A/N: HI GUYS. Remember that time I wrote a Valentine's Day story LIKE A YEAR AGO? I probably don't. This is endlessly embarrassing/awful of me, but I'm only now finishing up this little story. I am so very sorry that I let it go this long. But now that I have a little break from work, I'm trying to finish up some story loose ends before I move on to new stories! So, I hope you enjoy this long overdue foray into Valentine's happiness.

Robert knew that she was nervous by the way her fingers tapped tapped tapped against the wine glass in her hand. It was an old habit, ancient even, that used to drive his mother up the wall. Back when they were just Robert and Cora, before Lord and Lady and children and all the rest, during parties and dinners his wife could often be found off to the side of a room, clutching desperately at delicate glassware, her fingers drumming out nervous patterns as she tried to look as though she belonged.

But looking at her now, the crinkled skin around her eyes as they spoke softly, the softness of her skin, the way her smile grew crooked when he joked about this or that, he wondered if they'd ever really stopped being just Robert and Cora. When he looked at her, looked into her eyes, he saw his wife; he saw Cora. Once, not so long after they returned from America, he'd found her in their bedroom in front of the mirror with a look of vague dissatisfaction plain on her face. Brow puckered into a frown, she'd asked pointedly, "do I look older to you?" and he'd only chuckled, promising such a thing would be impossible, for she only grew more beautiful each and every day.

Now, though, he knew; Robert knew what the answer was. When he looked at her, he saw not the lines of age that had begun to settle around the gentle slopes and curves of her face; he only saw Cora. When he looked at her, he saw it all: he saw her standing at the altar, white orchids woven into her hair, as they promised their lives to one another. He saw her lying in their bed, clutching a tiny pink-faced baby that looked so like her as it squalled in her arms. He saw her running across the Scottish glens, following him along a holiday hunt, teasing him mercilessly when he missed yet another shot. He saw her quiet, ensconced in the library, holing grandchildren in her lap and murmuring stories of pirates and princesses. Looking at her just so, he saw it all—she did not look older, not to him; she looked like an amalgamation of their lives together; there was no separating the incarnations of the past from that of the present. They were and always would be just Robert and Cora.

He smiled at her again, pressing a hand to her cheek, and took another sip of his wine. Cora blushed. The tapping had stopped; the glass rested on the table before them. As their idle chatter stilled, Robert taking one more sip, he realized how quiet the house was. It had indeed been years since he was inside Eryholme. The picnic they'd taken a year or so before had succeeded only in parading his penchant for snobbishness, and he frowned to think on their conversations from that afternoon—he whining that Downton Place would be a silly name for an estate, and Cora insisting that there would be more than enough room for what really mattered. He hadn't known then, though he certainly should have, what exactly mattered most.

But here they were; though, it seemed like an age had passed. Perhaps it had. Perhaps they were indeed in a new chapter of life, if life truly had chapters. Perhaps that was only wishful thinking. Even still—there they both sat. And Cora smiled once more.

"You know," she hummed, voice low, "I thought you might be angry with me about all this."

"Angry?"

She nodded, glancing around the room and its ostentatious decoration: paper hearts of varying colors, great swaths of red fabric, a plate of pink frosted biscuits. "You were rather upset this morning when I left. And last night, too. I didn't want to lie to you, of course, but it would have ruined my surprise."

"I like surprises," Robert allowed, smiling for emphasis when Cora raised a brow in mock disbelief. "I like your surprises," he amended, shifting closer to her on the settee.

Cora grinned conspiratorially and leaned forward, pulling up the hem of her dress ever so slightly. She unbuckled each shoe in turn and kicked them off, hoisting her legs beneath her as she, too, moved a bit closer, answering, "I'm glad to hear it, after all these years." She leaned her head against his shoulder, then, and exhaled deeply.

Robert, reaching an arm round her back, his fingers resting against her shoulder, drew her into his embrace as they both settled back against the settee. He dropped a kiss to the top of her head, a soft floral scent filling his nose, and closed his eyes—allowing himself to relax.

Time passed quickly, as it always did when they were allowed a few moments of quiet togetherness. The room that had been bathed in the warm golds of sunset turned dark, and the candles flickered brightly against the windowpanes, dancing and jumping across the pale papered walls. It was easy like this, holding Cora in his arms, to forget all the past strife and pain; it was much simpler, much smoother, to think only of the present: to think of the way Cora's breath puffed out against his neck, and the warm weight of her against him. It made his belly tingle with the same nervousness and excitement of years long past—of years and times long forgotten in the daily bustle of their lives.

Again she hummed, content, sleepy, and he tightened his hold on her. Robert pressed another kiss to her temple, allowing his lips a lingering moment. "Cora." He whispered her name, lips to skin, and felt her shift closer still.

"Hmm," came her reply—only half in question, half in sleepy confirmation that she was still awake, still present in his arms.

"Cora. Darling."

"Yes?" She looked up now, head tilting up from his shoulder, and rested her gaze on his questioning visage.

Robert paused, wondering how to phrase his words just so. A breath, first, and then he looked down, smiling softly. "—Are you happy, darling?"

Her eyes crinkled and a smile stretched widely across her face. "Yes, my darling. I'm so very happy."

She reached up then to stroke the rough of his cheek, leaning forward to press her lips to his. He tasted of wine and of cologne and just as Robert always tasted and felt and smelled. It was familiar and tender. It was the calm after a great storm. It was her heart, inextricably tied to his. It was love, just as it always had been.