A/N: Hello!

I don't think I was expecting to have written another chapter so soon. But, I did, and here it is! I need to thank EOlivet, Tripp3235 and Silvestria for their copious amounts of talking through this chapter with me! And thank you so much for your reviews/comments/alerts etc so far - I'm absolutely thrilled!

This is very much a... development chapter. Lots of fundamental issues coming out here, that will find themselves cropping up again throughout. More was going to happen in it but I made the decision to end it where, well, where I did... and then THINGS WILL BEGIN TO HAPPEN. Quite rapidly and (I hope) dramatically! But everything here is important to get there.

Anyway, I very much hope that you enjoy it!

ETA: The timeline I am working from here assumes Matthew/Isobel arrived at some point in September 1912, and that episode 3 occurred in early December (with the hunt on the 7th). I'll add the timeline link to my profile, but that's the one I'm going from!

Friends.

They could do that, couldn't they? Be that? Or try to, at least, that had been all he'd asked… So Mary really did try. It was easier, without the weight of expectation. As she allowed his conversation, responded warmly to him and without malice (because she felt no malice towards him, not now), such efforts seemed enough to keep the hankering of her mother and grandmother at bay. She smiled back at him when he smiled at her, and tried her best to not be afraid of the shivery flutter of excitement that she felt every time he did, because it did not mean anything. It didn't have to! They were being friends, and that was all.

Mary decided, as time went on, that there was a lot to like about Matthew after all. As they talked, either walking through the village on occasion or in the drawing room before dinner those nights he was there, she came to appreciate his understanding of her situation regarding the entail. There was nothing they could do – he'd explained that to her clearly and carefully, and he was sorrier for it than she'd expected he might be. She found that she couldn't resent him for it, not when he… resented himself, almost, or certainly the situation. How he wished there was something he could do to help… No, there was no need at all for them not to be friends.

And if they were friends who… on occasion, when unexpectedly alone along the road to the estate, or in the library as he waited for her father, or in the drawing room when no-one else was down for dinner yet, found their fingers brushing and then their lips meeting and their bodies thrumming with quiet, stirring memories of pleasure, oh but only for a stolen moment or two… Well, what did that matter? There seemed a tension between them, always a tension… The more time passed, the more Mary noticed of his handsomeness; one day how blue his eyes were, the next week how strong and clean and neat his hands were, the next how though his hair flopped a little over his forehead it lent him a certain endearing charm… She felt herself drawn to him, like there was a string or a magnet hidden somewhere very deeply inside her that tugged her to him, that would not release her. Oh, and that tension begged to be released and she knew he felt it too, she could see it in his eyes and the helpless twitch of his fingers when he stood by her side; and yet whenever they chanced a moment to try and sate the feeling it never seemed enough (with every moment, every taste, the tension only seemed to sharpen).

But there was no urgency to it. They were taking their time, they had to. They could. And the more time they spent together, the more they discovered a shared humour, a shared wit, a shared passion for one thing or another… His conversation was intelligent, Mary realised, and she began to enjoy his company in whatever context and whatever company they were. But, but… he was still only Matthew Crawley. He was a distraction – a very pleasant distraction, but not her ambition. He had said that he didn't want to marry her (he had said that, he'd used those words, had he not?) and she certainly still did not want to marry him. Oh, enjoying his company was one thing, and harmless (if intoxicating) kisses were another… but could she have a future with him?

Maybe. One day. Not soon. Not very soon at all. But one day… If there was no Duke, or Baron, or anyone more suited to her than the country solicitor who would one day in the far off future be an Earl… Because, well, he wasn't ready to be an Earl yet. He wasn't. The very idea of going into society on his arm was precisely that, still… An idea. One still firmly consigned to her imagination, for Cousin Matthew, as handsome and pleasant as he was, was still not a very proper heir to an Earldom. But she could wait for that, and until he was she really saw very little need to contemplate the prospect of actually marrying him.

Matthew, on the other hand, neither saw nor understood these apparent arguments against what he saw as the inevitable outcome of their relationship. Oh, he'd always thought (ever since that day) that they should get married… Of course they should! They had shared the deepest intimacy, and having done that he could not see himself marrying anyone but Mary. Even if it took some time to be sure of himself; for he would not think about marrying her until he was sure that he loved her, and that she could love him.

He could not deny (had not been able to, for quite some time now) that he was very deeply attracted to her. He had seen it more and more, with every encounter they shared. Her burnished chestnut hair, that looked silken and soft (and felt it, from the brief instances his fingertips had brushed against it…), her dark eyes that he could lose himself in, the slender elegance of her form and her fingers…

But there must be more to it than that! There must be. It was what he'd hoped to discover in their burgeoning friendship – to see if they had grounds to build a relationship, to build love, upon. And he was beginning to think that they might; he really was, but then her… fingers would glance over his hand when they were alone, they'd lean inexorably together, the wired, coiled heat deep within him curling and spreading as their lips met and parted and…

Oh, it made things so difficult! He wanted to be sure that they had a deeper connection than that but how could he be when it – kept happening? He found himself increasingly frustrated by it yet helpless against it, and found himself very often distracted as he tried to puzzle out his feelings like untangling a knotted ball of string.

One morning at breakfast, he folded open his newspaper with a deep sigh after another troubled night's sleep. His eyebrows rose at the date – was it December already? Had they really been here for coming on three months? It felt like a lifetime, and somehow in other ways like no time at all. Only three months ago, he hadn't known Mary…

"What is it, dear?" His mother took off her reading spectacles, putting down the letter she'd been reading over her toast as Matthew sighed again.

"What? Oh, nothing."

Isobel knew better than that. "Matthew, you've been out of sorts for a good few weeks now. Tell me what it is – are you finding it hard to settle, still? I thought you were quite happy with your new job –"

"I am, yes, it's not that." He shook his head and stared fixedly at his newspaper, but his mother was wise to him.

"Well, what then? You're not still feeling unwelcome here, surely? I thought you'd been getting on better with –"

"No, Mother, Lord Grantham and his family have been – very welcoming, more than I would've imagined actually. It's really –"

"You can't still be fussy over having a valet; really Matthew, there comes a point when you must simply –"

"Mother!"

At last; his newspaper came down in a flurry of irritation and Isobel's lip quirked into a smug smile. Matthew frowned. Isobel waited.

"You might as well tell me, my dear. I know it's been difficult, these last few months, and I do want to know that you're alright. Which you quite clearly aren't."

For a full minute more, he held out. Stared her resolutely in the eye, set his jaw, pressed his lips together in determination not to speak… and then somehow wilted. When he did, finally, speak, Isobel was taken aback by the hesitant vulnerability in his voice, and the insecurity that shone gently in his eyes.

"The thing is, Mother…" he started quietly, and licked his lips. "How do you… I mean… I can't," he muttered, shaking his head.

Isobel simply waited, reaching silently for his hand to encourage him before he could bring himself to start again. "I wondered – how you might know if you… loved somebody."

He blinked at her then so earnestly that Isobel's heart jumped strangely, and she found an odd, trembling smile on her lips. Her boy, her darling boy, to be asking about love… What did that mean?

"How do you know if you love somebody? Why – Matthew, is there someone you might –"

"Oh don't, Mother, please…" he glared sharply, withdrawing into himself again. Isobel panicked and tried to draw him back.

"I'm – sorry, I'm sorry. I'm not quite sure that I know what you mean, though."

Matthew frowned, and fiddled with the edge of the newspaper.

"I mean… If you think that you might love somebody, how do you – know that that's what it is? And not… something else? Or – that it's more than simple affection?" He could hardly mention the truth of it to his mother; how you might be sure that it was not simply… lust which drove his feelings…

For her part, Isobel wasn't sure how to answer. Such a deep question for a Monday morning! And one that she hadn't, honestly, expected that Matthew would ever need help with. Because he was a loving person, he was good and kind and thoughtful and surely he'd know… Matthew waited quietly, taking a sip of his tea, while she thought for a moment. Not for the first time in these trying months, he wished dearly that his father was still here to ask things like this.

"Well I suppose you… It's hard to say!" Isobel eventually tried, doing her very best. "There must be an – element of wanting to be with them above anyone else, I think." Matthew nodded, and Isobel continued, encouraged. "They must be your best friend before all others – you know, your father and I could talk for hours and hours about the slightest thing!"

"I remember," Matthew smiled fondly, recalling how he'd sit in front of the fireplace and listen to them as he shunted a little model train around stuck-together tracks. That was what he wanted with Mary!

"And I think you must desire to put their own needs above your own – or to put their considerations first."

"What do you mean?" he frowned.

"Well, that – if you love somebody, you want the very best for them, and you want them to be happy. So, within reason, you might set aside your own wishes to please them – because their being happy will make you happy, do you see?"

"I think so, yes."

"Oh, good." She smiled a little; did he want any more than that? He was looking terribly thoughtful. Perhaps that would be enough for now. "Is there… someone?" she asked tentatively.

Matthew's lip quirked up a little. "Maybe," he said quietly. "I'm not sure yet."

"I see. Well my dear, when you are sure – you know I shall be very happy," Isobel beamed affectionately at her son, who though he was talking of love and a girl he might want to marry, seemed more like her precious little boy than he had in a long time through all the trials of the last year. She tried not to wonder too much about who it might be, but; there was hardly a wealth of choice, of women Matthew came into contact with now, and – would his sights be higher than they once might have, with his new position? She supposed he might seem suited to Lady Sybil, they had a lot in common but she was so young… He had been talking more and more with Mary, but she knew how Matthew had riled against the idea of marriage (to any of the daughters!) and… well. She would find out when he was ready.

When he visited Downton Abbey a few days later on an unexpected afternoon off, with the purpose of discussing his plans for the cottage renovations with the Earl, Matthew quietly hoped (as he often did now) that he might come across Mary while he was there. His mother's words had been playing on his mind. Was there anyone whose company he preferred, now, over Mary's? There was certainly no-one else he longed to see in the same way, no-one else who, when he saw them upon entering a room, made his pulse leap and his skin tingle. There was no-one in whom he took more thrill to debate, or discuss, or who he longed to make smile with some wry comment or other. Could he put her needs, her wishes, her desires, above his own? Somewhat alarmingly, he wasn't entirely sure he could deny her anything!

He'd been thinking about her so much, so incessantly, so distractingly, that he almost missed her. It was December; why was she sitting outside, on a bench still? It was icy cold! His heart leapt with the indulgent thought that perhaps she'd been waiting for him.

"Hello!" she smiled prettily at him. "Where's your bicycle today?" There was only a slight note of mockery in her tone, and it was fond. It was not acceptable transportation for a future Earl, she was adamant about that. Matthew wondered, considering Oh,his mother's advice, if perhaps he'd have to rethink it after all but… no, it was so practical to have! Mostly…

"I was worried all this dampness would ice over," he greeted her quietly, his breath curling into little white clouds in the air. "Thought it was probably safer to walk."

"Ah. Then shall we walk a little way together, Cousin?"

"Yes, alright," he smiled. Of course it was alright. Maybe he did love her… But already her hands linked through his arm and his body was warming and that familiar heat in his belly was distracting him…

"I don't want to go very far," Mary announced, and pulled him in a direction away from the main road out of the estate, down the gentle slope of the hill instead and away from the house. "If we walk down here there's a pretty little temple I don't think you've seen before, I expect you'll like it."

Matthew smiled to himself. Mary didn't like architecture, he knew. Or at least, while she could admire a structure that was aesthetic and beautiful, she did not share his real appreciation of it. She was… putting his interests above her own, did that mean… Could it mean… He shivered.

Mary noticed, and walked a little quicker.

"I hope it isn't this cold for the York and Ainsty meet on Saturday," she muttered, hugging his arm a little tighter. "Not that I'm planning to ride out myself but the men won't appreciate it, and neither will the horses."

"No, I suppose not." Matthew really didn't know about these things, but… he remembered that he must make an effort to show some inkling of these sorts of aristocratic things now. "They'll be going close to here, won't they?" he asked, not really caring at all.

"Oh Matthew, the hunt will be starting from here!" she exclaimed as if he really should have known that.

"Oh."

"Mama wouldn't have it any other way. Not when she heard that Evelyn Napier had written to me about it. You know how these things are." Mary stared at frosted leaves that lay pressed into the ground, feeling the point of warmth where she touched Matthew's arm. There was something comforting about it. About the way he didn't expect things, or make presumptions.

"Who's Evelyn Napier?"

Something about the sudden tension in his arm made Mary smile.

"He's the son of Lord Branksome. I met him during the season in London last year – apparently Mama was great friends with his. That's what she says, at least; anyway she's insisted that he must stay the night as well after the hunt. His mother died not long ago, so Mama thinks that she can advance things by showing some hospitality."

"What do you mean, 'advance things'?" Matthew asked. His voice was very gradually getting louder and sharper, though he was obviously trying to restrain it, and Mary bit her lip to stop her chuckle.

"Well she would rather like it if he proposed to me. She desperately wants me to marry somebody, only the more she wants me to the less I want to. Don't you see that, Matthew?"

"Of course I do, you know that," he muttered.

"Yes, I supposed so. Look – there it is – just on the other side of the clearing, can you see?"

"Yes, I can see it."

The little Etruscan-styled temple nestled within a gap in the tall, surrounding trees. Matthew tugged his arm from Mary's grasp and wandered up to it, peering up at the gray stone that glittered in the frost and the sunlight. He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"What do you think?" Mary stood back, watching him, fascinated by his fascination.

"It's rather nice," he answered. "Was it somewhere else, to begin with?"

She shrugged. "I think it might have been. You'd have to ask my father."

"Right. I think so…" The partitioning wall was flimsy behind the more classical columns, but it provided some shelter from the biting air, and Matthew walked within. It was very small, really, and lined with stone benches around three walls. Mary shivered, making her way to a more enclosed corner while Matthew stood in the middle, looking upwards at the ceiling until a moment later he turned back to her, clearly distracted.

"So – Lord Napier –"

"No, Mr. Napier. His father is Lord Branksome."

"Mr. Napier, then!" Matthew spluttered, evidently frustrated. "What's he – what's he like?"

Her eyebrows lifted elegantly. "You're coming for dinner that evening, aren't you? You'll be able to see for yourself."

"Mary…"

"What?" Oh, she knew exactly what. They both knew she knew exactly what, but she still took unreasonable enjoyment in teasing it from him! His shoulders were rigid now with tension (though he'd pretend it was the cold), his fingers flexed restlessly at his sides and his eyes glittered with a new intensity.

"Do you – like him?" He bit out from between almost-gritted teeth.

"What if I do? Does it matter?" Her voice had a sharper edge now, as she approached him.

"Well, I – no, of course not but –"

She was closer still, now, only a step or two away, her breath in cold puffs of white curling towards him.

"Mary…"

"Are you jealous?" She stood before him, eye to eye, mere inches separating them, so insignificant that the heat radiating between them was tangible and warming.

"I only – wondered," he ground out.

"You're jealous." While some part of Mary felt a stab of indignation that Matthew considered himself to have some right to be jealous (there was no obligation between them, there was nothing!), that he should assume some priority of affection over her, more overwhelming was the realisation that… she relished the fact. She was reminded again that he wanted her… Oh, he wanted her, she could see it in his burning eyes and the rapid pulse fluttering visibly against his skin, he wanted her and that knowledge speared a sharper rush of arousal and power deep within her.

Matthew's lips parted to make some reply, some defence of himself. But he had none. And she was so close, so close to him that he could feel her warm breath on his skin… He ached to reach for her, his world shrank around them, hands twitching as he fought his impulse to touch her.

"Yes, I am," he finally whispered. His voice trembled but his gaze was hot and unrelenting. "…should I be?"

Mary blinked, once. She considered it. She shrugged, noncommittally, an airy smile gracing her lips.

"What do you think?"

His lips moved wordlessly, eyes darkening as he stared at her, puzzled over her, wanted her… and then both their questions sought to be answered by her crushing lips and arms in a sudden, searing, possessive kiss.

TBC

A/N: There we are! Thank you so much for reading :) As I said, many things will begin to happen next chapter, and... the rating will be going up so please add to alerts! I'd love to know what you thought - this fic is making my head go round in circles but I'm having so much fun with it! Thank you!