A/N Overwhelmed by the reviews. Thank you all so much. I'm very, very grateful.

Edith Crawley had uncommonly soft hands. No artist had any business having hands so soft. There should be callouses from years of wielding a brush and patches of rough from the affects of white spirit washing. Instead, they were silk - warm silk. A ridiculous, overblown description, but absolutely true. He moved their twinned hands to rest on his chest. The effect was to force her body against his. She'd be able to feel his heartbeat through the back of her palm, he could feel hers in the pulse of her thumb. Both were quickened.

"What are we doing Anthony?"

"Dancing."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know."

"We shouldn't."

He'd stopped moving them and instead raised the hand on her back to trace the line of her jaw. Powerless to stop himself he brushed his nose reverentially across hers, her hazel eyes wide. His lips were almost at their destination as he whispered his response, "You're probably right."

The recollection of the first kiss would surely not be supported by a second. In his mind the first kiss had become a creature of myth: beautiful, magical, and surely not real. A fantasy never to be borne out by reality. He was wrong, so very wrong.

Her lips were as soft as her hands, softer really, but they pressed and moulded to his with strength and purpose, as though they'd been waiting for the command, dormant muscle memory ordered to life. Her mouth opened in welcome. Glorious, abandoned welcome. His tongue met hers, a knot of bliss. It was so good, unconscionably good, to have part of himself inside of her again; to possess her as his own. Such an ungentlemanly thought, startlingly masculine, brutal almost. He thrust his tongue further, the tip briefly on the roof of her mouth and the back of her teeth. She moaned – a wondrous sound he wished he could hear over and over - and pushed her body into his, arms around his back and in his hair, fingers pressing into the nape of his neck, clinging on through the onslaught.

He didn't recognise this version of himself. The aggressive desire, the need. This was entirely new and completely alien; there was no thinking, he was always thinking, but not now. If it felt good he did it, and then he did it again. A simple formula. His hands were on her back and then her bottom, pulling her into his hips and his erection. There would be no misunderstandings about what she did to him, he couldn't say it, but he took the chance to show it and she gasped into his mouth.

If he didn't stop he'd have her on the floor of the hall. He pulled his lips away but continued to hold her, he couldn't imagine letting go.

Moisture tingled on his lips, left there by the warmth of her mouth, it cooled in the chilled air of the hall. Slowly, he opened his eyes. She looked thoroughly and properly kissed. Masculine pride puffed his chest, had he ever felt something so base? As if it was an achievement to make a woman look a particular way after an intimate act. It wasn't of course, but he didn't care, he was proud to have made Edith look that way. Chest heaving, eyes lidded in arousal, her pale cheeks blushing. He thought he'd possessed her with the kiss, but it was him who was enthralled, captive, owned; she possessed him. Fleetingly he wondered if he'd ever be free, if he'd ever belong to himself or anyone else ever again. Perhaps he didn't want to, he was hers, and that was that.

He kissed her again, softer this time.

She laughed into his mouth and he pulled away, startled, "this is not supposed to be funny, it's supposed to be quite the opposite of funny."

"Sorry, sorry, I-" she giggled, "I'm nervous. I thought you would shove me away again, but then you kissed me and, now we're kissing again. Its just – well - I have no idea what's going to happen next." She whispered, "It's all a bit much."

Two paths were set clearly in front of him. Rarely does life present such clarity. He knew the one he should take. A good man, a better man, would tell her that he was married, that his future could offer her nothing beyond a few excellent kisses. A good man would drive her home and let her go. She thought he was a good man, but, apparently, he wasn't one.

Edith Crawley tasted of mint and smelt of lavender and she made him feel a hundred feet tall, as though he was flying in clear blue skies.

He took the second path, "what do you want to happen?"

Anthony's heart was in his mouth. He thought he'd had the experience before - waiting for tripos results outside the Senate House, pupillage offers, his silk application, judicial interviews. In his long life he'd been made to wait, his mind running over all the possible outcomes. This was like none other. She probably only took a few seconds to speak, but an eon passed. Her eyes darted about; she rolled her delectable lips together and worried them with her teeth.

Then she was still and looking up at him, resolved, "I want to go back to your flat."

The second path was to be chosen by her, and she had chosen well, or terribly, really, but it was done and he was glad. Ecstatic.

He kissed her again, she didn't laugh this time. He pulled her through the hall and kissed her in an alcove. Then against the wall outside court 33. And by the exit and next to the big black gate, Jack chuckling as he locked up behind them.

The journey home sobered him up. He wasn't drunk, or even drinking. But kissing Edith had the same approximate effect as alcohol. He pulled up outside his flat and took several steadying breaths. He slid his hands off the wheel. Perhaps he should keep them there, then he wouldn't be tempted to put them on her cheeks or in her hair or on her hips or, well, anywhere and everywhere on her person. He tied his fingers together and held them firmly in his lap.

She was looking out of the window, it had misted up, so it was a fiction, there was nothing to see outside the car.

He cleared his throat and she turned to meet his gaze with a sheepish smile. A wonderfully awful smile. Delicious guilt and happiness and desire all wrapped up. He wanted another kiss, and another, and another.

But it was time to be sensible.

Sensible. He must be sensible.

But he wasn't. He leant across the car, the gearstick jammed into his hip, he didn't feel it because he claimed Edith's warm, beautiful mouth.

She grabbed at his lapels and pulled him closer, a deep tangle of tongues. Then she pushed him away. They sat in that position for several moments, breathing deeply, her hands heavy on the fabric of his shirt.

"We should talk." Her voice was gravelly, her breaths still coming in heaving gasps.

"Yes. We do need to, I think." They did but it was the very last thing he wanted to do.

She let him go and brushed away the creases in his collar where she'd held it too tightly. They made their way up to his flat.

He sat her in the living room and tried to ignore his shaking hands and humming body as he made them both a cup of coffee. It was gone midnight and it had been a long day.

The drinks made, he dished them out and sat on the coffee table, directly in front of where Edith perched nervously on the sofa.

With a deep breath he asked the question which had bothered him for three days, her earlier explanation, given whilst they were at the restaurant rung horribly untrue, "Why didn't you come to Snaresbrook, really?"

She stared intently into the coffee cup, as though the answer might appear there, "I didn't want to see you." She pursed her lips and cooled the coffee with a stream of gentle air, "that's not quite true, I did, I really did, but I knew I shouldn't."

"Why?"

"I was afraid – I am afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

She looked at him, "Of you." She flashed an apologetic smile.

How terrible to have made her feel that way. That her predominant emotion when thinking of him should be fear, particularly when the idea of hurting her made him feel as if someone was trying to carve out his stomach with a blunt teaspoon, "I would never intentionally hurt you."

"I know, but, intentional or not, you did. You left after the kiss – there was practically a trail of churned up dust in your wake. You said we didn't suit. We do suit, we do –" she pointed at him, a look of grim determination on her face, "but you said it anyway - for some reason known only to you - and that hurt."

He stood, because his legs wouldn't allow him to sit any longer, he was agitated with his own stupidity and he had to walk it off. He pulled his hand through his hair and leant on the fireplace.

She was right. She was absolutely right. He'd hurt her and, of course, she was right to be afraid he'd do it again because he would. By not telling her about Maud from the off he'd all but guaranteed it. He was a complete idiot.

"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."

"Apology accepted."

"Edith, I –" he scrambled for the words. He didn't want to tell her. "I know you think I am, but, really, I'm not a good man –" She opened her mouth to interject but he silenced her with a raised hand, "please, let me make things clear, I obviously wasn't clear the other day. When I said we didn't suit what I meant was, you shouldn't want us to, I'm not right for you Edith. I'm a quarter of a century too old, too set in my ways. I am a cynic. A careerist, I don't know how to be anything else but a Judge. I cannot be the man you deserve or give you the life you deserve. I'm just not good enough for you. And I'm – I'm –"

I'm married.

He knew he should just say it. She deserved to know the whole truth. But it would be the end of them. The absolute end. The moonlight caught the edges of her curled hair. One strand escaped the rest, emerging in a crooked circle just by her cheek, casting a faint shadow.

He couldn't do it, "I'm just not good enough."

Eyebrows raised, she exhaled, "well, I don't accept a single word of that speech."

His hand clenched around the mantle, "you must."

"I don't believe I must do anything, but it's rather beyond the point. I don't agree with you – at all –" The last two words she spoke pointedly, as though they were their own sentences: At. All. "But that's what you think and so it's probably not the wisest idea on my part to run headlong into something. It rather brings us full circle: I'm afraid of you, and perhaps I'm right to be."

He took the seat beside her, the sofa bowed slightly, shifting her knee so that it touched his. They sat in silence and her hand crept onto his, she folded her fingers into his palm. He lifted her hand and kissed it.

For the first time in a long time Anthony had to swallow back tears. He felt all the emotions, all at once – happiness, desire, anger, sorrow, everything. He looked at their legs as he spoke, "I don't want to give you up."

"Believe me, I don't want to be given up." She ran her index finger across his cheek and over his chin, "you have a beautiful jaw."

"It's an odd compliment, but I'll take it."

She blushed, "I mean you're handsome generally – the other bits are good too, but the jaw is particularly lovely. Your eyes as well, I like your eyes." She kissed him, gently, and rested her forehead on his, she whispered, "Let's make the decision in the morning."

It took a while for the last sentence to penetrate into his mind. She found him handsome? Him? "Sorry what did you – what decision?"

"About what we should do – about this – us, I suppose. Get a full night's sleep, have some breakfast tomorrow, think about it, talk about it and decide once and for all with calm heads."

The plan was a good one, if for no other reason than he could subsist for a little longer under the illusion that they might have a future together.

"The morning, then. You can have the bed."

"No-no, I'll take the sofa, you have to work tomorrow."

"Edith, this will not be the first work night I have slept on this couch and I'm sure it won't be the last. Come on, this way."

So he finally got her into his bedroom. But he wouldn't be staying. How terribly, awfully ironic. He directed her to his chest of drawers and a selection of clean pyjamas she could borrow, taking a set for himself. He rooted out a spare toothbrush and bought her a glass of water from the kitchen. Then he was fresh out of excuses to stay in the room with her.

She sat on the end of the bed, shoes discarded, digging her toes into his carpet. Her pale skin was made somehow luminous by her bright white shirt, and string of pink pearls. Her blonde-brown hair mussed about her head, any design long since lost to a day of hard work and an evening of dancing and kissing. Her slender form seemed small in comparison to his bed.

How could someone who looked so innocent, so sweet, be bafflingly sexy as well? But she was. If she said the word he'd stay; he'd stay in a heartbeat. Take off every item of her clothing and worship her in his bed. The promise of their kisses finally fulfilled. It was a terrible idea, of course, because come the morning they were going to face the reality. But for now, if she said the word, he'd create a different reality.

"You're sure you don't want the bed?"

I want you, in the bed. He closed his eyes and pushed the words back down his throat, "No. I'm happy on the sofa."

"Goodnight then."

"See you in the morning, Edith."

He'd always thought he had the comfiest couch in England. The first night he fell asleep on it was one of the best nights of sleep he'd ever had. The fabric was soft and somehow the pillows provided the necessary support and yet enveloped the body with warmth. Tonight it was a brick, or a board of needles. Tonight, it was torture. The clock on the mantel was inexplicably loud, second by second ticks slicing through the darkness and into his brain. His busy, busy brain which could think only of Edith, in his bed, for the first and last time.

He read a few pages of The Song of Achilles but he couldn't concentrate. The words swum on the page, the same sentence over and over. He considered retrieving the whiskey from the dining room but he didn't want to be hung over, or still drunk, when he saw her again in the morning. He wished himself twenty-five, fresh-faced, free of his judicial robes, unmarried and deserving of her affection.

After several deep breaths he clamped his eyes shut and tried to sleep.

He started at the croaking door hinges and quickly sat up.

She was a vision. Perhaps she really was a vision, a dream. Edith stood just inside the room in a grey flannel pyjama top. An expanse of pale leg emerged from the bottom. His eyes travelled from ankles to delectable thighs, the soft junction where they met and disappeared beneath the flannel fabric. Completely inappropriate to stare like he was, his eyes snapped up to her face. She wasn't smiling, but there was no reprimand there, quite the opposite, she'd let him look at her, she'd wanted him to - standing stock-still for his viewing pleasure.

She bit the inside of her cheek, "hello."

"Hello." He was all but dumbstruck, it was the only response he could conjure up.

She held out her hand, as if she was going to ask him to dance.

That was not what she asked.

"Come to bed?"

His answer was immediate, "Yes."