A/N: Profound apologies for the delayed update (it's my new mantra) – I struggled with another chapter that I wanted to submit more than two months ago (which is now nearly done). Then, I saw the call for the Branson's wedding weekend on tumblr and decided to skip to this one instead (still missed the mark). I hate to try and write something that's been done (and done well) by many others, but this series would be incomplete if I didn't take a stab at it. My first version rambled along, and then in the midst of my frustration with it, I did something I never thought I'd do - I scrapped 13 pages and re-wrote from scratch. This is what popped out….

Thanks much to the readers/reviewers who have stuck with the story through the intermittent delays. (And to whomever nominated this story for a Highclere Award – that was such an unexpected surprise!)

Foojules – thanks again for the beta!

NO REGRETS

Downton, June 9, 1919

Exhausted from their five-day journey, Mary and Edith rode in silence as Downton's new chauffeur drove them home from the station. New, of course, being a relative term, Mary thought, observing the wisps of gray hair peeking from beneath Hodges' green cap. For six years they had sat in the back seat of this very car, indifferent to the man at the wheel. Never once did they ask about his family, his home, his education or interests. Mary suddenly realized that what they knew of Branson, they had largely learned from Sybil. How did their sister fall so deeply in love without it being noticed by anyone until it was too late?

With their father stubbornly refusing to travel for the wedding and their mother still recovering from the flu, Mary and Edith were dispatched to Ireland as the family envoys. The new life Sybil had carved for herself, the cupboard of a flat, the urban hospital, trams through streets of squalor, had shaken them both. Moreover, the Dublin they stepped into was fundamentally different to the Dublin they remembered. The city, the whole of Ireland, simmered with war. It was that realization that compelled Mary to try persuading Sybil to come back to Downton. Her entreaties failed, and the sisters parted that first night on eggshells.

But Mary's better nature, the one that desperately loved her baby sister, arrived at Mrs. Branson's doorstep the next morning bearing gifts. Sybil laughed when she opened the trunk of select books from Downton's library. "Won't Papa miss them?"

"I doubt it," Mary replied. "The two of you hardly share tastes in literature. But judging by the ledger," she continued with a thin smile, "I'm surprised Papa never picked up on your clandestine romance."

Tom was gobsmacked by the shiny new typewriter that was his gift. Mary finally broke the awkward silence. "Edith suggested it. And Cousin Isobel helped us find a reliable brand."

"Sybil wrote that you often stayed late at work to type out your articles," Edith explained. "Obviously I don't know much about marriage, or typewriters for that matter, but I thought a husband would rather be at home with his wife."

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice lacking its typical cocksure inflection. "Lady Mary, Lady Edith...I thank you both very much."

Humble Branson was a rare animal. Mary had witnessed it only once, when Sybil had been injured at the rally. Though doubt still plagued her, Mary was a pragmatist. The olive branch had been cast. It was time to move forward. "You know," she hinted, "it's customary for a brother to kiss his sister at moments like this...even among our kind."

"How do I know you're not just searching for a reason to call the authorities?"

"You don't," she replied with an air of mock snobbery. "You'll just have to trust me."

Tom looked taken aback, but took a hesitant step forward to peck a quick kiss on her cheek before doing the same with Edith.

"You take good care of her."

"Your father already threatened to set wild dogs on me if I didn't."

"By that, he meant me," Mary warned. "She is my baby sister after all."

With the wedding and Ireland behind them, Mary and Edith returned to England, hoping to calm the hostilities at home. Slipping into the library, each nodded a greeting to Carson as they stretched the travel fatigue from their legs. Lord Grantham sat at his mahogany desk, flipping aimlessly though a large book. He glanced up and forced an anemic smile. "How was your trip?" The question lacked the fatherly enthusiasm it deserved.

"Good," Edith replied. "Lovely, in fact."

Mary gratefully accepted a cup of tea from the butler, and sank onto the sofa next to her grandmother. "Dublin is certainly a different city from when we last saw it."

The Dowager's lips pursed. "I understand most of our acquaintances have left for more a more hospitable environment."

Mary smiled thinly over the rim of her cup. You mean 'our people.' "Not all of them. I did see the Kildares one evening and I caught up with Lady Drumgoole yesterday. She's big as a house, by the way, expecting another child soon."

The Dowager tsked. "Her mother, Lady Dunsany, was the same way when her confinement came. None of that family has ever carried life with much grace."

Cora stared at her husband's back as he turned another page in his book, detached from the conversation. Had the flu not sapped her of strength, she would have made the trip alone. "How was Sybil?"

Mary offered a reassuring smile. "She seemed most content when we left her this morning."

"And...Tom?"

Mary ignored her father's cough. "I doubt there are two happier people in all of Ireland."

"She seemed so mysterious in her letter about the wedding dress," Violet interjected, disapproval leeching into her voice. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"It was rather unusual." When her grandmother raised a brow, Mary added, "It was blue and white."

"My heavens. Was she going to a circus?"

Seated by her mother, Edith squeezed Cora's hand with an amused smile. "Apparently blue is not an uncommon color for bridal dresses in Ireland. And she had the loveliest braided hair – the Irish think it represents feminine power and luck."

"Well," the Dowager sighed, "she'll need all of that she can get. Any port in a storm, I suppose."

"Mrs. Branson made the dress personally, using the material from Sybil's jupe-cullottes."

"Then I shall write her a letter of gratitude for taking the scissors to those horrid things."

Cora stood abruptly, her pale face quavering under the threat of tears. "I think I'd like to lie down before dinner. But, I want to hear every detail." Edith took her mother by the arm, the two of them leading an inquisitive Dowager Countess from the room. She glanced back at Mary, the sisters finding themselves strangely allied for the first time in their lives.

"I'll be up in a moment," Mary promised. The door closed and an awkward silence descended. "Sybil sends her love," she said after a moment. A disinterested grunt was her father's only reply. She knew him better than most; indeed they shared the same tendency to confront life's challenges from behind a façade of indifference. With a sigh, she pulled the heavy leather-bound Bible from one of the enclosed cases.

Hearing it thud on a nearby table, Robert looked up, his brows wrinkled. "I can do that later."

"I don't mind," Mary replied flatly. Pulling a pen from the drawer, she searched for the correct page. The last entry had been scrawled, in blue ink, thirty years before. Thirty years that very month, no less. A loveless wedding that transcended into a happy marriage, she realized, and then smiled, content in the knowledge that her sister and brother-in-law were beginning their lives a step ahead. Her neat script marched across the next line. Lady Sybil Patricia Crawley married Mr. Tom Branson, Dublin, June 7, 1919.

"I should have known." His voice was close over her shoulder. She closed the Bible, her eyes following the library ledger as he dropped it on the table. "It was right there, under my nose."

"And what would you have done?"

He turned, staring out the tall west-facing windows, the late spring sunlight beaming a warm glow across the room. "Sent him away...sent her away. I don't know." The last words were accompanied by a defeated shrug as he padded to the sofa and sank down. Planting a hand on his temple, he stared at the cold hearth.

"She was beautiful." Mary's voice wavered. Her father started to turn, a hesitant but curious tilt to his head. "And she loves him, Papa, as he does her. So very much." Remembering the way Sybil and Tom had held each other at the docks earlier, she fought against a burgeoning envy of her little sister. Weary, but not only from her travels, Mary shook her head with a sigh. "Do I wish they had better prospects? Would I rather they not be in Dublin right now with the political unrest? Of course. I even tried to talk her into coming back with us. But this isn't her home anymore. It hasn't been for a while, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Do you think he'll take care of her...properly?"

"I do. Although I think theirs is the kind of marriage where they will take care of each other." She stared absently across Downton's vast landscape, her mind envisioning that dark-haired little girl who once scampered on her heels, a tiny peacemaker for her older sisters. "I know this isn't what you wanted for her..." She rolled her eyes as he scoffed aloud. "But she chose him, and we should accept that. He's part of this family now." She turned to leave, her mind wandering down the list of questions her mother was sure to ask about the previous few days. "You've always said that when the world conspires against us, this family will stick together. So know this: I will do everything I possibly can to support them when they come to Downton."

Lord Grantham sat motionless as the oak door resounded in the cavernous room. Perhaps his absence in Dublin had been a coward's escape, but he couldn't overcome his pride to escort her into that new life. Sybil had made her choice, and so had he, but he loved his daughter terribly. He wondered where his parenting skills had skidded off track enough for a daughter of his to find contentment with a man of low birth. Or had he, as Cora suggested, simply overlooked who Sybil really was? Either way, she would return to Downton – whenever that might be – as Lady Sybil Branson with the former chauffeur at her side.

Dublin, June 7, 1919

Home.

Mary and Edith had offered to arrange a short honeymoon for the newlyweds, somewhere south of Dublin by the sea. So you can be spoiled for a few days, they suggested, like you deserve. Sybil wondered why upper-class brides sought exotic locales after their weddings. Was it a means to escape a loveless cage? A consolation demanded of parents for casting their sons and daughters into oppressive matrimonial alliances? No, she told her sisters. We'll begin our lives together at home.

The wedding finally behind them, Sybil stood in their parlor and tried not to laugh as Tom's brother-in-law insisted on carrying in the remainder of their personal items. Perhaps because he was an outsider himself or perhaps because of his age (he had just become a grandfather), Michael Boyle had warmed to her quicker than the rest of the Branson clan. Standing more than a head above her, he was a gentle giant with thinning red curls, mischievous green eyes, and a propensity for practical jokes. So, when he stopped by their door with a twinkle in his eye, she grew suspicious.

"Well, children, I think that should do it," he declared, mopping the sweat from his brow with his cap. He secured it with a flourish and his round face softened with mock solemnity. "I can hardly make you for a husband now, Tommy. Seems like only yesterday I was coming over to the Branson cottage at Murlough asking for Betsey's hand in marriage. And here comes her baby brother, tottering up wanting to climb in my lap, all blonde hair, big blue eyes...and a runny nose." Tom moved quickly to shove the burly man out the door. As it began to swing closed, Michael rumbled with laughter. "You know, when I put that bed together, I'm not sure if I tightened all of the bolts and screws..."

The door clattered shut, engulfing the flat in silence. "That doesn't bode well," Sybil quipped.

"I'm sure he's just joking about the bed." Tom's voice lacked its usual confidence.

"Knowing Michael, I wouldn't bet on it." After all, it was Michael who had pulled the wedding ring from his pocket attached to a seemingly endless string of green and orange ribbon that spilled out and pooled at the priest's feet.

They were finally alone. Over the preceding weeks, Sybil and Tom had often found themselves unchaperoned in his mother's cottage, but that solitude was tempered by Cathleen's clairvoyance, honed by raising seven children. Here in their flat, privacy held expectation. To Sybil's surprise, she felt nothing but relief.

Tom bent to kiss her. It was chaste, almost hesitant, as was his question. "Shall we dress for bed?"

"That's rather pointless, don't you think?"

Tom laughed and pulled her close, humming contentedly when her arms locked around his waist. He kissed her again, this time with the passion they had grown to enjoy. His hand drifted into her hair, pulling a succession of pins until her curls cascaded free. "My intrepid Sybil," he whispered reverently. "I love you so very much."

After her mother sent her off with a vague suggestion to 'have fun' Sybil had sought a candid conversation with her mother-in-law. You've nothing to be embarrassed about. 'Tis a natural thing that's been going on for thousands of years, Cathleen told her in a fit of chuckles. After offering a few details, she mischievously added, No man worth his salt wants a woman who's afraid of her own shadow.

Sybil's fingers toyed with the leather loop of Tom's braces. "I'm not particularly nervous," she said. "I expect it to be a bit tricky at first, but we'll find our way. I'm just ready to get on with it. We've waited long enough."

Tom's mouth curled into that lopsided grin that made her heart melt. "Then I'm at your mercy, Mrs. Branson. Lead on."

She tugged him toward their bedroom with an expectant smile. Unhurried, they helped one another undress. His task was infinitely more difficult, as he saw when she pulled her unbound hair over her shoulder to reveal an endless trail of tiny clasps on the back of her dress. "Well," he conceded. "Nothing about us has ever been easy, has it?" Laughter bubbled in her throat, and then softened into sighs as his fingers moved lower. Soon the dress pooled at her feet and he backed her to the bed. They laughed and teased; hands fumbled and bumped; mouths and tongues battled by instinct. They still weren't quite bare to the world, but they had plenty of time.

When they dropped to the bed, the iron frame wobbled and one corner clanked in protest. Both stilled, dumbstruck, until Sybil started trembling with infectious giggles. "I suppose this is the Irish version of a charivari?" Burying his face in her shoulder, Tom muttered a series of profanities. "You should have known better than to put Michael in charge of the bed, darling."

Tom rolled toward the edge of the mattress as gently as he could, groaning as his groin brushed against Sybil's leg, and shifted his weight to the floor. He cursed again when the frame swayed. "Don't move."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"No, I mean don't move, or it might collapse." He returned from the kitchen with a small canvas bag and plopped down on the floor.

"At least he left your tools..." Sybil propped her head up on her elbow and glanced down at him, biting back a smile.

"Fine thing this is," Tom muttered, flat on his back and clad in his under-drawers. "Fixing the bloody bed on our wedding night." Wrench in hand, he squeaked the bolts in place.

"I suppose we should have tested it."

"Hmph."

"If I recall correctly, you were the one who insisted we wait."

He reached up, pinched Sybil's knee playfully, and then began tightening bolts on the other legs. Her mind drifted back to those days during the war when she'd popped into the garage unannounced, sharing unfiltered conversation as he worked on the Renault. Sybil chuckled as he twisted the last bolt with a grunt. "I'm glad I married a man who's good with his hands. It should make tonight quite fascinating..."

Tom fumbled the wrench and dropped it squarely in the middle of his forehead. "Fuck." Pressing a palm against the rising welt, he squinted one eye open, both of them shaking with laughter. He clambered up beside her, bouncing a bit to test his handiwork. The bed issued a few feeble, but manageable, squeaks. "That should do it."

Sybil's warm hand came to rest at Tom's waist and he glanced down, his skin suddenly hot where she touched him. Her smile had softened and she issued a hushed request. "The lamp."

Except for a soft stream of twilight through the windows, darkness encased the room. Wordlessly, they shed the rest of their clothes and climbed beneath the covers. He felt his skin flush when her bare hip brushed his.

Sybil had often wondered what that first moment would bring. She was a nurse, after all, and assumed it would be a simple anatomical process of two parts plugging together. But, she soon learned, getting to that point was a complex dance. Arms and legs seemed simultaneously helpful and in the way; hands and mouths were everywhere, all at once. Still, they experienced equal parts blushing and laughter, until they finally found themselves settled in a lover's embrace. She could feel him, hard and warm against her stomach, accompanied by a not unpleasant pulsation between her legs. Just relax and do what feels natural, her mother-in-law had told her.

"Tom." His name escaped as a whispered plea. He reached between them. Right, she realized, everything requires a bit of direction. Her eyes caught his, though, curious as he slipped a finger inside: certainly not what she expected.

"Just to make it easier for you, love," he murmured, capturing her mouth, his tongue lolling softly over hers. She groaned as he added another finger, her hips shifting involuntarily to pull him closer.

Sybil was certainly not ignorant of a man's body, in any state, but had never connected anatomy and desire until her hand drifted down, wrapping around his length. She had also never considered the practical matter of size, and she suddenly flushed with lewd curiosity as to how this would actually work. As her palm brushed lightly across the taut skin, Tom hissed in her ear. "Let me," he whispered with a nervous laugh, stilling her hand. "I think we're both more than ready." And, together, they guided him.

She had been told about pain, but she didn't feel it. Discomfort, perhaps, as he pushed in slowly, allowing their bodies time to adjust. But she couldn't suppress a soft cry as he sank deeper. Kissing his apology, she assured him it would only be a moment, and commanded her body to accept his gentle rhythm. Once it did, that initial discomfort melted into memory, her body yielding, pushing, and pulling all at once. But, it was the throbbing that surprised her most, a subtle pleasant pulse triggered by his measured strokes. She found concentration on one sensation difficult when there were others to be had: his mouth capturing her breast (who knew that would feel so good?); his trembling hands roaming around her waist to coordinate a rhythm. Their soft moans merged and muted against the velvety texture of their tongues and after a few moments she felt his thrusts quicken and become erratic. He stilled, burying his face in her neck.

"Oh, love, I'm sorry," he gasped, frustrated.

"Whatever for?" His breath was labored and wordless against her cheek. "Tom, I'm perfectly fine..."

"Right, but...I was too quick," he whispered. "I wanted to wait...you didn't get to..."

Her brows furrowed as he sputtered. "I didn't get to what?" His eyes widened, dazed, at her earnest expression. And then she laughed abruptly, pulling him into a kiss. "I'm not completely naive, darling." Relieved, his head dropped to her shoulder. She snaked her arms around his back, her giggles vibrating against his shoulder. "It's only our first time."

"I wanted you to enjoy it..."

"I did," she insisted and kissed him again. She had enjoyed it: imperfection, discomfort, and all. And she would remember it, because together they conquered the world in their own small space. All of her doubts and fears had faded away as they rocked together, finally surrendering modesty, vulnerability, and insecurity to trust.

They lay awake for a short while; their breathing grew steady as fingers traced random patterns on over-sensitive skin. Eyelids heavy, they kissed lazily and nuzzled noses, sharing whispered memories of the day. But the day, and those leading up to it, had been exhausting. Eventually the sounds of fellow Dubliners outside the window lulled them into an early sleep.

Sybil awoke sometime later to Tom's mouth, soft and warm, sweeping behind her ear. She moaned huskily, her skin charged from slumber by his fingertips charting the contours of her hips. The soft hair on his chest tickled her back; she smiled, slowly remembering where she was and what they had done. Rolling them beneath the sheet, Tom settled above her, kissing her eyes as they fluttered open. The sole of her foot brushed up his calf; she felt his erection, ready, eager, against her thigh.

He fished for an appropriate sentiment, but all his love-soaked mind could come up with was "Are you alright?"

Her fingers traced the welt on his forehead. "Are you alright? My virtue wasn't the only casualty, you know."

Their laughter fused into a kiss. No longer fettered by fear of the unknown, they were bold, playful, impatient. Sinking into her more easily than before, Tom's breath shuddered as he shifted closer, rolling his hips to find a rhythm Sybil would enjoy. Her hands drifted low, palming his backside; her fingers burrowed into the flesh, urging him to move faster. That elusive pleasure that had earlier hummed beneath her skin began to sing again, rising higher as their hips collided gently. The bed frame provided a serenade of squeaks. Accompanied by its occupants' uninhibited sighs and moans, it composed an erotic melody as Sybil came for the first time. She decided she rather enjoyed it.

Liberation.

Lady Sybil Crawley had experienced it in various forms. She felt it in Ripon at her first political rally; the days she spent canvassing neighborhoods advocating women's suffrage; the day her friend Gwen shed her old life as a housemaid and embarked on a new career. She felt it at the training college in York and during her long hours tending the wounded, and she felt it when her heart finally unlocked for the chauffeur. But, the morning she first rolled over in their bed as Sybil Branson, she realized those moments were nothing compared to this. She had bound herself to another soul and yet she had never felt more free.

Another realization struck: I've never slept naked before. She giggled as the sheet caressed her bare skin, teasing her nipples and hardening them into sensitive buds, just as he had...last night. She propped on an elbow, her hair splaying across her shoulders and back in a snarled mess. The sunlight reflected across Tom's skin as he slept; his hair, almost blonde in the morning rays, flopped loosely on his brow. The tangled sheet dipped low across his hip, hiding the end of the soft trail of hair she'd first navigated with her fingers only hours before. A now familiar heat coiled in her abdomen. How could anyone not want to wake to this? she wondered, and snuggled closer.

Her husband inhaled sharply, his face twisting with an impish grin as one blue eye peeked open. "Haven't you worn me out enough?" Brows aloft, her fingers teased the hem of the sheet in anticipation. She laughed when he nudged her back, his lips leaving a moist trail across her cheeks and lower, beneath her jaw to her neck. His whispered 'I love yous' vibrated against her skin. Strangely self-conscious in the light, her elbows locked the sheet to her side as he moved to lift it away. Tom's mouth pressed against her shoulder, and he shook his head, murmuring, "You're beautiful. We're beautiful, together, like this." And she believed him, allowing the sheet to slip from her fingers. Her eyes drifted shut as mouth captured one breast and then then other. As his tongue danced around each nipple, she was powerless to stifle a guttural moan.

Bathed in Dublin's dawn, they made love again. Perhaps it was the morning light leaving nothing concealed, or the lingering fog of sleep, but they moved slowly, dreamily, like steam pouring into one another. She watched his face as he moved above her, fascinated by the concentration, his eyes adrift in a sea of pleasure. Forearms shaking, he bent down and teased her ear with a whispered breath, reminding her to move with him. It was all so new, she had forgotten the choreographed steps they started learning the night before. Emboldened, they rocked faster, laughing each time they lost and found their rhythm.

Feeling his release build low in his back, he groaned into her mouth, his mind and body battling to prolong the act. His hand fumbled downward, tugging at her calf with a gasp. "Pull them around my waist." Sybil cried out as the simple shift buried him deeper. Both stilled, eyes locked, blinking in awe. "Is this alright?" he whispered, afraid if he spoke louder, the vibration alone would send him over the edge.

Oh, God, yes, she wanted to scream, but only managed a nod. Tom settled against her, collapsing to his forearms and furrowed his hips into hers. Sybil had once overheard a few of her bolder nursing colleagues describe their illicit love affairs, suggesting bodies shattered in torrents of pleasure. Such a laughable notion, Sybil had once thought, until his hand slipped between them. She cried out again, her body trembling and clenching around him in a succession of waves, an earthquake compared to before. Her head flopped back into the pillow, his muscles quivering beneath her fingers as she clutched his back. A soft grunt broke his erratic breath as he spilled into her. Strangely enough, she felt that too, an eddy of heat as his thrusts subsided. Heavy, her body seemed to sink into the mattress, her limbs boneless under his weight. A euphoric fatigue coursed through her, yet she felt gloriously alive. And in love. Tom tried to roll away, but her knees locked tight around him. "No, not yet," she breathed. "I want to stay like this." I want to stay like this forever.

Their rumbling stomachs forced them from bed. Sybil snickered as Tom rolled upright, his feet hitting the floor with a muted thump. He stretched, the muscles of his back and arms undulating beneath his skin. Watching him saunter to the wardrobe, Sybil felt her body flush again. Does this feeling ever stop? Glancing over his shoulder, Tom caught her eye and tied his robe with a wink. Arms wide, she collapsed into the pillows with a laugh, the sunlight heating her skin. She smiled knowing that there wasn't a happier soul in Dublin, save one.

Tom and Sybil had navigated domesticity under his mother's supervision since their arrival in Dublin six weeks previous, but that experience paled in comparison to the novelty of their first morning together. After re-cooking their breakfast – Sybil charred the first attempt as Tom went downstairs to collect the milk – they stood at the window sipping hot coffee and observing their fellow Dubliners below. By the angle of the sun, she supposed it was near noon, but somehow it didn't matter. Tom lifted the mug from her hands, setting it on the windowsill. She now recognized the power of his eyes and a delicious jolt shot through her. He bent to kiss her shoulder and she laughed – she couldn't help it, really – when his whiskers tickled her neck. "Somebody needs to shave," she said. The corner of his mouth curled mischievously before he nuzzled his whiskers against her again. She squealed when he hoisted her in his arms and stumbled towards the tiny washroom.

They bathed together, her cultured modesty distilled into a laughable memory. He shaved, humming a happy tune, while she sat opposite him in the tub and held up a small mirror. Situated above Mr. Murphy's bookstore on a quiet corner in south Dublin, the cozy flat offered little space, but a few luxuries, the washroom being one. Sybil insisted it wasn't necessary, but Tom had negotiated a lower rent in exchange for a few hours at the store each month. Watching him soak in the warm water, she sensed his sacrifice had an ulterior motive. Her foot slid up his thigh. He jerked and cast a warning smirk. "Careful," he said, the razor held a safe distance from his neck. "I doubt the landlord would appreciate bloodstains on the floor."

Once the water had grown cold and Tom was shaved to Sybil's satisfaction, they scampered back to their room, leaving a trail of shallow puddles in their wake. Tom popped a towel behind her, eliciting a yelp, and then roped it around her waist to prevent her escape. Tumbling onto the bed, they teased and nipped, rollicking like two children unleashed on the first warm day of spring. Breathless, they collapsed onto their sides. His fingers sifted through her hair; she winced with a laugh as he hit a snag. "Ahh."

"Sorry," he said, and then padded over to the bureau to retrieve her brush. She lofted a dubious brow. I've seen you do it," he insisted, settling behind her.

"My hair isn't as cooperative as the rest of my body."

With a smirk, he toweled her tresses before trying to tame them with the brush. She was right – it wasn't as easy as he thought, but found himself apologizing less after a few moments. "I'm thinking of cutting it short," Sybil confessed, hoping conversation would distract her from the occasional twinge. "It would be so much more practical and less time-consuming in the mornings when I get ready for work."

"If you like."

"You wouldn't mind?"

"Well, I'd prefer you not to be bald, but it's your hair." Tom set the brush aside and tested his efforts; the damp strands sifted through his fingers like silk.

"It would be quite a change." She turned in his lap, her arms around his neck.

"And this isn't?" His palm snuck through the collar of her robe, molding her breast. Dipping his head, he drew it into his mouth, lapping gentle caresses across the peak. She shivered as he whispered against her skin, "I should think a woman like you would welcome change."

Her hand dipped low into the folds of his own robe, delighting when he hissed at her touch. "I do," she replied with a wicked smile, her fingers tracing the veins beneath his skin as he grew hard. "I like change very much."

Drained and sated, at least for the moment, they dropped into a tangled heap of arms and legs. Unnoticed, the sun had shifted to another window, its beams cascading down on the two lovers. Conversation replenished their strength – she found it the greatest aphrodisiac – and they ticked through a series of random curiosities, questions that their rush to the altar had left unanswered. "What side of the bed do you sleep on?" Sybil asked, snuggling into Tom's side.

"It's a little late to be asking that now, don't you think?"

Her fingers twirled in the patch of hair on his chest. "It just seems to me that's the sort of thing a wife should know about her husband."

Wife. That sounds perfect, Tom thought contentedly and crooked an arm beneath his head. "All the beds I've ever slept in were fairly small, so the middle I suppose. What about you?"

"The middle."

"Of course," he snorted. "A big posh bed and you slept in the bloody middle..."

"That puts us in a bit of a quandary, does it not?"

He smiled wickedly then and flipped her over, eliciting simultaneous squeaks from her and the bed. "There," he pronounced smugly. "Problem solved." He kissed her deeply; she felt his body stir.

They made love and drowsed, indifferent to time as the afternoon waned into evening. They made sandwiches when their bodies demanded nourishment, but soon found themselves once again cocooned in their little corner bedroom.

As darkness fell, the room faintly lit by the streetlamps below, Tom yawned and nuzzled his lips to the nape of Sybil's neck. "What time do we have to meet your sisters tomorrow?" His voice was deep with fatigue and it vibrated against her skin.

"Nine at the Shelbourne and then we'll see them off at the ferry. I suppose we can get up by then." Disappointment crept into her sigh before she chuckled.

"What?"

"If I had married some aristocrat like my parents wanted, I would have changed clothes three or four times by now and been waited on hand and foot. But, the most I've put on today is a dressing gown; dirty dishes are piled in the kitchen, and our clothes are where we dropped them last night."

"Slob."

Her husky laughter reverberated against his chest. "It feels wonderful."

Tom pulled her closer, if that were even possible, one hand sliding easily between her wet folds as his hips burrowed into her. Her breath quickened when he murmured low in her ear. "You feel wonderful."

Sybil rolled in his arms. How many times have we done this today? She had lost count. I can't get enough. She bit the corner of her mouth with a coy smile, and slithered one leg across his hips. "I want to try something," she said. "But you may have to help me."

Tom's body twitched enthusiastically as she rose above him, the twilight painting an incandescent contrast across her ebony curls and the rose-colored peaks of her breasts. His eyes fluttered closed when she sheathed them together and began her own experimental rhythm. He should have known she would be a passionate lover, because passion defined her. His hips lifted to meet her thrusts – he may have mentioned God, or Jesus or the Mother Mary at that point - he wasn't sure. His mind simply blanked as she surrounded him, wet and warm, and oh so tight. He glanced up at his bride's glistening eyes. He felt it too - the liberation of having crossed the merciless gulf demanded by society and time. Squeezing her hands as she moved above him, he thought of that moment before the war on Downton's broad lawn when their fingers first instinctively laced. "We've come a long way, you and I. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a damn fool to have such dreams."

"If you are, then so am I."

"No regrets?" The question was tendered in a ragged breath.

Smiling, Sybil shook her head and leaned down to kiss him, her hips continuing that sweet rhythm. "No," she whispered against his lips. "None at all."

A/N 2: The wedding ring/string story happened with two of my dad's cousins – they were notorious pranksters.