The sheets were cool as she slipped between them, she could feel it even through her nightdress. The room itself was cool, and dark. It had been a welcome change at first from the creeping warmth of travelling on a halting train from Calais and making her way across half of Paris. It was by no means the height of luxury but it was clean and had everything she needed. Every item of furniture she needed, anyway.

The day had been long to the point where she couldn't quite believe that it had only been that morning that she had awoken in Bloomsbury, wrapped securely in Richard's arms, held against his chest, her legs entwined with his. It seemed like another lifetime, another world. She got into bed, knowing full well that she wasn't going to get to sleep for hours, there just wasn't anything else to do- without even thinking she had unpacked, had a quick bath and she wasn't hungry- and soon she would be rushed off her feet, so it made sense to get some rest now. She lay back in her bed staring at the patch of light that the gap in the curtains cast on the ceiling.

It was then that it sunk in- coolly and dispassionately- how much she hated, loathed and despised her situation. She had been a bloody fool. She didn't know who she was kidding- nobody, probably-: she didn't want to be here one little bit. Perhaps she should be here, it probably was her duty, but she didn't like it at all. She wanted-... oh, she wanted none of it to ever have happened.

But that wasn't right either, she thought a little crossly. She couldn't, couldn't, regret last night with Richard. Or this morning. Not for all the world. Yes, it occurred to her now that her time of life was rather late to be taking a lover, but really, when it came down to it, she didn't care one little bit. She loved him, plainly and simply. Painfully. Their age was the very least of their problems.

She wished that she hadn't left Downton. She wished that she was in her own bed now, or his, instead of this lonely, narrow single bed, that forced you to turn every once every ten minutes to stop your back aching. Why couldn't the ridiculous man have declared his passion for before she'd left? Things would have been a lot easier then. She'd have stayed, for one thing. If the price that she had to pay for him was a little deference to Cousin Cora- whether or not she deserved it was another matter altogether- she'd pay it willingly. She cursed herself: she had always been such a bloody martyr, and now it was coming back to bite her. She only wished she had known.

But there was only so much she could go around in circles like this, blaming and not blaming. She herself was as much to blame as anyone else. It savoured too much of bitterness, and wide awake as she was, she didn't have the energy for bitterness. She turned again onto her side, the bedsprings digging uncomfortably into her back.

Then she did something that she hadn't done since the grim time just after Reginald died. She imagined her face nuzzling into a stable, masculine neck, brushing against her nose, a chin resting on top of her head. She imagined Richard's arms keeping her firmly beside him, too strong for her to move even if she had wanted to. The pattern of his sleepy breathing all around her, so that she seemed to breath in time with him, her heart slowing down to follow it. Like they had woken this morning:

He had held her all the way through the night, they woke in the same position as they had gone to sleep in. Her stirring woke him too. She had wondered if it mightn't be easiest for both of them if she just got out of bed quietly and left him, without having look into his eyes again, she wasn't sure if she could stand to go then. But he was waking now; it seemed she would be put to the test. Half clouded by sleep, they stared at each other, lying side by side. She tremulously waited for some sign of regret, but none arrived. Her eyes felt funny from crying last night, and she wondered if his did too. He smiled- a little sadly, she thought- and leant forward to kiss her.

Her arms found their way of their own accord around his neck, pressing herself to him.

"Oh, I love you, Richard," she rested her forehead against his, deliberately shutting her eyes, "But I'm going. Can you forgive me?"

"I forgive you."

He spoke in a soft, low voice, as if trying to push the feeling out of it. Wisely too: too much feeling and she was sure to feel her resolve shifting. She opened her eyes rather timidly.

"Don't forget me, though," she told him, a small smile playing across her features, "Promise me."

"You're committed to my memory," he replied, then, in a softer voice, "Come back, Isobel. Please come back."

"Of course I'll come back," her hands brushed up and down his back to soothe him as she spoke, "I thought we'd established that I've no intention of getting shot. Whatever made you think that I wouldn't?"

"There are a lot of younger and better looking men than me in Paris," he told her, "And you're a very beautiful woman. You'll be noticed, I know it."

"Well, I'll just have to tell the suitors who come and hammer down my door that I'm spoken for," she told him, "Honestly, Richard, the ideas you take to your head."

"I'm sorry, Isobel."

"It's alright. It's rather flattering, really."

They lay quietly for a few moments.

"Isobel, how long have we got?"

"Nowhere near long enough," she lamented vaguely, then, catching the look in his eye, "But a little while. Enough for that."

He rolled her over so that she lay over him this time, her legs straddling his waist. Kissing her soundly, his hand wandered to her breasts, the other wrapping around her to hold the small of her back. She felt is excitement growing beneath her, brushing faintly against her as she gently rocked against his body. His mouth wandered down her neck and to her collar bone, down again to her breasts, lavishing them with attention. Her head through itself back as she felt the flush of heat travel down her neck to her chest.

He had teased her enough, though she knew that the faster she went, the sooner this would be over she couldn't hold herself back any further. He groaned as she took him into her hand and lowered herself onto him, taking her hips in his hands to steady her as her whole body seemed to buck erratically with the feelings he sent coursing through her. She focused her entire energy on the point where their bodies met, thinking of nothing else. Her climax came harder and faster than the night before, and she couldn't help but cry out as she tumbled over the edge, him following shortly behind.

She hadn't had many things to pack- she hadn't taken much out of her case the night before- but he insisted on helping her, badly so that she had to repack everything that he'd put in.

They walked in near silence to King's Cross: he had to go back to Downton and her to Dover. He carried her case for her, though it was heavy and he had his bag as well. The light was bright and watery; it had rained the night before, after he'd got to her.

The station was busy: general hustle and bustle reigned, men in uniforms everywhere. Her train was due to leave first. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to go to Dover. He came with her to the platform, holding her hand so as not to lose her in the crowd.

They stopped before the train. She had known this moment would come as soon as she found that he was awake in her arms this morning. He kissed her quickly and deeply but held her to him for a long while. She closed her eyes, her chin pressed tightly into the shoulder of his overcoat. She had been debating whether to say it or not all the way to the station, and at the last moment she finally decided to. She felt in this moment as if there was nothing she could lose, for it was certain that she had him.

"I'll be wanting to marry you when I get back, you know," she whispered, "So don't go and get any other ideas, will you?"

He looked into her face with some disbelief, holding her by her arms.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, seriously.

She biting her lip a little, smiling, and kissed him.

"Of course I do."

Still holding onto her hand, helped her onto the train, following her into the compartment, making sure that she had a seat. The tenderness with which he took off his scarf and wrapped it around her neck threatened to make her cry, but she didn't. She didn't point out that it would be warmer in Paris. "I love you," he whispered, leaning down over her.

"I love you."

She held it like a talisman to her chest, as he descended from the train. It started to move carrying him away from her, growing smaller on the platform.

"I love you."

End.

Who's up for a slightly more cheerful epilogue when she comes back?