If you're so inclined, you might spotify, youtube, or utilize whichever platform of choice to listen to the following song as you read along: Sonata No. 8 in C minor, op. 13, "Pathetique" by Beethoven.

Previously on Living a Little:

Crossing into the smaller library, Mrs. Hughes instantly regretted her plan once she attempted to put it into action. Mr. Carson, the dear man, would likely become upset at the very notion she now contemplated. But Mrs. Hughes picked up a slim volume and began reading hastily. Perhaps there was some chance of success, after all.

He had never partaken in the sort of hide-and-seek games the Crawley daughters played about the grand house. But he would be victorious every time if he were ever to play it. And now, he set off in search of his love on the main floor. He quietly stalked to the morning room. It was quiet, cool, empty. It needed the growing sunlight of a pleasant morning to be a room that he cared for, personally.

Securing the door with stealth, he stilled for a moment, thinking he had misheard something from the library. Entering from the door furthest from the small library beyond the columns, he could feel the increasing chilliness in the room. But that's not what concerned him.

A faint sound, one he couldn't actually sort out while in the hallway, was marginally stronger now. He stalked closer, his mouth gaping and eyes bulging in disbelief.

Elsie Hughes, he huffed accusingly in his mind. She would never know that he had thought of her Christian name, had whispered it in the dead of night, on noisy trains in empty compartments, in their empty house the last time he visited it before putting their names on the title. Ever since their world had altered perceptibly through their actions together, grown more intimate after paddling in the sea, he had ruminated over her name in his mind. But he wasn't ready to voice it to her yet – not until they shared vows, shared a time reserved for them alone. He wouldn't say it with ease, probably, until they had long since lived in their cottage together.

But now, she was testing his reserves. He ventured closer to her - to the table before the small sofa - not venturing to speak until he had passed his lordship's writing desk. "What are you doing," he demanded.

Not fazed in the slightest, Mrs. Hughes responded, "What does it sound like? I'm finding something suitable for a dance."

"But the noise," he began to insist despite the instant tug to his sentimental heart.

"Could you hear the wireless when you were in the hall?"

His arms shook helplessly by his sides as he thought. "Not really, no…" he admitted, but still mortified.

"Well then," she insisted.

In his ears, they stood to wake the whole household. But he turned to look at the table that was home to the contraption. A booklet was opened, turned to a page detailing signal strength and volume control. She was determined, but that was readily apparent from the set of her jaw and hands on her hips.

She could tell he was torn but starting to topple. And her heart surged at his resigned yet flabbergasted expression. Reaching for his bent arm, she used it as an anchor to rise to her toes. Any remains of his discomfort petered out as her lips finally brushed his cheek. It was the first time she had kissed him.

The internal alarms began to quiet, allowing him to process the sounds emanating from the wireless. It's wasn't a boisterous ballad or a sensational popular song. It wasn't anything that he'd fear Lady Rose would infect the house with when they first acquired the device. Instead, a slow, instrumental song was playing.*

It enveloped them, this hopeful, simple tune. It called out to him to sway, to feel her in his arms.

Gazing in that masterful way of his, chocolate and flecks of grey drew her under his spell. She beamed back expectantly, with a dipped chin and upturned, glittering, sapphire eyes. These were looks of joy–of knowing that the person sharing their gaze was the object of and reason for the warmth that spread through them, for the contended feeling at the end of the day, for the blood surging through their veins.

She had always been the one to advance forward in these intimate situations. His heart had leaped when she moved ever closer to him on the night he'd proposed. It was their way. But now–with her kiss still warming his check, the soft music playing low, and those eyes beckoning him–he slowly closed the distance.

This was the moment, and he took it.

With the grace and poise of a titled lady, Elsie Hughes demurely took his outstretched hand. He bowed as regally as any earl, kissing her hand in his reverent, familiar way. "May I have this dance," he asked in that rumbling tone of his.

Her lips twitched. She couldn't help herself. "I thought you'd never ask."

His eyebrows raised in quiet amusement for a moment. But his other hand could not be without the feel of her beneath him for much longer. His movements were slow, deliberate. The heat radiating from her frame was delicious, lapping at his skin as his hand passed between the slight curve of her waist and her arm, intensifying as he rested it gently on the middle of her back.

His fingers faintly tested, feeling the fine, soft fabric of her dress, the edge of her corset that she'd kept to wearing after everyone else had done away with them. Of course he'd thought about it, wondered why, knew he'd never have a chance to ask why she kept to the contraption (those were questions he wondered if even husbands should ask). He shook himself inwardly, brought himself back to the moment and the music playing. He would ask her one day (after all, she was always happy to catch up with the times, and a corset seemed uncharacteristically old-fashioned), but not now.

Now, he savored everything about her – corset, and all.

The broad expanse of his back was hers to roam with her left hand, though she settled for minute explorations. She could feel the sinew and strength in him as he gently led her about in a gentle circle to the beat of the slow waltz on the wireless.

The crisp air of the evening had chilled her hands as she'd frantically read through the wireless manual. But now, he warmed every part of her. She felt the steady pumping of blood through his veins with her curled fingers encased by his, giving life to them both as they both danced on.

His lead was sure – solid yet delicate – placid yet full of earnest longing – as the music continued on. He took pleasure in how she held fast to him, demurely but surely palming his shoulder as they slowly circuited in front of the fireplace in the small library. His smile was muted, but his eyes could not hide his immense pleasure to be holding her. As his nostrils flared and a contented sigh filled his chest, he was increasingly glad he hadn't given in to temptation earlier and asked her to dance in front of everyone.

Both would have been in heaven and hell – embracing their betrothed, but unable to relish the feast for their senses.

Despite his concern about the noise, he danced on. Concerns fell away like layers of clothing after coming in from the cold to a raging fire. All that was left was her – her lithe, elegant frame, warm heart, and sapphire eyes. He was besotted.

For months and months, she had cratered under this masterful gaze of his. Her eyes had fluttered, her voice had cracked. It had been sheer disbelief, because, surely, he wasn't living a little with his flirtatious comments. But he had, had felt something deeper than she ever thought he would acknowledge even while her own feelings had crystallized.

His countenance now, amidst the shadows and slim shafts of light from the few lamps burning, it spoke to a part of her she long thought never existed. Tingling and contented, she couldn't look away, couldn't keep her upturned face from marveling at the man inside her embrace.

She would never have been this close had they danced together earlier that evening. If they had thrown caution to the wind, they might have managed to keep their secret if they had sworn never to look each other in the eyes. They communicated so much with a glance, and that was well before when their relationship became a matter that ran far deeper than professional regard.

But when looked at her so openly in his pantry prior to the ball, she knew that they would be helplessly transparent to all in attendance.

The entire world would have been privy to what they were doing now, locked in their own world. Each attendee would have borne witness to the loving caresses of her left hand across his solid back. They might have seen the way they inched closer to each other with each successive circuit. They would have observed their faces, uncharacteristically open in their celebration of shared joy.

But now their only witnesses were the leather-bound tomes of the small library. They cocooned the couple with page after page, of words of joy and happiness, of longing and respect, of heartbreak and humanity. And in the hearts of those hallowed volumes were the stirrings of the couple's friendship and love.

Clever turns of phrase and stunning visions from well-thumbed volumes had entered into their souls in a secret language. They had lain dormant, housed in their sharp minds until those passages transformed into something precious, something that connected their minds to their hearts that increasingly beat for one another. And when their hearts were ready, those secret words were decoded and voiced when neither could hide any longer from the plainest and dearest of truths.

To be continued.

A/N: *As noted above the story, the song playing is Sonata No. 8 in C minor, op. 13, "Pathetique" by Beethoven.

A/N: Rest assured, their little dance/evening is not yet over. I'm just trying to iron out the details of the last part. In the meantime, let me know what you think! X