A/N: Oh my! You lovely people LIKE IT! I'm so glad!

I have actually devised a way to incorporate this story into the universe I'd set up in my 'Improper' series: the next instalment of 'The Most Improper Behaviour' should provide you and answer to this riddle. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter…

"Beth seems to be handling the job pretty well," Cora told him one evening, just as he was getting into bed.

He frowned, pulling the covers up to his chest as he made himself comfortable. "Beth?"

Cora rolled her eyes and blew out the candle on her side of the bed. "Our head housemaid, of course. Honestly, dear, do you even know we have a head housemaid?"

Oh, he knew. He knew very well indeed. "Forgive me. I got quite used to referring to her as 'Miss Hughes', that's all."

"Why ever would you call her that? She's not a lady's maid, after all."

"It's just… she's a little older than the other maids. Shouldn't we diversify the way we call them?"

"I don't see why we should. And I don't understand where you took that idea from. Perhaps you're just tired, Robert? Get some sleep."

Easy for her to say, Lord Grantham mused unhappily as he blew out his own candle and fixed his eyes on the ceiling above his head.

It's been a week since his short walk with Miss Hughes. After they got passed the name issue, she asked him about Mary, who'd fallen off a horse and sprained her wrist the day before; he, in turn, inquired about the family she'd left in Scotland, and listened to her happy chatter about her sister and two small nieces. Hers was a life he knew close to nothing about—and yet it felt as if he could see all the things she was talking about, brought to life by the soft tones of her voice.

She spoke of hardships and work, of difficulties he himself never had to face, and his respect for her grew immensely. Of course, the more rational part of his mind reasoned that, most probably, every single servant employed in his household had a similar story to tell—and yet it was hers that caught his attention, unwillingly and wholesomely.

As he studied the dark, flat expanse of the ceiling and listened to his wife's quiet breathing, Robert Crawley, Lord Grantham, started to worry that he might have lost a little of his mind.

Or worse—his heart.

It was on the following morning that he walked into the library, almost an hour earlier than he usually did, and found Miss Hughes standing on the highest step of an unsteady ladder, dusting the books on top shelves.

She startled at the sound of his steps and turned her head to check the identity of the intruder: it threw her slightly off-balance, and the ladder shook dangerously…

Robert didn't know he'd moved, not until he was standing at the feet of the ladder, his left shoulder braced against the shelves and his arms full of the head housemaid, with her cheek resting gently against his neck as he held her close to his chest.

His head was spinning from the multitude of sensations he was experiencing at their contact: the unexpected softness of her skin made him think of finest silk—the warm, perfectly embraceable weight of her body next to his—the fresh smell of lemon coming from her hair, underlaced with something else, feminine and entirely hers—the soft, quick gasps of her breath as she struggled to calm herself down..

He had seen women more beautiful than her, more sophisticated, infinitely better attired, that much was indisputable. And yet, in some strange, indescribable way, this woman, who had clearly overcome her initial confusion and boldly met his eyes with hers, was their superior in every possible aspect.

Robert knew he should say something, or let Miss Hughes go, but he found himself completely at a loss as to how he should handle this situation. Should he ask her if she was alright? Speak her name? Her first name?...

"Is everything alright, milord?"

He snapped out of his reverie, gently depositing Miss Hughes on her feet and stepping away politely. Only after he was sure at least a part of his confusion was gone from his face, did he turn to face the man standing by the door. "Naturally, Carson. Miss Hughes fell off the ladder; fortunately, I managed to assure she didn't get hurt."

The butler raised his eyebrows and took a step in their direction, his eyes fixed on Miss Hughes. "Is it true? Did you fall, Elsie?"

Elsie!...

He never would have thought about it on his own, but now that it has been spoken, he realized this was the name that fit her perfectly. And he couldn't deny that he despised of Carson a little for being able to use it so freely.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, I did," Miss Hughes managed to adjust her clothing, straightening out some invisible wrinkles. "I surely would have broken my neck! Thank you for helping me, your lordship." She met his eyes again, her face a little drawn and distant, for which Robert couldn't blame her. He simply nodded and offered her a smile he hoped was reassuring rather than longing.

"In that case, go downstairs and ask Mrs. Reynolds to make you a cool compress until you recover," Carson's voice, vibrating with a sharp edge Robert has never heard before, broke the moment once more. "Send Martha up to finish here."

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Miss Hughes answered curtly and left, closing the door behind her.

It left the two men alone in a large, empty room that was, undoubtedly due to a happy coincidence, void of things than could have been used as weapons. Unless one counted several leather-bound volumes of encyclopaedia.

Carson was the first to speak, after clearing his throat pointedly. "Thank you for coming to the rescue, milord. We would all be very troubled if something happened to Elsie."

There it was again, the name! Robert had a feeling his butler was using it on purpose, and decided to test a theory that began to form itself in his brain. "You must be very fond of her," he remarked with a touch of stress in his voice, before adding: "She has probably made many friends downstairs."

Carson's face was an image of professionalism and composure. His eyes were not exactly so. "Elsie Hughes is held in very high esteem, milord. By all of the staff. She is an invaluable asset to this household, and I believe she could be staying with us for many more years—provided that there are no accidents that would prevent it."

That was a very butler-like thing to say, Robert mused, keeping a sharp eye on Carson's impassive features. Fortunately, he had known Carson long enough to realize the other man didn't mean anything even remotely related to falling off ladders.

"I shouldn't think so," he answered, turning away from Carson and walking purposefully to retrieve a journal from a shelf in the corner—the very reason he'd walked into this room for in the first place. "She is a very capable woman, and as long as we make sure no external circumstances threatening her stability, she should do very well for herself. I trust in the infallibility of her judgment." He paused and turned back to Carson, tinting his voice with challenge just so. "Do you, Carson?"

"Certainly, milord." The other man's face remained completely calm, but from the gentle tick in the corner of his lips Robert understood that the challenge had been accepted. Very well, then.

Let the best man win.

He sipped on his evening brandy, staring blankly into the dying embers stocked in the fireplace and frowning upon the fact that he and his butler clearly fancied the same woman. How cliché, he thought with amusement; had it been made into a drama, he would have left the theatre during the first intermission: but in real life, the prospect seemed infinitely more fascinating and complex.

Did he actually intend to pursue her? A maid in his own house, right under his family's—his wife's—nose? The first, spontaneous answer was: yes, he did. But did he have the right to?

The door behind him opened, and he frowned at the fire, not wanting to face Carson again this night, not even to tell him he wouldn't require a refill.

The quiet rustle of fabric told him, before the standing hairs on his neck did, that it wasn't, in fact, Carson that entered the room.

His mouth went dry, so he gulped down the last of his brandy and stood up, taking a moment to marvel at the way the red glow made her hair look like a crown of gold and rubies. "Is there anything I could help you with, Miss Hughes?"

Her gaze held his, unwavering, as she closed the door behind her and stepped into the room, until they were separated by no more than four feet of air.

"I believe we should talk, milord."

TBC…