucked a wisp of her hair behind her ear, balancing on just one hand above him.

"We haven't…" she kissed him. "Do you…" her lips hit his again, "I don't suppose…" she began attempting to unfasten her bra. He helped, now understanding that she was sober enough and wanted to do this – he hoped. Drat! Nope, that wouldn't do but, oh.

Morning came a bit quickly. Tom groaned as he rolled over in an unfamiliar room. He remembered last night well but he hit the floor when he did so, he usually slept on the other side. Sybil heard the thump and let a feeble 'eep' escape her mouth.

"Honestly," criticised Tom, jokingly aggravated as she dragged him up, tangled in the duvet, "If that's the best you can do, I fear for your life if and when a murderer drags you down an alleyway at midnight. He flopped, face-down, back onto the messy bed, the ruffled sheets a second later being dragged from the near end until he fell off again and joined her where she quickly sat down on the floor.

"How spirited." She teased, and kissed him again.

"We really shouldn't." but they started, and were haltered when a cleaner or maid or whatever walked in on them, making love on the opposite side of the bed; clothes, bedding, cushions and dignity strewn across the room. They'd barely registered her presence before she shut the door, almost immediately, and left. They continued.

"There'll be some gossip today." She began, letting him kiss her face.

"So long as it's one of those 'doesn't leave the room' or 'house confidentiality' things I'm not all too bothered. Anyway, I'm supposed to be your kind-hearted boyfriend."

"I thought I'd just dreamt admitting that to you. But I'm glad I did. It's true, though there are really no words to describe you."

"Ditto." He gasped, pushing her down from the sitting position and rolling around.

"So this whole pretending to be my mate of choice," she began, then gathered her breath and continued after another kiss, "It's not really working for me."

"Mate of choice? Do you take biology or something?"

"I want to be a Doctor, so naturally you've got to love the subject." It was sarcastic but Tom commented honestly,

"Not as much as I love you."

"I love you too."

"Where is Sybil this morning," enquired Robert at breakfast, "and that man of hers?" The women at the table giggled. "What is so funny?"

"Please, papa," Mary answered, "Even without Anna having told us all it'd be more than obvious. She found them on the floor. You know." It was a sensitive subject, and certainly not one the twenty-something really wanted to discuss with her middle-aged dad.

"Of course." He said, as if it were as normal as the sun rising now that he knew, and poured more milk into his coffee. "Do you think he will be staying long?"

"What?" Edith nearly spat her mocha out, "He didn't look all too pleased about coming in the first place. Very nervy, I doubt meeting his girlfriend's parents at their giant country house is entirely his cup of tea. It was you that insisted on him staying the night, as well."

"I'm quite fond of him. There's something different about him. Of course I've searched him. He has two-hundred-and-three Facebook friends, and works for Miliband and, from what I've gathered, doesn't seem like he's going to try to take advantage of any of us."

"I guess, but I doubt he'll want to stay. I think we've scared him off for good." Mary smiled victoriously, no-one had anything to say to that, and took a sip of her morning red. Then granny walked in. The Dowager had strong views on everything, and so had missed last night's do.

"Oh, my, wherever is Sybil?" she asked, taking her seat at the far head of the table. Some people still followed traditions. Everyone laughed, and the older woman took the hint. "Is he a nice fellow? Not like the last one I hope?"

"Mother!" Robert demanded. She had an idea of what they were probably up to, and she asks if he's anything like that gold-digger! In her words, or word, - disgraceful!

Shoving black DC's on he wonders why Sybil had offered to, at about noon, run out and fetch his duffel bag from his truck so he could get changed into more comfortable clothes. Ones that hadn't spent the best part of the day screwed up on her bedroom floor. Did she really love him, as much as he found himself loving her? He thinks he's fallen in love with her. No, knows, he knows he's fallen in love with her. But last night – and this morning – were foolish. And he was starving. Now in a change of clothes; dark red, almost as if blood stained, fashion cotton T-shirt, cream actual chinos that had a button sewn on, they were like jogging bottoms in that you didn't zip them up, and the DCs he never bothered lacing up, having fastened them so they were just tight enough to stay on when running and be comfortable but just loose enough to slip on and off easily, hastily shuffled onto size 10 feet already smothered in tennis socks. Plain black with a grey stripe half a centimetre from the top, but pushed down so they crumpled at his ankles, just above his shoes.

Sybil had changed into a little purple dress. Not a dark purple that would match his top but a bright, light purple. Almost Lavender. And patterned, too; a darker purple velvet pattern of stems with the blooming fleur head atop, twining and meandering from across the bottom of the piece to the petals hanging at the left side, from his perspective, and with a silken trim at the elbow-length sleeves, a bit of stringy purple ribbon outlining some of the detail and a purple mesh-y laced neckline. It was completely purple, four or five shades of the pretty colouring matching, well, her. Why hadn't she worn that now that he wanted to strip it off her? He seemed to demonstrate this lust as she walked up to him and he ruffled some of the light material at her hips, gathering at her waist and him clinging hard, smelling her. Her hair smelt of lavender, he realised, and smiled against the fading black of her craven curls. A very dark brown that was also light, like ancient treated wood. "Be careful," he warned, "Or someone might mistake you for a foxglove." She kissed his ear, "And they are oh, so, beautiful." He finished.

"Be careful," she replied, "Or we might happen again." The mood dropped. He loosened his grip but did not release her, "And you sound hungry."

"Only for you, my dear." His hands tightened around her again and moved upwards, searching. Then his stomach grumbled.

"I think we have bacon downstairs." She giggled. So much for that ill-thought out plan, Tommy boy. Next time he promised himself that his attempts at seduction would be pre-meditated and before he noticed her swaying her hips melodically, looking beautiful. Too bad that was pretty much all he registered when she moved. Dragging him out by the wrist, his hair still mussed, she had left herself vulnerable. He quickened so they were close and, with his free wrist, squeezed her buttocks. That should be informative enough. There was her cute squeal again. She spun round and stared at him, her eyes boring into his and pleading, more with herself than with him, not to turn and take him back into her room, back into her bed. "We have to reappear at some point or there will definitely be talk." He kissed her. It lasted long enough for her next eldest sister, Edith, to turn the corner at the end of the hall and walk halfway down then clutch her sister's shoulder and drag her away.

If she was intending to separate the couple, it failed. He simply went with her, themselves perfectly entwined, his arms locked around her middle and hers near strangling at his neck. They chests were touching, one slide and their hips would grind together. Though they did break apart and gasp, then looked into each other and giggled. They were like naughty children who had been discovered, purely out for the adrenaline rush of being found. It wasn't the intention but it wasn't not an option. Edith glared at him over Sybil's shoulder;

"Come along for afternoon tea before you impregnate my little sister, moron. I fear should I leave the pair of you together a second more you'll be sprawled across the floor again attempting to prove that I could be mistaken when I said 'pair'."

He glared back, "How long have you been thinking up that, just waiting to catch us?"

"Since about eight or half past. I have the room next door. You weren't exactly quiet."

Sybil giggled; he supposed that this was new to her and therefore more exciting. She hadn't been a virgin, had she? He hadn't just gone and taken her – twice? Oh, but he had. A pained look came across his face but was mistaken by both women.

"It's not that disappointing. I know people who that would've just slipped off their tongue. Sadly, that's not me, but I can at least ponder how best to put you down. You are her boyfriend, we're automatically enemies." She smiled at him. "Just be thankful that it wasn't Mary or granny who ran into you … two." What might have succeeded 'you' was obvious. Edith just gave them a look which said 'hurry up, but I do care' then skipped away. Out of sight and out of hearing proximity, Sybil and Tom embraced. It was a warm, comforting hug.

He groaned as she, after a minute or so in his arms, trapped his ear between her teeth. Then he playfully demanded, "Marry me."

She smiled, a little surprised but knew not to take it seriously. He lips brushed his cheek, her head moving down so she could lean her forehead against his. "Are you asking?" it was illustrious, she was asking for something he thought, then laughed to himself in his head. If only.

"No," he secured her eyes, speaking truthfully, "If I was asking," he took her hand from behind him and kissed the back of it, bottom lip spilling onto her knuckles, "I'd do it properly." He kept hold of her hand and got down on one knee, "Like this." He looked back up into her eyes again, then cheekily smiled and stood up, intertwining their fingers. "Just, not right now. You were right, love, I'm starving." He kissed her behind her ear, taking in her hair, and smiled genuinely. When? It was an unspoken question, with an unspoken answer. It was cliché but he would have said it. How long is a piece of string?

He lapped at the bacon like a starved wolf. She giggled at what she joked was 'cannibalism' and, because only her sisters, Matthew and Evelyn were there, he playfully re-enacted his lavish hungry barbarianism on her cheek, playfully nibbling at her bottom lip then letting her snog him and then practically fall onto him, the pair of them nearly falling off his chair. His father walked in and so everyone else began laughing. Robert acknowledged the atmosphere in the room but couldn't know why the younger men and women, scattered seemingly randomly around the carefully manufactured solid oak masterpiece, were so giddy until he noticed, about a third of the way down the left side of the long dining table, the resident couple perched on one chair. It was enough knowing that his youngest daughter was romantically attached; it was another founding himself dumbfounded unable to peel his eyed off the sight of her what – initiating with this man. At his grand dinner table. He felt himself turn red. "Tom?" his voice was weak. He was losing his touch. Tom looked up but Sybil, still leant against his chest with both hands, applied full force and knocked them backwards. Appropriately embarrassed he hauled her up then returned the chair and muttered that he should go then walked past her father, straightening his tee.

It smelt strongly of nothing, it was just cold. A very grey, very wrong afternoon. He hadn't gathered anything, so was escaping in his loungewear when he heard his name being called in the most melodic chime he had ever had the privilege to hear. It was like birdsong, with a cute and fitting catch, and belonged to his beloved. "Tom! Wait!" she caught up as he had turned and stopped. His cardigan was draped over her arm. It was the same appalling grey as the day and he refused to put it on – believe it or not, he still held claim to some pride and dignity and it just didn't go with what he was wearing. He had a coat, a plain black North Face jacket with a fleece, and wished that he was snuggled in that garment. No, he wished he had hold of it, so that he could wrap her in it and hold her close; she, too, was unguarded from the wintry chill. As it was he took her in his arms and whispered in her ear;

"If you love me, run away with me. We can't stay here." Then stepped back to observe her reaction.

"I… don't know what to say."

"Say yes. It all comes down to whether you love me. That's all, that's it; the rest is detail." She swallowed hard, fiercely contemplating her next words so much so she thought she might set the frozen lawn alight. Instead, she was interrupted by her eldest sister piping up from in front the main doors, holding one open and shivering atop the large slab of a worn, leading step.

"You two, though it may be uncustomary, come back in here! You'll catch your death of cold otherwise!" Yes, Mary was smart, he thought. Releasing Sybil finally, he let one hand trail down her arm and release at her thumb tip as he glanced at her loving, intensely, then turned as he continued back to her family abode. She waited until he had walked past her sister, who gave the door a little push to allow him entrance then caught it again. She looked away - boy was this like one of those soppy period films - then down to her gloved hands. His man-cardigan was still on her now-foreign arm, his touch lingering on the other. Tracing the motion and the track it left she then moved the hand that had followed to her lips; it wasn't his taste. She wanted to find him, she wanted him. She ran back inside, nearly knocking Mary senseless.

"Tom!" he was plodding remorsefully to their bedroom. Their bedroom, their bed. He turned, looking up from his phone.

"That was my boss. I was meant to be doing a bit of study for writing a political report, starting Thursday. He asks if I could be there tomorrow. I guess I'll see you."

Before he had chance to add anything more, though it didn't seem likely, she jumped at him, hugging him so tightly it hurt. "Sybil, dear, I have a heart condition. Please, don't crush the poor thing before it has chance to kick out!" she almost smiled, but was sobbing into his shoulder.

"Tom, please don't leave me."

"What! But you? Sybil?" she had peeked away from the now darkened cotton to look innocently into his face.

"If you must go, please take me with you at least. Please, Tom, please!" her begging wasn't exactly fitting, and he wanted to talk with her rationally.

"Come on, let's calm you down. You look hysterical."

He sat her on their bed, and fetched a glass of water. "Let's be sensible. Firstly, were you a virgin when I met you?" Not exactly appropriate but at least it would return her, plus he really couldn't get the question from his mind.

"Yes. And, oh, Tom, I'm so glad it was you. I don't ever want anyone else but you." Maybe not.

"Okay. Second, do really want to come with me? You said you want to be a Doctor, how will you continue your education?"

"I study in Cambridge, I travel from everywhere." Obviously.

"Well, pity, because I'm starting a tutoring gig there next month and I think we'd be frowned upon." Lousy excuse, but she shouldn't rush into things.

"As much as my family do? I highly doubt it's possible." Very true, but he would dissuade her and if she still wanted to go with him in, say, the summer, he would be more than happy to oblige.

"But it would be in both our professional lives, you know what they say – 'don't mix business with pleasure'." Pointless.

"It hardly counts, you wouldn't be teaching me and we'd've been together longer than your position, anyway." She was strong. He now realised that she knew she wanted this and would get it.

"Then lastly, Sybil Crawley, will you marry me? I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness. Even if they don't accept us right now, your family will come round, and when they do I will welcome them with open arms. And this time, yes, I am asking."

"Yes." One word. One word and his future was sealed, forever. Strangely, unlike other times he'd imagined his married future, forever didn't appear as daunting. He hugged her and they stayed like that for a moment until she held him back then, very teasingly, said "Pleasure?"

It was Mary that found them, then. They hadn't been seen in a while and it was nearly dinner; Robert at least wanted the man to change, if not dress properly for the occasion.

"Dear, do you two ever stop?" it was teasing, and Sybil felt inclined to reply.

"Erm, no." could she really not think of anything better? She should lie. "Because we want a baby." Well that was a lie. Thankfully, Tom had practically turned to stone at being found out – again that his features betrayed nothing. Would this lot ever leave his poor heart alone? He was breathing heavily but she bought it. "Yeh," Sybil continued, "You know how dad's been about grandkids and stuff." Mary faintly mouthed an exasperated 'wow' then quantified it with an okay, glaring at him evilly, before leaving them to their peace. He felt like his chest would explode. "Tom, are you alright?"

"Is it possible for your heart to physically break and shatter and crumple, and possibly become an inferno, tireless to break free from your ribs and destroy you in the most painful way possible? Because that's how I feel right now. Like my heart's going to kill me." She looked scared. "But also as if a great heaping load of morphine has been injected to cease the pain, with a side effect of absolute bliss." He leant over and kissed her, redeeming himself. "Because the ends justifies the means, the pain of my heart murmuring into overdrive only to recover me to you is totally worth it." He then paused and added, as she had become a little confused, too, "Because you said 'yes'."

"If you really have to go, we should probably be off after dinner. Let me pack?"

"Of course. By the way, do you want to go to my flat in London or apartment in Dublin?" that was cheeky, "Though, because I have work up here for the moment, I'll be in a hotel. 'The Swan Inn' I think they paid for. Prepared for such downgrade accommodation?" She chucked his bag at him,

"Get packed, and get dressed." She smiled sweetly, "My father will kill you." She joked, though he expected nothing less. He would be taking the very pretty, very famous and very spectacle youngest daughter of his from him. No man ever liked that day; moreover, he expected, when they were like Sybil. He should be prepared to hang. Robert Crawley was probably so influential that he could have Tom thrown in the Tower and beheaded should he so wish. To be honest, they were practically the Royal Family – they were involved with them enough, anyway. Dinner with her father? Dinner with Her Majesty. Both seemed as appealing as each other to Tom, but he obediently shimmied into a proper shirt and his only blazer (there was supposed to be a presentation, too), but had only some slouch jeans, grey baggy jogging bottoms and flared pants. The flares would have to do, along with some plain, odd-coloured but supposedly dark green, socks and the loafers he'd worn the day her arrived.

Holding the blazer open like a model and spinning round in his mismatched outfit, he let her giggle. This would have to be presentable; he would have to throw away his high regard for trends and fashion. He released the grey almost-suit jacket and pretending to lick his hand then slid it over his hair. "Ain't I slick, sweet thang?" he attempted an American accent, it's a shame that 'thang' sounded more like 'thong' in his pitiful not-deceit. She just laughed, then fixed his hair and pretended to sort his offending clothing.

"Were you planning on turning up like that for the presentation? Or did you forward a decently cobbled-together suit on?"

"Nice." He enunciated slowly, "No, I might have done, but you really only get to see above here," he gestured, slicing himself in half with one brilliantly-executed knife hand just above his abdomen, "so it wouldn't really matter." With one last shrug of his jacket before she closed it with the two buttons, she kissed the end of his nose.

"Coming, fiancé?" that sounded nice, and he was in dreamland as she escorted him from the room. There were four bags on the floor, his lousy duffel and two suitcases of hers ('Enough until I move in' she had hesitantly half-asked.), as well as the backpack she had flopped onto his opposite seat the day they met. The door closed, the couple would be back.