With reference to what happens at the end of the chapter, cookie-moi and Batwings made me do it! Now I'm going to call it a nearly-M.

For the rest of the day she did not leave the house; too weary and too unwilling at the prospect of facing the world- though rationally she knew it was almost impossible that anyone could have guessed at her behaviour- to entertain the notion. She lay for most of the time in bed, trying in vain to rid herself of her seeming innate exhaustion; torn between the feeling that her double bed was far too wide for one, and vivid dreams full of screeching tires and blood soaking through hospital sheets. The next day she did leave the house, though she did not pay anyone any calls, and avoided the hospital studiously.

By the third day, though, she had worked up the courage. Still, she hurried in and quickly veered off towards the corridor and followed it round to her office, avoiding the ward altogether. Although she did not encounter anyone else, she deliberately made a point of averting her eyes from the on-call room door. She still had not worked out what in heaven she was going to say to him. The possibility that he might on reflection, after leaving her that night, have been entirely disgusted by her behaviour and want to break off their... relationship himself was horrible to her, but it was not one that she felt she could shy away from.

She let herself into her office quickly, shutting the door behind herself as soon as she was inside, and made her way to her desk.

Lying across it was a bunch of the same flowers that had been in the vase when she arrived: a little less well arranged- the mixture was more uneven and some of the stems of the thicker flowers looked roughly cut, as if done by someone who wasn't used to dealing with flowers- but she was strangely inclined to prefer them for these forgiveable flaws. She could not repress her smile. There was a little envelope beside them. To her surprise, when she reached to open it, she found that her fingers were trembling slightly.

Dear Isobel,

When you get this, I should be grateful if you would come and see me, if you would like. Come and have your dinner at my house one evening. Let me make it up to you.

Your Richard.

Brief as this correspondence was, she read it twice. Then she folded the paper, put it back in its envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of her coat.

…...

She put on her pale blue dress, her pearls, and arranged her hair in a lower knot than usual. Then she looked into the mirror, decided she looked like a right old tart trying to look not so old, took everything off, and opted for her much safer purple dress. She always felt safer with purple. She arranged her hair in her usual fashion and did away with the pearls. She made sure the front of her hair was securely fixed: for some reason it had a habit of curling abominably when she exerted herself.

Then she stopped and berated herself for thinking that she would be exerting herself at all. She had been invited very civilly to have her supper, and nothing else. After her antics the last time they had been in a room alone for more than ten minutes, though, she doubted he thought she needed any encouragement. She blushed furiously.

She dabbed some lavender oil on her wrists and behind her ears, then glanced at the clock and realised she was five minutes late. She grabbed her gloves and shawl from her dressing table and made it down the stairs and out of the front door as fast as she could.

…...

"You are very quiet, this evening, Isobel. If you don't mind my saying. Have I made an awful hash of the food? I knew it was rather ambitious to invite you around for dinner."

She looked up at him and gave him a small smile.

"The food's fine, Richard, I'm jut rather full. Actually, I'm rather impressed. Do you always cook for yourself?"

"Generally," he told her, "The maid servant comes around to tidy and she is strictly supposed to cook as well, but I'm always at the hospital when she's here so she never bothers. But you're still quiet," he added rather sheepishly, looking concerned and slightly rueful, "I've upset you, haven't I?"

She gave him a very earnest look.

"No, Richard, not you. I've upset myself if anything."

This was going to be the time for honesty, apparently. Neither of them were particularly good at keeping their opinions under wraps, and she supposed that well might apply to feelings as well. Well, she supposed, it was as good a time as any to be honest with one another. She heard herself take a deep breath to begin to confess her own feelings- hoping that they would sort themselves out as she articulated them- when he spoke.

"I expect that I'm not wrong in thinking that what happened that night might have something to do with it. Your being upset, that is."

She looked at him gratefully for starting her off.

"You're not, no."

Again, she was about to go on, but he stopped her.

"Oh, Isobel, I'm sorry. I'm so wretchedly sorry."

"What for?"

She had expected him to be sorry, certainly, but in this case which part he was sorry for was all-important to her. Was he sorry that he had stopped it, or sorry that it had started at all?

"I am sorry I left you in a miserable, lonely little bed, when I should have stayed with you at the very least. I am truly sorry."

She did not say anything for a moment, taking it in.

"Surely you don't deny that that upset you?"

"It did a little," she conceded, "But I understand. Like I said then, I understand."

She understood everything that she knew. It was what she didn't know for certain that was bothering her.

"Richard," she spoke very slowly and deliberately, willing herself not to say the wrong thing as she proceeded to the real crux of the matter, "If I ask you this one question do you promise that you'll answer me absolutely honestly? Because I need to know this. Why did you stop me- us? Was it really because you're so much of a gentleman? Or because I didn't live up to your expectations?"

She waited for a moment for him to speak. But he was gazing at her, dumb-founded. In the end, she had to break the silence.

"What?" she asked, trying to work out which part of what she had said had been ridiculous enough to merit this response.

Then, he leant quickly around the corner of the table where they were sitting and kissed her very thoroughly indeed. When they broke apart she was quite considerably breathless, and so was he by the quality of his voice.

"No, Isobel," he spoke with the tone of someone trying to maintain a level voice, "You did not disappoint me in the slightest. I don't think you could."

She looked down rather shyly into her lap where her fingers were playing nervously with her napkin.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," she warned him.

Looking down, it took her by surprise when- as if to silence her- he leant forward and kissed her again.

"Why did you stop us, then?" she asked, hearing her voice sound playful, coy almost, "Because it obviously wasn't because you're such a gentleman, if this is anything to go by."

Instead of looking offended by this remark, he barked with laughter.

"Madness, I suppose," he admitted.

She laughed a little- noticing how his hand, resting on the table, had found its way to lie over hers- fitting the strands of thought together in her head.

"So," she concluded, hesitantly, still cautious of crossing these lines, "You do... want me, then?"

His the movements of his face in reaction to the question spoke the answer for him. She tried not to look too pleased, and probably failed spectacularly.

"Right, then."

…...

Of course, it transpired that she did not go home. Matthew would understand, she persuaded herself. The only thing was that, after these last few nights of anxiety and poor sleep, she was truly exhausted. Richard, she suspected, was taking his time in the bathroom to allow her enough time to get ready for bed in his room. When he walked in, he found her sitting in the armchair near his bed, barely suppressing an enormous yawn. She like the stripes on his pyjamas and smiled benignly up at him, unaware that that made her look even more ready to drop straight off to sleep.

He smiled kindly down at her.

"You need to sleep," he informed her, "No- I refuse to believe any excuses you give me. You're almost asleep sitting there, any fool could see that."

He walked over to the bed and got into his usual side, turning over the covers as she had done for him the other night.

"Come here, and let me hold you."

Settled between Richard's arms- and, she had to admit, his legs too- she had the best night's sleep she'd had all week.

…...

When he awoke in the morning he was a little more than disconcerted to find that she was gone from the bed. He hoped that she was naturally an early riser- and hadn't just waited for him to fall asleep before legging it back to Crawley House- but he was relieved to see most of her clothes still folded neatly in the armchair.

Having little interest in remaining in the bed alone, he got up and made his way quite sleepily across the corridor to the bathroom, thinking he would certainly have to smarten himself up a little bit before she saw him. Unfortunately he did not quite the chance.

When he entered the bathroom, he was greeted by the most... astonishing sight he could recall having seen in his entire life. Isobel Crawley in his bathtub.

…...

The only way he was going to get out of this without looking like a colossal idiot was to keep his eyes fixed firmly on her face.

They stayed there looking at each other for a long time. She spoke first.

"The lock on your bathroom door doesn't work."

Nod in reply. No! Don't do that, you'll take your eyes off her face! Oh, Lord have mercy, that shift didn't do justice to that beautiful figure. Eyes on her face, Richard.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you."

"It's alright. I tried to leave you a note on the door, but I couldn't get it to stay there."

"Oh."

She had probably assumed that he knew his door was broken- which he had- and that he'd have had the astuteness to knock, knowing that he had a guest- which he hadn't. The water was perfectly clear, she hadn't added any bath salt. His trousers suddenly felt unconscionably tight.

"Could you pass me the towel, please?"

"Certainly."

He tried to hold the towel out for her to step into- which he succeeded in doing. But he tried to leave go of it quickly enough to avoid seeming to throw his arms around her with it. As a result, he ended up dropping one side, fully exposing one of her breasts, and throwing the other around her even more vehemently in order to avoid the same thing happening. They were then standing pressed together, her with her feet in the bath with an almost entirely bare bosom.

Then he felt her arms wrap around his shoulders, holding him closer still. The towel slipped just a little further. It took him a moment to process entirely what was happening. Then, as soon as it hit him, he wrapped his arms around her waist and took her weight entirely. She gasped a little in surprise as she was carried out of the bathroom, back into the bedroom and laid down in the centre of the unmade bed.

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