I know some of you mentioned how eager you were, looking forward to Sybil's season...well here it is! Once again, I couldn't keep it to 500 words (I'm such a bad short-story writer!) but I do love how our girl handles Larry here, and I hope you agree ;o) Thank you all for reading as always, and for your reviews, even if Larry does drive you crazy ;o) :oP

Some Enchanted Evening
June, 1914

"I'm only thinking what's best for you!"

"What's best for me!?" she gasps, staring at him with incredulous eyes. "I will decide what's best for me!"

He rolls his eyes. "You're behaving like a silly child."

"NO!" she hisses, shoving her hands against him much to his shock. Has she always been so violent? "No one, especially you, Larry Grey, dictates or assumes 'what's best for me'; I decide what is best for me! I and I alone! And what is best for me right now is freeing my presence FROM YOU!"

He watches in disbelief as she turns on her heel. Good God, this is hardly how he envisioned the evening going.

Several hours ago he arrived, dressed in his best, eager to be Sybil's first dance partner.

The bloody pretender beat him to it. But no matter; it's quite clear that Matthew Crawley prefers Mary's company, so after one polite dance, cousin to cousin, he's abandoned Sybil to fend for herself amongst the sea of wolves, just salivating at the sight of such a delicious morsel.

Have no fear! He will protect her, and before any of those hounds seize upon her, he's there, bowing and taking her hand in his, kissing it and asking her for the next dance.

She sighs and nods her head. Perhaps if he had been paying closer attention he would have realized something wasn't right.

"Are you enjoying your season?" he asks her as they dance.

"Yes, thank you," she answers simply, not bothering to meet his eyes.

"Are you feeling well?" he asks, his voice still filled with concern.

She looks confused. "Am I feeling well?"

"You suffered a horrible head injury last month."

Her face turns beet read, and she lowers her eyes, looking absolutely mortified.

"It's not your fault," he tries to reassure her.

Her head snaps back up. "I never said it was."

You're right; it's that damned chauffeur's fault! But he holds his tongue; once he starts raging at the little mick, he doubts he'll be able to stop.

"Damn liberals," he mutters.

She goes stiff in his arms. "What?"

He looks down at her, somewhat confused. "Forgive my course language, but…well, such things would never have happened in the company of gentlemen," he mutters. "But what can you expect amongst the rabble—"

"There were plenty of unruly Tories in that crowd too," she interrupts. "They are just as guilty for the fight that took place."

He snorts and rolls his eyes. She wrestles herself free from his embrace.

"Do not dismiss my opinion like that!"

"Dismiss your opinion?" he looks at her in confusion. "Sybil…" he takes her by the arm and practically pulls her to the balcony just outside the ballroom where they can have some privacy. "I am only speaking out of concern," he tries to explain.

"Well don't," she huffs. "You're not my father, my brother, or my beau, so there's no need."

Her words hurt, but he stands his ground. "But I am your friend; and as such, I think it is in your best interests that you refrain from politics, as it clearly is far too dangerous—"

"I like politics!" she retorts. "I am political! I canvassed for women's rights before the bi-election—"

"Good God, Sybil, do you know how dangerous that is? Are you mad!?"

She's growling at him. "Clearly," she mutters, and tries to push past him.

Why is she so angry? What's wrong with her? "I'm only thinking what's best for you!" And here they are.

Indeed, this is not how he envisioned the night going. He was going win her heart; he was going to woo her, sweep her off her feet, kiss her again, only this time she would want it.

But how can those things happen with her walking away!? Damn it, Sybil!

He wants to grab her. Pull her back, shake her shoulders, make her see reason.

But she's already claimed another dance partner before he can. So instead he spends the rest of her ball seething behind a potted plant, glaring at each and every man she dances with, and plotting ahead for the future.

She will be his.