A/N: Hello!

Firstly, thank you so, so much for your responses to chapter 1! I'm very excited you're excited. I'm excited about this story. And - for all I'm aware at the moment that it's treading potentially similar ground to Consequences of the Castle in terms of the situation, I would like to make it clear now that it will soon be veering sharply!

But really, thank you so much :) And thank you as ever to EOlivet for making sure I hadn't completely tied myself in knots here!

With that... enjoy!

Chapter Two

Mary stared fixedly at her reflection, the mirror like the line of battle between her and herself.

What was she to do? Oh, she cursed her weakness to him! In his presence she crumbled, she forgot herself, she… had she really told him that she wouldn't find marrying him so objectionable?

She was not going to marry Matthew Crawley! Not that he'd asked her. The fact that he hadn't asked her even now only raised him in her estimation, against her own sense. As a gentleman he should have proposed to her by now, after what they'd done… but then, she did not consider him to be one anyway! So why did it matter? She didn't even like him. Only, she did… No, she didn't! However she felt about him, she did not want to marry him, not the middle-class lawyer from Manchester of all places who lacked most sorts of social graces (the kind she'd expect, at least) and who insisted on retaining his pitiable job in spite of everything he was being offered. Every reason she'd had to resent him before still stood, still held. None of that had changed.

Nothing had changed. Only… everything had changed. Had it? She hardly knew. Her fingers twisted idly into the cotton of her nightgown at her waist, stroking distractedly over her belly. No, she was the same as she was before. There were no consequences. She had escaped unscathed. Except that she hadn't, for… she felt like an entirely different person than she'd been before she'd… before he'd… before they'd… done what they had done. She had given herself to him, of her own will and by her own choice, in complete control of her own body (her reflection mocked her with the lie, for she'd felt the most delicious sort of helplessness as her body had shuddered with his force) and in that very moment she'd felt that her life had changed. A spark had flickered in the dull existence of her life – she'd done something for herself, something that nobody else had told her to do, something that society did not dictate that she must – and she had enjoyed it!

But the change was in and for herself alone, it was… nothing to do with him. Her opinion had not changed; not in the ways that mattered! He was the same, as she was the same. But then he kept… surprising her, as his voice dropped and softened and stirred her, as he held her under no obligation, as he looked at her with the most unnerving understanding in his deep eyes that she'd ever seen and her mind refused to process the way that that made her feel. Because despite that, despite his handsomeness and the heat between them and the way something within her began to flutter alarmingly every time he was near her or spoke to her… he was still the same. And she did not want to marry him.

It scared her, the cyclical nature of her thoughts and the way they would not settle, the way they wandered (always, somehow, back to him) and the feelings and memories they could not help but inspire. She didn't want to feel that way towards him. In fact she wanted to withdraw from him as much as possible. Except that she didn't, for distance from him went against the cry of every fibre of her body but –

"Milady?" Anna's calm voice at her back interrupted her tumultuous thoughts. Mary blinked up, startled. "Are you – quite alright? If you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm perfectly alright, why wouldn't I be?" Mary bristled, her own annoyance at herself rising to the surface. Anna stepped back.

"Oh, nothing. You've just seemed a little distracted this evening –" Not just that evening, but for the past week at least, the maid thought.

Mary shook her head briskly. "Not at all. My mind was elsewhere, but doesn't everyone's mind wander a little sometimes? Really, Anna."

"Beg pardon, Lady Mary –"

"No, don't apologise – thank you for the concern," Mary sighed, and smiled weakly at her maid. "But I'm alright. Truly."

Anna waited a moment as if to be quite sure of this, and nodded.

"Alright, Milady. Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight, Anna, thank you."

The door closed softly, and Mary listened to the crackle of the fire as she tried to calm her spiralling thoughts. She was still on edge from her fear of being with child, and the overwhelming relief that she wasn't. She could not think clearly anyway, that's why she was so distracted, she was overwrought and tired and just needed to… stop… thinking about Matthew. But how could she stop thinking about him when he pervaded everything, every part of her life (her home, her family, her very existence) and every part of her…

She crawled beneath her sheets and curled up, stretched out, rolled over, tucked her arm beneath her pillow, shifted restlessly onto her back. She squeezed her eyes closed but there was only him, and they snapped open again as she stared blankly up at the canopy.

She could not help but like him, want him, and it only made her resent him more.

Such feelings continued to plague her, and though she was reluctant to admit it something about them frightened her. The betrayal of her own mind and body against her wishes to be indifferent disturbed her; compounded by the fact that it would be so neat to marry Matthew. And when her mother kept encouraging her to be friendly towards him, and even Granny believed she should marry him, she could not help that stubborn pride in her nature that riled against such instruction. She would choose who she married, and she would not give in by softening towards Matthew.

But such an attitude was difficult to maintain, when every time he attended dinner or met with her father he looked at her in such a way… such a way that caused her to remember, that searched her and knew her even across a bustling room. When he innocently asked how her day was, or what novel she was reading at the moment, and was she enjoying it, and had she walked anywhere now that the weather had cleared… Oh, he was no more particularly attentive towards her than to Sybil or her mother or anyone else, he mustered an easy conversation, but… she felt it, felt a piercing depth behind his words and his questions (or did she only imagine it?) and his eyes on her and every time he spoke to her she wanted only to shy away, against every deeper and more natural instinct she felt that drew her towards him.

And so she withdrew, answering him with deliberate coolness – never rude, now, never cutting or mocking or anything like that – but with an offhand toss of the head, a dismissive laugh, anything to show the world that she really couldn't care less for his conversation. Because she was too afraid of what it would mean if she did care.

For some weeks this went on, and Mary wondered if her ploy was beginning to work. She no longer became breathless every time he entered a room, she no longer found herself waking most nights in twisted, dampened sheets from her dreams of him, she no longer felt the need to run to the farthest corner of the drawing room to avoid his conversation. The powerful intimacy they had shared would not have a hold over her, not forever, he would not…

It was working… until one day, as she was idly browsing the familiar bookshelves of the library without paying any attention to the spines as she knew them all already, with the intention of taking one to the drawing room and curling up with it before the fire until she would have to dress for dinner.

She heard the door open, and Carson's voice waft through before she saw him.

"…was torn down in the wind yesterday evening. He'd hoped to be back by this time to meet you, but said you were quite welcome to wait here until his return, if that would suit."

She froze.

"That's perfectly alright, Carson, I quite understand." Matthew's voice, and then his footsteps, and then him as he came around the corner… "There's plenty to occupy my interest for as long as needs be –" He fell silent as his gaze fell upon Mary. She was sure that her heart only jumped so fiercely because she was surprised, not because it was the first time they'd been together alone since that evening in the dusk…

"Very well, Mr. Crawley." Carson nodded politely, and then to Mary, before closing the door quietly behind him.

For a moment or two they simply stood, as if sizing one another up, assessing the situation and their proximity and their solitude. Ready to flee, ready to defend themselves, ready to… Mary hardly knew.

"Hello," Matthew's quiet voice finally broached the silence. There was a tightness to it, as though he were holding something back, and he stalked over to the window and gazed distractedly out. Mary quickly turned back to the bookshelves in favour of looking at him at all.

"I'm sorry you've missed my father," she forced that light, airy tone of carelessness from her lips.

"I was working, it can't be helped," Matthew replied.

"I suppose so." She plucked a book out without looking at what it was, and flicked the dusty pages against her fingertips, inviting no further conversation.

She heard him sigh. She felt his eyes bore into her back.

"I suppose you've not been able to ride Diamond with the weather how it's been," Matthew tried again a minute or so later, when the silence grew too much to bear.

Mary shrugged, in case he was watching her. "Well it is just about November. It's hardly unexpected."

"I thought you'd be missing it, cooped up indoors so much. He seems like a fine horse."

"Yes, he is."

Terse silence hung for a moment more, before shattering with Matthew's exasperated cry.

"Oh for God's sake, Mary!"

She whirled round at his raised voice, and was shocked to see his rigid stance and bitter expression as he glared at her. The book slipped from her fingers to the table.

"What!" she exclaimed in affront, having to fight down something approaching horrified laughter in shock at his outburst.

"Won't you – take me seriously, for one moment!" he flung at her, as if she should know perfectly well, as if he shouldn't need to spell out the cause for his annoyance. But he did, as he stormed across the room towards her, causing her eyes to widen and her heart to pound in something between excitement and fear. The last time that he'd… God, no!

She swallowed as Matthew launched into a tirade that had clearly been burgeoning within him for some time. "I know we're not – friends, exactly, but – how do you ever expect us to be, how do you expect us to get on together even civilly when you won't make the slightest effort to engage with me!"

"To engage with you?" she spluttered.

"To talk to me!" he flung back, convinced she had misappropriated him deliberately and not at all in the mood for it.

Mary straightened defensively. "That's hardly fair, Cousin Matthew. If you remember how I spoke to you when we met then –"

"Oh, don't play games with –"

"I don't know what you expect of my conversation, if it's not to your satisfaction –"

"Mary!"

"– or why you expect us to get on particularly at all more than we are –"

"You can't be indifferent to me!"

His last words, a bitter shout with a wild note of desperation, resounded into the fragile silence that followed it as Mary's lips parted in a silent gasp.

Though she understood him perfectly anyway (she had from the very beginning), when she could make no reply Matthew suddenly softened as if ashamed of his outburst. He seemed to tremble as everything within him reached out to her. "Not after what we… I thought that –"

"You thought what?" she sighed wearily, everything within her aching from the deception. Was she deceiving him? She wasn't even sure; she only knew that the pain in his eyes made her desperately upset and uncomfortable, and she longed to run away from everything he was making her feel only she couldn't, of course she couldn't. She couldn't move.

Matthew swallowed, shifting almost nervously on his feet in front of her.

"I can't forget it, Mary, or – ignore it or pretend it didn't happen."

"But we're alright, I told you I wasn't –"

"I know that you're not – with child, and – thank God you're not! But that doesn't mean – that doesn't make it alright! And when we last spoke properly you led me to believe that –"

Mary's lips pressed together at his distress. He looked so vulnerable, and she suddenly realised herself as he must see her now. And she wasn't sure she liked herself.

"Oh, Matthew, I was hardly being sensible then." She shivered, remembering his closeness, and feeling it again now. The air between them was warming.

He shrugged in response. "Then tell me what I'm supposed to think." His voice shook a little, and he wondered desperately where he'd lost control so badly.

"I don't know," she replied helplessly.

Matthew turned away from her, then, and looked around distractedly. It wasn't as though he cared, not about her so much, but… this wasn't right, it wasn't fair!

"I'm not asking you to – consider becoming my wife, Mary, you know that. We both know that would be foolish. But we – were – intimate, and – that must mean something." He didn't know what it had to mean; he didn't know what it meant. He knew that the memory of it made him want her, even now as she stood before him. But that was precisely the problem; for those sorts of feelings couldn't be ignored or quashed down (he was learning that very well), and if they were not to be married… it was impossible.

He shook his head gently and looked back at her, returning to his original grievance, only much softer now. "I don't expect us to – become lovers, or to marry within the month, or – even to become very good friends – I don't know! But you can't – you can't be so indifferent as you'd have me and everyone else believe."

Her reply, when it eventually came, was so quietly whispered (her lips barely moving) that Matthew had to strain towards her to hear it.

"I'm not… I'm not indifferent to you."

Though it was what he'd pressed for, Matthew found himself rendered at a loss by the quiet, tender sincerity of her answer.

His lips parted gently in surprise, his eyes searching hers for any sign of withdrawal but there was none. And without either being consciously aware of it, that breathless gap between them seemed to melt and vanish and their lips brushed together, an immediate and paralysing balm to the ache that had unwittingly been building in each of them. It was so sharp and so perfect that Matthew couldn't help his quiet groan, and this time when he kissed her it was slower and sweeter and deeper than the time before and he was utterly powerless to it.

Mary melted helplessly into his arms. Part of her mind was screaming at her, screaming at her to stop, for being so weak, to stop this now before it started and hold to her resolve, but… it was impossible. She whimpered softly and moved closer to him, fingers twisting into his hair as her lips parted to meet his open mouth and… oh, whatever she had thought before, this was too delicious (gentle, tender… searching…) to resist. Her heart thudded almost painfully with trembling fear and anticipation, being so acutely aware of where this had taken them last time (but it couldn't, it couldn't… not now, not here…), and she pulled him even closer. He did not resist.

Inevitably though, after long, sweet moments, some shred of sense tugged relentlessly in Matthew's mind, reminding him of where they were. For all the sharpness of his building desire he found he could not ignore it, could not leave things so unsettled as they had been before; and when he finally needed to breathe again he reluctantly eased back, slipping his lips over hers in a gentle caress as they clung breathlessly together, his nose brushing past her ear.

It seemed such a mindless thing to say, now, but… he needed to.

"I only want us to – try to be friends, Mary." His whisper was warm, and tickled against her skin.

"Yes, alright," she breathed, unable to make any other reply.

"And I – know that you think I'm unworthy to be here at all still but I'm trying… I'm doing my best." She'd thought him ungrateful and improper and… no matter how hard he might try to deny it to himself, he desperately wanted her to see that he wasn't.

"I know you are."

She had been unwilling to see it, taking his efforts as an insult, a sign that her father had given up. But… he made it sound so reasonable… and somewhere she recognised that he was trying to earn her affection, whatever he might say. It was… only natural, somehow. And it seemed so simple, when he said it – to be friends. She wanted to be friends with him, she realised. If she forced herself to consider it, he had a… certain, easy charm about him. He was quite interesting – in his reading and conversation, if she would allow him…

Their pact was silent, but understood. There was nothing of love, nothing of any sort of future together. They could hardly think of that. But he would do his best to become a worthy heir to her home… and she would try to accept him. It seemed all they could do.

As their lips inevitably met again to seal their assent to this (though they knew that had to stop, really it did), they barely had time for the slightest, most delicate taste before the door was opening and footsteps echoing. They sprang apart.

"Ah, Matthew! I'm so sorry. Thank you for waiting," the Earl breezed into the room, unobservant of his heir's flushed cheeks and the way his daughter's fingers trembled upon the pages of the novel she was searching.

Matthew couldn't say he minded; not on this occasion.

TBC

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! They're both terribly romantically confused. As ever I'd love to know what you thought - I had a rotten time getting my head around them for this chapter and so I'm very curious to know your take on it! Thank you!