"I think he knows, you know," Isobel told the lump in the bed-covers just beneath Richard's pillow, once the sounds of Molesley's hastily retreating footsteps had faded altogether.
"What makes you say that?" Richard asked as his head emerged from under the covers.
"Just a feeling I got," she replied, "From the look of utter mortification on his face. And given the fact that I'm obviously not wearing anything other than this," she indicated to the thin blue bed sheet that she had haphazardly wrapped around herself at the sound of approaching footsteps- at the same moment as Richard had flung himself hastily under the covers-, "In fact, I'd really be more worried for his sake if he hadn't worked out that something was afoot."
"You sound very relaxed about that," he remarked, watching her admiringly as she sat half-propped up in bed, the sheets draped lazily over the top of her bosom, her hair lying down over her shoulders as she sorted through the post that Molesley had just brought up.
"Well, that's as may be," she told him, "What I'm trying to say is that I don't think there's very much point in you having to suffocate yourself every time he comes in."
"Every time?" Richard questioned, "Does Molesley come into your bedroom every morning?"
She smiled down at him fondly, detecting the considerable hint of jealousy in his voice.
"No, of course not," she told him, "Don't be ridiculous. He only came up to bring me the post because he was worried that I had slept in so spectacularly. And there, I'm afraid, he does have a point."
"Why? What time is it?"
"Nearly ten o'clock."
"It was worth every minute of it," he told her lazily, slipping his hand out from beneath the bed-covers to brush languidly up and down the outside of her thigh through the thin sheet, "Besides, I'm not going to the hospital today. Or ever again if we can spend every morning like this."
She smiled down at him again, as he nudged closer to her, until he rested his head contentedly in the centre of her lap and wrapped his arms right around the top of her thighs, his palms caressing the lower part of her hips and the sides of her bottom. Still holding a letter in one hand, Isobel dropped the other arm to rest softly in his hair, stroking softly back and forward around the top of his head and along the bones at the back of his ears.
"This one's from Cora," she told him, talking about the note she had in her hand, "An invitation, to the servants' ball a few days after New Year's Day. 'Mrs I. Crawley and guest'."
"I'm surprised they're having that this year," he remarked.
The sound of his soft voice reverberated delightfully against her leg.
"So am I," she agreed, "What with Bates' trial and one thing and another."
She could not help sounding sad, knowing that the "one thing and another" still encompassed her poor son, and the state he was in following Lavinia's death. Of course, she knew it was not something to be got over quickly, but she had rather hoped there would have been a few more positive signs by now. It was as if Richard could tell she wanted to be distracted.
"Do they always invite you?" he asked her.
"Yes," she replied, "But not usually 'with guest'- I must be more important this year. I went the first year they invited me, but I've never really bothered since."
"I would have thought 'with guest' meant Matthew," he remarked.
"No, he gets an invitation of his own," she told him.
They were quiet for a moment.
"But you know, there's nothing quite like a change," she remarked, almost as if thinking aloud.
"Is that your motto?" he enquired coyly, thinking of her before the war and the times he caught her at the hospital, slyly writing letters on behalf of the suffrage campaign an think no one had noticed her.
"Only change for the better, my darling," she corrected him, "You know as well as I do, that when I'm happy in a habit I couldn't be made to change it for the world."
"One of those habits being me?" he enquired, smiling, knowing the answer.
Her hand brushed a little more firmly against his hair, as her thumb caressed the outside edge of his ear.
"Something like that," she replied, smiling as well, resting her head back against the headboard, but still looking down to him, "Anyway, I think this could end up being the year that I go to the servants' ball again." There was a pause for a second. "And I'd like you to be my 'with guest', please, Richard."
He was stunned for a second.
"Are you sure?" he asked, turning over onto his back to look up at her, "Are you sure you're ready for that?"
She burst out laughing.
"Richard, how many years has it been that you've been sharing my bed?" she enquired ironically, "I think I can safely say that I'm ready to go to a dance with you. Heavens, it was you a few weeks ago, who took me in your arms in the middle of the street in York and danced with me to the sound of a music box!"
He opened his mouth to retort, raising his head a little.
"And it was the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me." His head lolled back into her lap, her hand still soothing against his skin and his hair as wave of utter contentedness overcame them both.
"But what I mean is are you sure you're ready for everyone to know about us?" he asked after a few more moments, choosing his words more carefully, "I mean it'll be pretty clear, won't it, once we-..."
"I wasn't intending to announce to the room at large that here you are, my bold and brazen lover, the love of my life, in fact, and keeper of my heart," she told him, "People already know that we like each other and, to be honest, most of them probably guessed we were up to something- even before we were! So I don't think it'll kill anyone if we go together. Apart from perhaps you?" she asked, a hint of a test behind her question as she survey him carefully.
"No," he told her firmly, "Absolutely not. I will be proud to be able to walk into a room on your arm. I just want to make sure you will be happ-..."
"I will be proud of you to, Richard," she replied, bending forward to kiss him on the forehead, "Always. And I feel guilty enough as it is that I'm not spending Christmas or New Year's Day with you."
"Don't," he told her, "I know you can't avoid going to the big house for days like that. I completely understand."
"Thank you," she told him, "And I just keep hoping that if I go perhaps it might galvanise my son into something resembling merriment."
His hand brushed against her knee in consolation.
"He will get better," he told her softly, "I promise you, he will. But it takes time, and you have to give him it."
"I know," she replied, almost to herself, "I do know."
She knew she was looking sad again, and felt Richard's head leave her lap as he sat up in bed beside her, on of his hands scooping the sheet up her leg to expose her knee, resting his thumb softly along its curve, as his other arm reached around her back and held her close to him.
"Who did you dance with last time at this here ball?" he pretended to demand, his eyes glimmering mischievously, "I want to know which men I'm going to have to fight away from you."
She bowed her head in laughter, brushing her hand fondly against his cheek.
"Oh, Cousin Robert tried his luck, but we're both appalling dancers," she told him, grinning a little, "Even Carson was more proficient than him."
"Carson?" he questioned.
"Yes, Carson's a surprisingly good dancer," she told him.
He pouted a little and she laughed again.
"But he's nothing on you," she assured him, leaning forward and kissing him quickly, "I know, remember?"
"Did you mean it, Isobel? What you said just then?"
"Yes, I've said, that was the nicest dance I've ever-..."
"No, not that bit."
"Which bit, then?"
"The love of your life?"
She looked very carefully into his face, intensely aware of the gentle pressure of his hand on her knee.
"Yes," she whispered simply, "Yes."
His lips closed on hers, and he kissed her, both arms drawing up to her body to hold her body properly, the sheet falling away from her breasts, as they lay back down on the bed, and he made short work of entirely removing the sheet from her body.
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