A/N: This chapter is dedicated to EOlivet, for her birthday yesterday, as traditionally we write each other fics (Last year was ATiL Chapter 2!). Thank you all so much for your support and encouragement. Particular thanks to EOlivet as always for her polish, and Pemonynen and Silvestria for helping with some details here :)

At this point I feel it's relevant to just remind you all that this is an M-rated fic...

Enjoy!

Chapter Nineteen

"Oh. Oh, how very sad."

Isobel's fingers tensed around the letter she held, the paper thin and fragile in her grip. The atmosphere up to that moment, as for the last few days now that Isobel thought about it, had been noticeably lighter – easier, somehow – than it had… well, ever, since Mary had joined them here. And now once more it cooled, and stilled.

"What is it, Mother?" Matthew glanced up from his morning newspaper, and beside him Mary's eyes flicked curiously between the two.

"Lily Walker has died, of pneumonia they think. Mind you she was never a very well lady, so I suppose it had to happen one day, but – how terrible for her children."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Matthew frowned in due sympathy. "But they're none of them – little children, by now, surely? Not that that makes it any better I suppose."

"No, it doesn't, but you're right. Little Malcolm must be… well, nineteen now, I'd imagine!"

"Crikey."

"Anyway the funeral is… the twelfth of May, which is… two days time. I can leave tomorrow, then –"

"Should I come too?" Matthew looked so earnestly sincere, and Isobel calmed a little and smiled.

"Only if you want to, dear." She saw his brow tighten in thought, that gentle purse of his lips that signified a conflict of duty… and then she saw his wife's anxious (though trying not to appear so) eyes upon him. Her smile fondly, perhaps oddly, widened. "But I shouldn't think it's necessary. You hardly knew her well, and I can pass on your wishes."

Matthew blinked, and nodded, fingers ghosting thoughtfully along the handle of his teacup.

"Alright. Well perhaps I won't, then, I've got… matters here that I can't, or shouldn't, really… leave."

Isobel quite understood.

In the hallway only minutes later, Matthew stooped to pick up his briefcase as Mary's hands smoothed down the lapels of his coat. Molesley, as he had learnt to lately, stood out on the path holding Matthew's bicycle ready.

"I didn't want to pry, but who's Lily Walker?" Mary whispered quickly. "You don't seem too upset – I'm sure it's very selfish of me to be glad you're not going with your mother but there it is."

He chuckled as he bent to kiss her softly. "I think she lived next door to us when I was a little boy. It's very sad of course but I can barely remember, and – well, darling you're here, and – I thought it might be nice to have a little time alone together..."

His hand slipped around her waist to the small of her back as they kissed, and she leaned awkwardly against him on her tiptoes. They smiled.

"Perhaps we could have dinner together," she murmured against his jaw, feeling a warm glow spread at the prospect of an evening alone with her husband. One that they might now look forward to, rather than dread.

"I'd like that..." He ducked his head and nipped her lower lip softly between his teeth. "But… aren't we dining at the big house tomorrow?"

"Oh." She drew back, letting her thumb slip fondly across his lip as she frowned, then brightened. "I'm having tea with Granny and Mama later today. They won't mind if I excuse us, I'm sure."

Cora's eyes lit up helplessly as she lifted her hand from Mary's abdomen, where she'd just felt the long-forgotten sensation of an unborn baby's little kick.

"How thrilling," she cooed through a teary smile, ignoring completely Violet's faint air of disapproval at such unguarded displays of emotion. "How do you feel, darling?"

"Perfectly wonderful," Mary beamed. For the first time in her pregnancy she truly seemed it, almost glowing. Happiness and a quiet sort of pride radiated from her, and to her mother it was the most wonderful sight.

"I'm so glad. Sybil and Edith will think it delightful – after dinner, of course – you and Matthew are coming, tomorrow, still?"

Mary picked up her teacup. "Actually, we'd hoped you'd excuse us tomorrow after all –"

"Mary! Why on earth? Certainly not, have you forgotten Colonel Rafferty's visiting, and his wife?"

She had forgotten, completely, and sighed.

"You couldn't possibly miss them," Violet added drily. "They are your godparents, don't forget, and as such must take the opportunity to furnish your husband with all those delightful anecdotes of your childhood he won't yet have heard."

"Really, Granny, I barely remember them –"

"And of course I suppose Mrs. Rafferty is another gentlewoman to add to the queue of those who you'd think had never seen a woman with child, before, the way they fuss." The Dowager Countess looked pointedly at Cora. Oh, she was terribly pleased if Mary was happy, there was no doubt about that – and really it had all worked out very well to be with Matthew, at least, if he must be Robert's heir – but that was no excuse for excessive sentimentality, she thought. Mary rolled her eyes.

"Anyway it's arranged, now," Cora frowned. "You know they've lived in Africa since the war, and have come all this way –"

"Then surely they'll be here for more than tomorrow evening?" Mary tried. "The thing is, Isobel's going away tomorrow –"

"Even more reason to come for some company, darling! Rather than being all alone in Crawley House –"

Mary blushed deeply, taking a quick sip of her tea. She hadn't expected needing to justify this, so much! Well, she didn't much care what they thought; she may as well be honest.

"Actually, that's rather the point. Matthew and I had thought it might be nice to take the opportunity to spend some time together and have dinner alone."

Violet scoffed a little. "But my dear, why would you want to do that? You've plenty of hours in the day to see your husband; you've your entire lives for that, and that is quite enough for most people!"

"Would it shock you so terribly," Mary sighed imperiously, losing patience, "to believe that we value and enjoy spending time together, because we happen to be in love? I suppose you –"

"Now, darling…" Cora patted her arm. Mary turned to look sharply at her, eyes glittering with determination, and her mother tried to smile conciliatorily. "Of course you do, I understand that. But your grandmother is right –" She breathed an infuriated sigh as she practically felt Violet's glow of victory at the admission. "There'll be plenty more evenings you may spend with Matthew, and it's not as though it's the first opportunity you've had – but Colonel and Mrs. Rafferty will only be with us for tomorrow evening so you'll miss them otherwise."

Mary's lips parted to retort, but she knew before any words came that further argument was useless. Propriety demanded it, and being old friends of her father's (and technically her godparents though Mary could count on one hand the number of times she'd actually met them, and not since she was fifteen years old), she knew that her attendance was inarguable.

"That would be a shame," she said with a tight smile, reflexively seeking comfort in the soothing stroke of her palm against her belly. To a point, her mother was right; it wasn't for either her or Granny to know that she and Matthew had thus far rejected their opportunities to chance any real time alone in the evenings. It was insufferable. "Of course, we'll be there."

She stirred her tea in preference to seeing their satisfied smiles.

"I am sorry, darling," she said yet again as she clasped a pair of earrings on, and dabbed perfume at her wrists.

Matthew leaned against the open bedroom door, watching with a kind of fascination the strangely intimate ritual (though he only saw the finishing touches) of Anna readying his wife.

"Mary, please, stop," he chuckled. "We'll have other chances, plenty. Mother hasn't seen my aunt since our wedding, I'm sure I could persuade her it's about time for a visit. To be quite honest if I simply told her we'd like to –"

She interrupted him. "Oh, Matthew! I know all that, perfectly well. But – an evening in a few week's time isn't… this evening." Almost shy of such an admission, she busied herself by drawing on her long evening gloves, and so missed her husband's expression softening into immense tenderness.

"I'll go and ready your coat, Milady," Anna broke their silence quietly and bobbed deferentially past Matthew into the hallway downstairs.

Slowly, silently beyond their gentle breaths, Matthew entered the bedroom and stood behind his wife at her vanity… resting his hands on her shoulders, thumbs stroking her neck, bending to kiss her cheek. A frisson shivered between them; they froze, realising it… less afraid of it, now.

"You look divine," he whispered against her neck, and helped her to her feet, keeping a supportive hand on her lower back as they left.

As it happened, Colonel Rafferty was an enormously good-natured, entertaining man, and the evening was most enjoyable. Having stayed in South Africa since the war in which he'd fought alongside Robert, he had a seemingly endless supply of exotic, adventurous tales that his wife was more than happy to sit by and allow him to tell.

Matthew listened with amusement, but never with his full concentration. Though he smiled, and laughed at each appropriate moment and with genuine humour, he was at every moment conscious of Mary beside him. He stayed close by her, even when Sybil and Evangeline Rafferty crowded around to try and feel the baby kick, bearing a gentle smile of pride. And though Mary was bright with happiness, he felt it when her shoulders sunk just a little lower and heard the quietest sigh in her breath, and shepherded her away from the stifling attention to sit down and rest a moment. She squeezed his fingers in wordless thanks.

Throughout dinner, he sat by her side; and beneath the table and between courses their fingers would twine together in stolen moments as they joined in the chatter. The little, shivering thrill of it reminded them of those distant weeks of romance, that tentative, testing exploration… Was that touch alright? Could anyone see? Did that little smirk, that twinkle in the eye, suggest… later? And when the table was cleared of the main course for dessert, Matthew slipped the salt shaker beneath the table, knowing (though he couldn't for the life of him say why) that Mary would demand it sprinkled over her éclairs rather than sugar.

When the ladies retired at the end of the meal, Matthew couldn't suppress his grin as Mary walked past him to leave, her slender fingers trailing fondly down his arm that left him aching from her absence.

The three men settled to their port, and Matthew could not truly claim any surprise when the topic inevitably, and quickly, came up.

"Dreadful news about the Titanic, last year, of course." The Colonel's moustache twitched as he quirked a thoughtful smile. The anniversary of the sinking had passed only weeks ago, and Matthew hadn't known how to feel about it. "It must have been a blow to lose both James and Patrick – you'll pardon me saying so, Matthew."

"Oh, don't mind about that, please." He smiled quickly and swallowed some port, holding up a hand to turn down Robert's customary offer of a cigar. "There's nothing to be done about it, and of course you knew them."

The Earl lit his own. "It was a dreadful shame, of course. For all of us. But…" He glanced at Matthew, inclining his head in silent acknowledgement. "Even the darkest cloud most often has a silver lining. I think that's proven itself."

"That's very kind of you to say, Sir," Matthew said quietly.

"Well," Rafferty sat back heavily in his chair. "Awful as it must have been, things seem to have worked out for the best – from what I can see, at least! It must be a comfort to have things settled, dear chap, as they should have been."

Matthew bristled silently at the sentiment that had rankled with him from the start. He hadn't married Mary for that! Though he could hardly claim the purest reasons for their marriage besides, it most certainly hadn't been that. His fingers tightened around his glass as he prepared to defend himself, releasing his breath in a surprised rush as Robert began doing it for him.

"I wouldn't say that, not as they should have been," he said, frowning gently. Matthew held his breath. "There'd never have been any question of that, I'm quite sure." The Earl and his heir looked to each other, and shared a knowing smile. "But things take their course as they will, and naturally I couldn't be more thrilled."

After what had happened, such words (and said with such weight and sincerity as they were) meant a great deal to Matthew.

"Neither could I," he agreed, happiness blossoming once more in his chest as he thought of Mary, his wife, and how far it felt they had come. "Though believe me, if you'd have told me a year ago that I'd be heir to the Earl of Grantham and married to his eldest daughter with a child on the way… I think you'd have shortly been seeing me in South Africa, Colonel!"

All three laughed heartily. "And I'd have thrown you straight on the next ship back to England!" the elder man grinned at Matthew. "Because quite honestly, my lad, I've rarely seen a man happier. Even for a newlywed! Since… February, did I hear?"

"Yes, that's right! The third."

"Lovely, lovely. In which case, the little one is due…?"

As Matthew felt his cheeks colour at the question, he wondered whether it was asked in innocent curiosity or in deeper suspicion. They'd been married for three short months, and with such timing even he objectively knew that the stage of Mary's pregnancy was impossible. It took a slight, encouraging nod from Robert before he answered, without shame,

"In the autumn – Mary and I couldn't be happier, though of course we've still a lot to prepare." It was the truth, if not so precise an answer as to satisfy curiosity. And before he could be pressed any more on it, he politely asked the Colonel how it had been to bring up his own children in such a vastly different country to this.

It wasn't long after rejoining the ladies that Matthew and Mary made their excuses. She turned to him with silently pleading eyes, a communication that only he understood, and within minutes they were saying what a lovely evening it had been but Mary was quite worn out, though they were so glad they had come and what a pleasure it had been to meet the Colonel and his wife. And their fingers laced together in solidarity long before they got to the car.

Once safely ensconced within it, they both breathed a sigh of relief.

"As entertaining as this evening turned out to be," Matthew exhaled, tipping his head back to stretch his neck, "I must say I'm glad it's over."

"Mmm," Mary murmured in agreement. She was tired, and grateful for the strength of Matthew's shoulder as her cheek lay to rest on it. There was no tension between them, not now, and they were able to relax and be entirely at ease. She breathed deeply, feeling her lips curve naturally into a contented smile as she felt her hand rest within Matthew's on his thigh. She liked it being there, being intimate but not improper, and flexed her fingers just to be more aware of it.

Arriving back at Crawley House, Matthew let his wife lean on his arm as they went inside. The house was quiet, and they stood awkwardly in the hall. They were tired, but neither felt ready to go to bed, yet – they still had not slept together, there hadn't been the right moment, there was plenty of time after all – and for this evening, they were not yet ready to part.

"Let's sit down for a little while," Matthew said, and when Molesley came to take their coats Matthew asked him to bring them some tea.

The house was oddly quiet, without Isobel. But they liked it. It was peaceful... and Mary was sure, as they sat down together on the settee, that had Isobel been there Matthew would not have sat so closely beside her, or put his arm around her, or eased her back so comfortably against his chest as he reclined.

A wonderful calm settled over them. Mary could almost have slept, there, if she weren't so very aware of Matthew's heartbeat, firm and steady near her ear.

"Are you comfortable, my dear?" he asked softly.

"Exquisitely," she answered.

Soon, Molesley brought the tea in, and they sat up straighter for the sake of propriety.

"Thank you," Matthew smiled. "Actually Molesley, you may as well go to bed. I'm not tired, yet, so there's no need for you to stay up too. Really, it's alright."

The butler hesitated. "If – you're quite sure, Sir…"

"Certainly." Then without thinking, because it almost didn't seem fair otherwise, he added, "And please, tell Miss Smith the same as well."

Mary raised her eyebrow, unnoticed, but did not raise any objection as Molesley duly bid them goodnight and then left.

The sitting room was warm; not excessively so, but cosy. Mary leaned down to take her shoes off (something else she was sure she would not have done with Isobel in the room), but when Matthew noticed her efforts he quickly slipped off the settee to his knees by her feet, and took over the task. She was breathless as he unbuckled them, shivering at his fingers ghosting across her silk-encased feet as he set the shoes aside.

"Better?" he smiled up at her, and she nodded. "Good."

When he stood up, he shrugged his dinner jacket off. Sitting back down, his hands went to loosen his bow-tie, and he held his breath as Mary swatted his hands away and tugged it off herself. With great care, she undid the top button of his shirt, and then the next, smiling indulgently to herself as the delicate skin of Matthew's neck became just a little exposed. More comfortable, now, they settled back together on the settee.

They were warm, and content, and alone, and happy.

His hand stroked lazily up, and down, her bare arm. It made her skin prickle and shiver, but she liked it. His touch was familiar, and she had craved it for so long…

"Mary?" he murmured. "I'm so… pleased, that we married." Something about the evening darkness and the warmth and intimacy of it had shed any restraint, or fear. "Whatever has happened – all of it, in fact. I said to Colonel Rafferty this evening that I couldn't be happier, and… I meant it, darling."

She twisted awkwardly in his arms, and her warm lips found his jaw.

"Thank you," she said quietly, breathing carefully against the lump of raw emotion in her throat. For so long, that was all she had wanted… That simple assurance: that her husband wanted to be with her. At the outset of their marriage, such a seemingly obvious ideal had seemed an impossible one. And now… it was her reality; however little she felt she deserved it.

She could not express this in words… and instinctively began to express it with her lips, instead; with warm, wet, tender kisses that roamed from his throat to his neck to his jaw, to his mouth that opened languidly to hers.

They kissed, and relished it, and allowed it… unhurried, imperfect, indulgent. They shifted together, and as they did so the atmosphere, the very air, shifted with them. The warmth prickled slowly to heat, the heat prickled their skin with every touch, and every touch awakened in them the recognition of that which they had not acknowledged they longed for.

From unhurried, to eager, to impatient, with every moment that passed until their kisses were desperate and messy, lips sucking at deft tongues that searched and found and loved. Hands rediscovered the landscape they had once known so well, and learning which were changed… curves and hollows and softness that trembled under touch. It was so easy, so natural, so… right. Far more than what they had tried to create, or re-create, before.

When Mary's palm grazed the front of Matthew's trousers – for a moment she'd held back, ashamed to be so brazen, before remembering that his body was her entitlement, now – his eyes snapped open in a gasp of pleasure, as memory jolted through him.

"Darling," he panted against her neck, against her already damp skin from his tongue and her sweat. "We're – here."

She moaned softly, and lifted her head, her body restless and aching for him.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Here…" he said again, and looked around him, at the familiar blue walls of the sitting room that had been the same in the afternoon daylight so many months ago. "Where we were – the first time – together –"

"Oh…" she breathed, and kissed him, and remembered.

"And darling, we will be – the last time," he whispered, and now she realised the depth of the tenderness that burned beneath his passion. Not here, she understood… but them. The first time… them… and the last time… them. Nothing beyond that mattered, nothing beyond that existed, not now. Not between them.

"Absolutely, my love."

What worries they'd had in the past were forgotten, entirely out of mind, as they stoked the tentative flames of their arousal to a roaring furnace. They could, and they were…

As Matthew writhed out of Mary's embrace, his waistcoat thrown off and shirt half undone, she gave a soft whimper of protest. But then… he was at her feet, moving up, his hands and his lips learning and worshipping every curve of her calf as he made way to her thighs. She gasped, shifted instinctively to make it easier, had no shame in tugging up the hem of her dress to see the reality of his lips moving up past the silk of her stockings to skin.

It was heavenly, and she moaned loudly in pleasure… and when he lifted his head to ask if this was alright, she nodded quickly, and bit her lip as she watched him lower again, then felt him… His hands mercilessly dragged down the silk that shielded her (Did it tear? She didn't care), and she moaned again, louder, helplessly, as his lips and his tongue and his fingers rediscovered her, and freed her from the constraints of shame that she'd placed around herself. For this could not be shameful, it was adoring, and perfect…

Her body quaked, hands fisting the thin cushions of the settee, as he shifted rhythmically from the deft flick of his tongue to sucking, softly, eagerly, and back. The gentle stroke of his fingers that gradually eased within her (she shuddered, she'd forgotten the feel of him there) combined with his mouth and reduced his wife to a quivering , glorious mass of sensation. It was hedonistic, and unrestrained, and every breath became an audible expression of her pleasure as she could not think of anything beyond what he was doing to her. He groaned against her… quickened, loved, pleasured her… And when she glanced down, saw his head between her legs, felt his mouth and his fingers and his hand where he gripped her hips, she thought about what he was doing… and she shattered, screamed, cried out her release that overtook her like a towering wave, robbing her body of all power and breath.

She lay, weak, sated, gasping for breath, and her fingers found his hair in a loving caress.

"Oh God," he murmured against the crook of her thigh. "I have missed you…"

Happiness brimmed from her in a laugh, and she slid carefully down and into his arms on the floor. He kissed her, eased her over to lie protectively above her, and they didn't notice the discomfort of it as their lips resumed eager, searching kisses and their bodies instinctively moved to find each other and fit.

As Mary's quick fingers made work of Matthew's shirt, he stopped her suddenly.

"What?" she hissed, eyes widening with the flash of worry that it was not forgotten… it was not alright… But he proved her worry for nought.

"Not here, darling." His voice was so soft and his expression so tender that her love for him overwhelmed her. "Not like this. Shall we –"

"Yes."

He helped her to her feet, their limbs aching from a tension both sated and unfulfilled. Matthew stooped to pick up their few scattered clothes – the tea was forgotten and cold, he noticed, but never mind – and they hurried upstairs.

Their bedroom was dark, but they didn't think to put the light on as they entered its sheltered privacy. Here, they had been their most honest, their most vulnerable… and here they would put all of that to rest and unite.

This time, it was Matthew who undressed her, turning her and unfastening her dress, unlacing her corset, watching as they fell away from her. She raised her arms and he pulled off her camisole, then knelt and peeled down her stockings, peppering her legs with kisses as he went, as she sat on the side of the bed. He saw each freckle, each shadow, each highlight on her skin that was the colour of ivory and marble, as he bared her. When she was naked (and she felt her skin colour with the heat of his gaze at her changed body, though not with shame), she wriggled back on the bed to accommodate him… and she gasped in surprise when he didn't undress but crawled between her legs, pushed her thighs apart and lowered his head again, tasting her again, licking at her softness and heat and wetness with a low, appreciative groan.

"Matthew!" She feebly tried to push him away, her fingers sunk into his hair again, wanting his pleasure now… "You can't – again…"

But when he paused only to murmur against her, "Oh, I can… and I want to, darling… Please," her fingers curled instead to hold him there, her head flung back in unthinkable ecstasy as desperate, almost sobbing gasps escaped her lips. She succumbed happily to his fingers, his tongue, and this time it went on, and on, until she felt gloriously raw and her body shook so much that she could not control it. Her hips bucked against his mouth, and she let out a long, shuddering cry, and he held her… and calmed her, with slow kisses, gentle strokes, until every inch of her skin seemed to tingle with warmth.

She used his body to lever herself up, to reach the loosened belt of his trousers, and he stood to let her undo and push them down as he shrugged off his shirt. He waited, while she watched, and felt warmth spread in radiating waves as she perched on the side of the bed and stared at him, luxuriating in her wanting gaze. He hadn't realised how close she was… How she had only to ease forwards to touch him, to lower her head to take him in her mouth, and his hand shot out to grasp the bedpost for support. His knees were weak, but she gave him strength, her hands searching everywhere she could reach of his body as she loved him with her mouth. His head fell back and he groaned, it began in his chest and spilled from his lips much louder than he realised, his awareness too honed on her wet lips and hot tongue and slender fingers to care.

Soon, too soon, he felt himself tremble, his control slip… and his hands that had been stroking her hair and her shoulders now eased her gently back, and they both sighed as her lips slipped from his length. He lay over her, held her in his arms as he whispered his desire into the hair behind her ear, and she breathlessly gave him consent, felt her whole body stiffen in perfect anticipation in the moment before he slid within her. Their flesh seemed to fuse, perfect and hot and wet, their sweat-slicked skin slipping together as they thrust… leisurely at first, trying to memorise the feel of it, before they remembered they had their whole lives to rediscover and remember this feeling… Mary felt it, him, so deeply within her, so fundamentally, that they seemed to be one being. One being, one body, one mind, as they sought to give and release, to pleasure, to soar. They had waited so long, had wanted so much, that their patience soon gave out to quick thrusts, grasping hands, hot lips that whispered adoration in sharp, gasping breaths.

He overtook her, and she him, and their cries fused together with their skin in the darkness. She was safe in his arms, and as his hips pumped against hers faster and faster she had no fear, only joy, and her body shook and hot pressure built , spreading from her centre to her fingertips and her toes, into him, indistinguishable and overwhelming as it broke over her and her nails dug into his shoulders. He felt it, from within her, and all of it blurred together as he thrust quicker, harder, until it exploded within him in a raw burst of ecstasy and a loud, guttural cry.

He fell instinctively to her side, and she curled against him. And for a long time, they didn't move… only to stroke their hands, fingers linking naturally together, over the curve of her belly that sheltered their child within.

"Our baby," Mary murmured sleepily, and Matthew's lips curved into a smile against her cheek.

"Our baby," he consented, and in this blissful aftermath it was the only reality that seemed possible.

Eventually, he shifted and pulled the sheets over them both, and took Mary in his arms again. He held her, stroked her back, her hair, every part of her that he had neglected for so long as if he could somehow make up for those months. "My darling wife," he breathed… and in his sleep- and pleasure-fogged mind, he was strikingly aware that she really, finally… properly… was.

TBC

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I very much hope you enjoyed it. I can't tell you how lovely it was to write them happily! But they're finally over the worst of their demons and united. Though the story isn't quite finished yet... just a couple more chapters to go. Of course I'd love to know what you thought, your comments are always so welcome. Thank you! :)