So, I start with major apologies, because I know this is much later than I promised and I have no excuse really - just that life got in the way. The announcement of the film has made me realise its time to publish what I have of this story though, one bit at a time, in the hoe that posting it will make me finish it off. I think I am still five or six (maybe more) chapters from the end but who knows. A review, would of course make my day!

To zaibi12, I thank you for waiting for this, and reading it and being lovely about it.

I dedicate this to sinceyoufellinlovewithme, not only because she has read the first few chapters for me and corrected my errors, but because she has crossed hurdles in the last year greater than I hope to jump in a lifetime, and certainly greater than even the ones Cobert are about to face in this.

From Paris to Yorkshire

Chapter 1- February 1888

He splays his fingers on his knee, searching out the loose thread his valet had offered to mend. He'd refused politely, just as he had been brought up to do, because it didn't matter. The thread was a symbol of just how much his life was unravelling. Just like the cotton which had been jarred from its place by his not being careful, he was being removed from the delights of touring Europe (not that he had actually gone to that many places) at the call of his father, more specifically the call of his father's diminishing bank balance. The telegram had been simple: return to London and marry a rich young lady.

Do his duty.

That was all he was really being asked. He had known for some years now the expectation laid at his door. His father had not married as prudently as he could have, resulting from an infatuation, and Robert had known for years the impact of this upon him was two-fold, his marriage had to bring as much money as he could find and a woman that could withstand his mother. The problem was Robert craved for something that was neither of these things. For him, and his parents called him 'terribly young and naïve' because of it, he wanted a companion in life. Downton is a large and daunting house that could easily leave a man feeling lonely, and the pressure of maintaining the estate and giving the villagers and tenants what they deserved was a prospect that he would rather not face with nobody to turn to. He wanted a wife, who unlike his own mother, cared more for the village and people whose livelihoods depended on him than one who cared for nothing but the next ball or dinner menu. He had never found a woman that fitted these criteria although to his parents' chagrin he had let many of their ideal rich and titled ladies slip by.

He was posed with a more immediate annoyance presently though, that had nothing to do with the fluttering fans and perfumed hair that were to greet him in London. It had much more to do with his having to abandon Paris in just over a month.

This is his second trip to Europe, and had lasted the last six months, had been in the company of his cousin James. It had all been arranged by his father which, after being summoned to his duty in less than a month, had suddenly fallen into perspective.

James had never been much like Robert; he didn't have a kind bone in his body and not a thought passed through his head that wasn't about himself. Thus, it came as little surprise to anyone that knew him, that the second his wife had given birth to a baby boy last August he was back on the continent, enjoying all the 'pleasures it has to offer.' The point being (which was now obvious) to educate his younger, less experienced cousin, in the ways of the world to prepare him for marriage. The fact Robert saw nothing right, or fair, in exerting himself on women for his own pleasure, had not stopped his cousin trying to persuade him that he should enjoy himself now 'before the marriage bed ties you to a woman who will not understand.' Robert had given in, but not to the extent his cousin would have liked.

His return to Paris this week, after many weeks in Berlin and Vienna, had enabled him to return to the one woman with whom he had felt comfortable the last few months; the only women (of a mere three) with whom he had lain more than once. The fact he had left James in Vienna with a bar maid he was 'absolutely not leaving' was an added bonus.

It wasn't that he loved Clarisse, or even overly desired her, but she was understanding and willing to listen to his droning on about his cousin or his parents with little complaint. Their meetings had not been completely driven by physical desires but more based on a mutual respect. He had met her when he had attended the theatre back in September, now five months ago, when he had booked a ticket at the small, local theatre near his hotel. She was an actress and as such he should have guessed that his going backstage following the performance to congratulate her (it was one of the best shows he had seen in sometime) would give the wrong impression. The result had been rather comical and after explaining his woes to her on an occasion three nights later she had offered to 'help him understand the failings of all British men and show him what women really wanted.' She had taken no money from him, despite his constant insistence. She had explained his being with her was advantageous because it forced other, more demanding men, away and meant she didn't have to pretend to want a man just because he wanted her; it turned out she was not a fan of the other half of her job despite its necessity if she was to survive (her pay was not nearly enough to live on). As Robert was not content taking advantage of any woman they reached a mutual pleasure in each other's company that was not solely based on sex. Robert learnt much of himself, it is true, but he also learnt much of a woman's more complex being. What he had known deep down all his life was put into reality, a woman has feelings and it was wrong to overlook them.

He wouldn't deny that his choice to return to Clarisse for his last month abroad was not completely free from his baser desires; the opportunity of a month to lie with her and allow himself, for the last time for perhaps the rest of his life, to have exactly what he wanted and needed was not an opportunity he was going to give up. He had liked to think, as he had been travelling back, that there was more to it than that, that maybe he wasn't quite so male in his instincts. That, perhaps, he wanted her familiar company and to share his worries with someone who listened even if they didn't understand.

However, the truth of the matter was becoming far more apparent as the last few lines of the opera echo around the hushed theatre. The more he watches her chest rise and fall as she sings and he studies the way her dress clings around her curves, the redness of her lips contrasting to her white teeth, the more memories from those months together before Christmas spring about his head and the greater the tightness in his groin. Her hair is piled and pinned to her head in a way that he knows will be a delight to take down one pin at a time, and watch as it cascades over her shoulders. He had done that once back in the autumn and had been mesmerised by the way the blonde ringlets danced on her pink nipples. He would have put these incensed feelings down to his being without any fulfilment of his desires for some months (as had been the eventual reason he had visited a woman in Berlin back in December after weeks of being there) but before he had left Vienna, the day before the telegram arrived, he had bedded a woman (the third of his trip).

No, this wasn't even about Clarisse, this was about being in control of something.

Anything.

And Clarisse he could control. He knew enough of her to know that she would let him do whatever he wanted. She would know he wasn't being deliberately harsh or wanting, but that his world was crumbling around him and he needed something to be his alone. He wonders if this was what drove other men all the time, the harsh reasoning of wanting to feel completely in control. It was new to him, at least in its relation to his baser desires, but he figured it was probably this tendency that got men the name of being demanding and forthright in bed. Certainly, he knew some friends who had married and been completely dumbfounded by how terrified their mothers-in-law had made their brides. Those stories and mothers' advice didn't exist from nowhere, it wasn't necessarily based on their own experiences, but Robert had listened to many of his friends explain that their wives had been told to 'prepare for the worst.' He knows instinctively the burning racing through him at this minute is his worst, but the realisation doesn't make him stop.

He is stood before the velvet curtain is down, his blood already pounding at the anticipation of what is to come. He withdraws from the scene around him, the babble of the French language and the laughs of the women as they waft their fans and realign their hair. He hears English too, lower voices (less excitable than the French) mixed within. He doesn't turn to look at anyone, to check he doesn't know any of them, and instead crosses the distance of the foyer, his thoughts consumed in his memories of Clarisse.

He remembers the taste of her skin beneath his lips, the curves of her collarbone and throat, the way she would lift her body into him at his touch. He knew he needed to feel that, not so much for how much he needed the physical element, but because those movements, her body reacting to his, will make him feel completely in control.

It takes him longer then he would like to cross the room, the volume of ladies' skirts hindering his passage. Once young lady looks up at him with bright blue eyes as he almost topples her in his haste. He apologises and thinks he catches the beginnings of a blush, but he doesn't look back, women blushed and fluttered at him all the time, besides, she was probably French. Eventually, he makes it to his destination and ducks inside the door that reads, 'dans les coulisses'- backstage.

The corridor always stank of sweat and perfumes and it was always far too hot. But Robert liked it, for him it smelt of their hard work, their efforts, and he wished that he had more purpose in his life, that he didn't just feel as though he was waiting for his father to die so that he could take on the responsibilities of an estate. He loved Downton very much, it was his home. But he felt keenly the duties to his tenants and villagers in a way he didn't think his father did. His father badgered on about profit and investments and this that and the other, but Robert saw the common pattern easily enough, everything was for Lord Grantham, not the people who slaved so hard in the fields. Robert wanted to be the ambassador for those people, and to help them as much as he could. He couldn't do that with his father alive, every time he brought it up, his father laughed. Therefore, he was going to have to employ these methods when his father was gone from the world, at the same time as negotiating whatever mess his father had left behind and his own life. He was going to be quite alone. Yet, nobody could seem to see his point that by having a sensible and intelligent wife, whom he respected, and goodness help him, maybe even loved, those pressures would be relieved by at least one element of his life being right. But no, duty called. Or at least, it did in a month's time. Now, now is his time. Downton was for him to worry about in a month, tonight he could focus on more pleasurable exploits.

Clarisse.

The heat prickles at him, an omen of what passion will succumb to his touch, teasing him as it sticks to his forehead. He catches the scent of her perfume as he nears the individual dressing rooms and his groin tightens at the remembrance of it filling his nostrils in a far more intimate setting.

Ladders rest haphazardly against the reverse of the stage set, with men perched on them resetting the various pulley systems for tomorrow's performance. This side of the set was currently being painted for the next production the theatre was running, no doubt Clarisse was already rehearsing her lines for that one. There was some type of landscape scene being painted onto the main back panel, with vast autumnal trees and a path reaching somewhere into the distance.

He shuffles his way between the people scurrying about, carrying chairs and other props. He ducks out the way of an angry Frenchman carrying a paint pot and exclaiming to one of the actors as he goes, obviously, he wasn't happy about some task he had been summoned to. One of the other actress' races down the corridor with a young man trailing at her heels, her laugh filling the narrow passage a second later as they find their destination. Robert feels a slight twinge at the realisation the gentleman was one he had seen with the young lady before, clearly, they are a couple, perhaps even married. They were happy, and content, everything he wanted but wasn't going to get from his life.

He slips down the passage that is perpendicular to the one he is currently walking and finds the darker scene more reflective of his mood. His head begins to swim with the anticipation that is to come and the skin on his back, that is so tightly hidden beneath his dinner jacket and shirt, becomes slightly sticky so he loosens his neck tie slightly to relieve the tension.

The door at the end of the corridor is open, that was how she left it while she waited for potential 'company.' She would take them to her flat across the street but Robert was not intending on making this any longer than it needed to be, not tonight. He didn't want a drink with her, or to read her lines with her. All he wanted was her to do as he wanted. The closer he got to her the more the desire stirred in his belly. He didn't care that it was the opposite of what Clarisse had told him all those months ago, about putting someone else above his own desires. She isn't his wife; he might never see her again. It mattered little how she felt, because nothing could be a worse feeling than knowing you are heading for a life that has been created for you by society and your parents, in which your own wishes are to be cast aside indefinitely for this duty.

He knocks on the door despite it being ajar. He wonders whether he should have brought flowers but the thought vanishes along with his composure when the door is opened by a man. It didn't surprise him particularly; it was unlikely he was the only man in the audience tonight who wasn't just attending for the show. The gentleman speaks with a fluent French accent, and Robert having had been taught enough to understand the basics, knows that he states, more calmly than he would have done, that the lady is with him.

What this gentleman does not bargain on, but Robert does, is that Clarisse always likes to see whoever choses to knock at her door. She had explained to him that people from other theatres often offered jobs this way, and she was holding out hope that might happen to her one day, she wasn't living a life where she could afford to turn everyone away. Sure enough, her head pokes around the frame and her jade green eyes sparkle at him.

"Robert, how lovely to see you." She steps outside the door, with a rushed statement in French to her companion, and shuts it behind her. She eyes him with a raised brow when he says nothing. The truth was he didn't feel capable of finding words when all he wants to do is push her back into the doorframe and make her react to him. Never in his twenty years of existence had he felt any emotion so fierce as the one he felt now. His anger, and probably panic (although that nestled deeper within him) for the next months of his life are all consuming. The only feeling he knows that was more overpowering is to have Clarisse, whatever happened he needed that tonight. "I guess you being here does not mean good things? You have heard from your father?" Her English was excellent, but what made it far more appealing was her accent, he knew how it murmured his name at the height of her undoing. The mere echo in his mind of that sound makes his trousers tighten a little more and he wonders how long it will be until he wasn't the only one aware of his predicament. "Come with me, he will give up and leave if I don't return."

She takes his hand and pulls him back in the direction he came. He lets her lead, quite content to watch the swing of her hips, which she certainly exaggerates for him, as they walk. The sequins on her dress look as though they will be uncomfortable against his skin but he is well aware that the flesh that rests below is far softer.

She pushes a door open and they enter a dark room. Before the door they enter through shuts, he can work out that it is a store room, a pile of boxes packed along the back wall and one small settee against another wall. When the door swings shut behind him he loses sight of everything, her hand the only thing giving him any kind of orientation.

He disliked the dark, one too many pranks by Rosamund when he was a little boy had truly put him off and since then he had always liked the comfort of a fire burning in his room to break up the monotonous black that descended at night. Tonight, the dark is nothing. Insignificant, compared to the hatred that is pumping in his blood for the parents who should be putting his wishes before anything, but weren't.

It is easy enough to find her face, her breathing is deep just in front of him. The second his hand makes contact with her neck and chin she drops his other hand and dances her fingers across his trouser front. He sucks a whistling breath between his lips.

"My, my you are wound up tonight, Lord Downton." He briefly wonders if she uses his title to provoke him but he doesn't have time to reason out the arguments. If she had, it does the trick, his anger flares in his head and his muscles relax before tensing instinctively, shoving her hard in the direction of the settee.

Cora shoves her hands deeper into the muff, splaying her fingers she can feel the strands of fur tickling between her fingers. She has the hood of her coat pulled up over her head, to keep her from the cold. She had left her hat in her room, without her maid she couldn't fasten it securely herself. There was no way she was going to ask Emma to dress her at this time in the morning. She didn't doubt that Emma wouldn't tell anyone Miss Levinson had taken a walk alone in the early hours of the morning, but someone was sure to find out somehow and Cora was determined that the only quiet time of her existence wasn't going to be taken away from her. Not when her parents had taken everything else.

She loved learning, the lessons with her governess and the tutor her father had hired, he was determined she was going to be more intelligent than the average young lady. He had always told her he wanted her to learn more than just how to dance, sew and organise staff. She had to all intents and purposes been given a boy's education but at home rather than school. History and art had been her favourites, particularly linking the history with the art. Cora wanted nothing more than to be shipped back across the ocean and have more of those lessons. The ones her mother stipulated (drawing and dancing) were done too, of course, but her father had always been good enough to keep them to a minimum. Yet now, her father seemed to have completely forgotten the sensible young woman he had wanted to make her into and instead was allowing her mother to drag her halfway around the world to do nothing less than dancing and flirting in order to gain herself a husband.

An English husband. Preferably titled and rich.

These early morning walks were the last thing she had left of herself and she had been making the most of them while she was in Paris. She was well aware upon arriving in London there would be many more people watching her and she wouldn't get away with it so easily.

Each day she walked somewhere she had seen on her trip so far, taking the time in the half-light of the rising sun to study the architecture of the buildings her mother had not let her look at when they had passed.

She would watch the French going about their morning activities and feel nothing but envy at them having a purpose, however small. They each had a role in the society, or on a smaller scale within their household. Cora didn't know what it felt like to have that purpose. She had always seen herself defying her mother and pursuing the studies she loved so much to teach others. She had always supposed her father would back her decision. Yet, she had been let down. It was becoming abundantly clear that her father's history, maths and art lessons weren't about her making her own way in the world; they were lessons that were more conniving than her mother's because they had hidden their identity. Her father had been moulding her all these years to be the best wife, a woman who could add to her husband's skills.

Then there was the finer, subtler, points of the matter. Her mother wants nothing less than for her to rich and titled, and she knows her father sees the advantages that might offer him in business. Cora wants neither money nor title. She wants nothing except to live her life with someone whom she can trust, respect and love. She watches her parents and they possess none of those feelings for each other and it was the source of a quiet house except when there are arguments. And yet, the only thing they did seem to agree on was taking her hundreds of miles from home, to a new culture to get married just to better their own lives.

She isn't completely naïve, she knows that love is not a factor people associated with happy marriage, not amongst her class anyway, and neither is it something she is going to find in the length of time her mother has stipulated for her to 'find a Duke in London.' But it doesn't stop her from hoping that maybe she will find a man whom she can learn to love.

Her anxiety over the matter is not just brought about by her anger at having been dragged from the studies she loved so very much (she couldn't see why she couldn't keep learning at least until she was twenty) but also because of the stories she had heard from Isabella. Her friend had travelled to Europe, just as she is now, this time a year ago, she too had spent some weeks in Paris adding to her wardrobe before arriving in London in mid-March, where she had become engaged to a Duke within little over a month. Cora remembers how full of joy her letters had been, exclaiming over his handsome features and the estate he had owned since his father's death. Her letters had spilt over with praise for the young man who was clearly capturing her heart. Not long after the wedding though the letters Cora received changed. She talked less of his wonders and more of how little she saw him, instead contenting herself with his large library. She noted how he always seemed to be busy with work and that the country house was large and too quiet for her liking. When Cora had announced her own upcoming plans to make the same journey Isabella had, her friend had warned her to keep her cards close to her chest that, 'you will be an object of fascination without drawing attention to yourself. And, the men that seek you out aren't to be trusted because most of them only want your money.'

Again, the hidden message that she will not only be an outsider to the society she was heading for, but that the only men who were likely to be interested in her were the ones who needed more than a woman of their own breeding could offer, gave her no surprise. Her learning had included the different methods of inheritance around the world and she was well aware that had she been English her father's fortune would not be spread evenly between her and Harold but that she would have a small settlement (in comparison to the whole) as a dowry and the rest would be Harold's. She had wondered in the last few weeks if those lessons had been designed specifically by her father to warn her, subtly, of what was to come in her life. To tell her to be on her guard. She had only wished she had warned her friend.

The cobbled streets are wet from the rain that has thundered down most of the night, and largely kept her awake, so she takes care with each step. A soiled gown would be difficult for her maid to conceal and then questions would be asked. The gas lamps throw beautiful colours across the stone, highlighting the imperfections in the shaping, the ruts and cracks that makes each individual. It was quite romantic really, and she briefly lets her mind wander to what it might be like to walk the streets with a man holding her hand. She closes those thoughts away, attributing them to the fact that Valentine's Day two days ago, and her own diminishing prospects of a loving marriage were letting her dreams overtake reality.

This morning's destination was the theatre, two streets from the house her parents had rented, that they had attended last night for an opera. It wasn't a large theatre, not like the ones they had visited in the heart of the city but it had made a good show of Magic Flute last night. In fact, Cora had rarely seen an opera performance be so convincing. What she had been more taken with, though, was the architecture of the building. Her mother, of course, had not let her stop to admire it and although she had got her fill of the interior last night, the large dome and spacious foyer with the spiralled staircase, she had not studied the exterior to the extent that she had wished to.

Remembering the spacious foyer, and her craning her neck to look up at the beautiful painting of cherubs on the ceiling, brings a blush to her cheeks because of how she had been foolish enough to walk into a gentleman who was trying to cross the crowd because she wasn't paying attention. He certainly hadn't seemed to pay her much attention apologising quickly in English and then French. It would have been less embarrassing for her if he hadn't been the object of some fascination to her already that evening. He had been sitting in one of the boxes across from their own and she had watched him with some curiosity as the opera had progressed. His brow hardened whenever the main actress was absent from the stage and his attention seemed to wane. When she returned, his gaze seemed to take on a fixed stare that made it appear as though his thoughts were a long way from the opera. His hurried departure the second the curtain hit the ground, without so much as one clap, had confirmed what she had already known. The gentleman was in a hurry to meet with the lady. Cora knew enough of the world to know that men were allowed certain experiences that a respectable woman was not allowed until marriage. What they were, she knew not, she didn't think she wanted to know. She knew enough from home to know that women in the acting profession were deemed suitable for whatever the activity was, and that many men sought them out rather than ladies of the street.

It wasn't his infatuation with the actress that had originally drawn her attention though. Oh no, it had been her own acknowledgement that she thought him handsome. He had hair the shade of dark hazelnut that seemed to have errant strands that tumbled across his forehead in a delightful irregularity, and even from the distance she sat from him, she recognised his shoulders to be broad and manly. When she had encountered him in the foyer her blush hadn't just been for bumping into him but also finding that his eyes were a startling shade of blue she had observed nowhere else.

Drawing up to the theatre she clears her head of all those tumbling thoughts and instead immerses herself in the architecture she had come to study. The dome that had looked so stunning from the inside was a marvel from the outside. She tips her head back to observe how each fragment was curved to fit exactly with the next. The windows, which had been obscured from the inside with curtains, had an elegance that broke up the bulkier appearance of the façade. The arches of pillars that ran down the right of the theatre on have elegant swirls at the bottom and top, much like what she knew people saw on the ruins in Rome. Above the doorway was a plaque in French, dating the building and naming its creator. In one panel flaps the advertisement for the current opera, in the opposite one the list of upcoming performances.

She is about to walk to the left of the building in the hope of seeing the dome from new angles and to see if the architecture shows continuity around it when a door on the right, between the pillars opens. From her position in line with the corner of the building she sees a gentleman emerge. The very same, blue eyed, gentleman from the night before. So, she had been right, his infatuation with the actress had not been imagined by her churning emotions.

She knows she should look away but she finds he can't. In the back of her mind she tells herself that there is no good reason for her to keep watching him, he might get the wrong idea, but a stronger part of her can't stop hoping that he will look up and recognise her. When he does look up from adjusting his hat she drops her gaze instantly, knowing that the slight start he makes was him at the very least acknowledging her gaze on him, if not recognition. She wonders if she should turn tail and head home, was that not what a respectable woman on the verge of being married do? She shifts her eyes to the right slightly, to ascertain what he is deciding, without lifting her head too much. She needn't have bothered trying to hide her glance, he is travelling a path that runs straight to her.

"Madam, you look quite lost. Might I be of any assistance?" It seemed he was an English gentleman, she contemplates not answering, he could be a murderer for all she knew, and pretending to not understand him but she reasons with herself that would be rude. The undercurrent of her brain telling her the real reason she turns to look him in the eye is much more to do with how handsome she thinks him, is almost, but not quite, buried beneath her 'manners.'

"I am not lost, Sir, thank you. I like to take an early morning walk to admire the architecture of the city."

"You take these walks unchaperoned?" Her previous fears about his possible motives resurrect themselves but something about the turn at the corner of his mouth, as if he were suppressing a smile only makes her turn and gesture at the way back, her hand extending an invitation.

"Yes. I cannot risk taking my maid because although I trust her very much, I expect her colleagues would notice her absence and my parents would hardly approve." She laughs at herself gently, why was she telling a man she had just met, alone, in the half-light, half of her story?

"What exactly brought you to the theatre this morning?"

"I attended a show last night and only really got to admire the interior. I wanted a chance to see the exterior in a better light." She doesn't add that she might have seen the interior better if she had not been so distracted by a handsome man. They fall into a slight silence and Cora wonders if she should release him from his obligation of walking her home.

"What did you make of the show, Miss, err, I am sorry, I haven't even asked your name." She risks lifting her eyes to his face to find his cheeks tinged with pink, and the hair she had last night so admired flopped messily across his forehead as he shifts it in agitation.

"Miss Levinson."

"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Levinson. I am Mr Crawley." She notices a hesitation before he gives his name, as if he was going to say a different name. Could it be that he was lying to her? Giving her a false name to confuse her?

"You hesitated over your name, Mr Crawley. Should I not trust you?" He colours rather deeply and crosses his hands behind his back.

"I was only hesitant about giving you my other name. Not for any reason other than the fact a lot of young women swoon when I say it, their dear mothers hearing wedding bells. In recent years, I have refrained from using it so not to cause undue pain. From your accent, I assumed you might be heading for the season in London in a few months. I hope by stating that, I have not brought up a false assumption and insulted you?" She cannot help but smile broadly, this young man was certainly quick off the mark.

"Your assumption is correct; I head to London in a month. I suppose I am to assume you are the son of one of the mighty English peers my mother does indeed hear wedding bells about?" He laughs very softly as she makes that remark which settles her nerves a little.

"My father is an Earl. The Earl of Grantham." She nods solemnly. She very well might see Mr Crawley again then. It was clear from his way of talking that he was unmarried. She chastises herself gently, she should not be getting all hung up over a man she had known three minutes just because he is handsome. It seemed unlikely that he wanted to marry anyway, and if he was not a fan of matchmaking mamas he was definitely not going to like her mother. Although maybe her mother wouldn't be interested, after all, he was only heading for an Earldom; he was hardly the Duke she dreamed about. They fall into a silence again that Cora finds more awkward than the last, at least then she hadn't discovered things that made her stomach heavy, the latest realisations did.

"I don't think I answered your question about whether I liked the performance last night. The answer is that I did, I have rarely seen an opera that despite having, perhaps, not all the advantages of money, had tremendous acting and singing."

"I quite agree." She sneaks a look at his countenance, wondering if she is brave enough, and he prepared enough, for the next words she is contemplating saying.

"The lead actress was particularly compelling don't you think Mr Crawley?" She watches him nod once, his lip disappearing into the clasp of his teeth. "But I imagine you might know better than I the finer merits of her character?" She felt like Miss Elizabeth Bennet upon meeting Wickham after his marriage to her sister; teasing him but never quite admitting what she knows. He coughs and colours, and she can't help but smile lightly, her grin spreading wider as he focuses his eyes on the ground. "I am sorry Sir; I have shocked you with my manners. And indeed, it was quite wrong of me to bring such a thing up." She notes that he has recovered enough at least to raise his head if not to look at her.

"You did shock me. But more because I have been brought up in a society where women don't understand the intricacies of a man's life before they are married." It seems it was her turn to look embarrassed, her mother would not be pleased with her mentioning such things in polite conversation, it gave the wrong impression.

"Believe me sir, when I say all I know is that men are allowed to do certain things before marriage that are not permitted for respectable women. I know no particulars. Actresses, I believe, perform much the same role in every society, I doubt the French actresses are exempt from their additional, unspoken role in the society that is also taken up by women of the profession in America."

"I never doubted your innocence, Miss Levinson, I can assure you." She drops her head in a small nod to acknowledge that his subtle apology was accepted.

They walk on largely in silence, Cora quite content listening to their steps echo in tandem. She is conscious of the way he walks, his long stride that seems to have a gentleness that she wouldn't have expected of his large frame. He keeps his hands behind his back but he can tell from the slight movements his shoulders make that he was likely twisting them about. He only looks at her when they are speaking. They discuss the other attractions in Paris and places they have both dined. She explains her mother's determination to visit every boutique while she would much rather tour the bookstores and museums.

They reach her street not ten minutes after having met and she tells him she is happy to go the rest of the way alone.

"I insist Miss Levinson that you let me take you to your door, or perhaps a back door, seeing as you are not supposed to be out." He smiles brightly, dimples appearing on his cheeks as his lips turn up further. His eyes are made brighter by the expression and she can do nothing but nod her head and keep walking, to find words was too hard.

"This is me," She stops just short of the front steps, "thank you for walking me home Mr Crawley. Perhaps we shall meet again in London."

"We very well might Miss Levinson. Good day." He dips his hat and turns away, she puts her foot up onto the first step when she catches him turning abruptly in her peripheral vision. "Miss Levinson, before you go inside, one last thing. I think you ought to refrain from your walks, I would not want any harm to become of you." She dips her head briefly, closing her eyes. It was a very astounding sentiment coming from someone she hardly knew but however astounding, he held no power over her and she was not about to give up the only freedom she had.

She turns away, and he does also. She is not looking where she is walking, her thoughts swimming with a hundred fantasies that she should not be letting cloud her reality, and as such she misses the front door opening and her father stepping out.

"Cora," his voice is icy, and his eyes are sharp when she looks up into them, "get inside, now. Meet me in the library. And you sir," he raises his voice in Mr Crawley's direction and jabs his finger, "you better wait in the entrance hall." He spits the words and Cora can't remember him looking angrier. She turns to glance at Mr Crawley, but he is looking away from her, at the ground. No doubt he was wishing he had never offered to walk her home.