Tom stood in the courtyard outside the kitchen, his mind relentlessly replaying everything Mary had said to her sister about Matthew Crawley.

In many ways, it was a warning, a harsh reminder that this nascent affair between him and Lord Grantham's eldest daughter could never go anywhere.

Mary wasn't destined for the likes of him. She was a member of the British aristocracy, the ruling class, and he was just a working-class man. Never the twain do meet. Of course, she would marry within her own class.

Mr Crawley might not be an aristocrat now, but he would be when he inherited the earldom of Grantham. Why wouldn't she consider him as a potential husband? And if not him, then it would be some other earl or a marquess or a duke, possibly even a prince. It certainly wouldn't be a lowly chauffeur from Bray.

Intellectually, Tom knew that. But it had still taken the wind out of his sails to hear her talk about Mr Crawley like that. Especially after the lovely, romantic afternoon they'd just shared. Truth be told, it had hurt him to hear her declare to Lady Edith that she could have Mr Crawley whenever she liked.

He was a fool to think there could be anything but an unhappy ending for him and Mary. An absolute fool. And he only had himself to blame.

He clenched his fists, tipping his head up and blowing out a breath. He wanted to scream, to get this awful feeling out of him, but he couldn't, not here, not so close to the house. He felt constrained, unable to leave quite yet and get away from everything.

The back door opened, and Thomas stepped into the courtyard, his cigarettes in his hand. He walked up to the arch nearest to where Tom was and leaned against the column, extracting a cigarette from the packet and tucking it between his lips. He slipped the packet into his pocket and pulled out a matchbox, struck one and lit his fag, all the time with his eyes on Tom.

Tom watched him warily, Thomas' presence adding to his sense of being trapped, stoking his bad mood. When Thomas continued to stare at him, he finally snapped.

'What?'

Thomas took a long drag on his cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs and then tipped his head, blowing a steady stream out of the side of his mouth, still keeping his eyes on Tom.

'Did I hear Lady Mary call you Tom earlier?'

Tom felt his stomach drop. He said nothing, gazing at the footman, unable to hide his dislike in his present agitated state.

'I did, didn't I?' Thomas said, his lips curling upwards, looking like the cat that got the cream. 'Well, that's very cosy, isn't it?'

'What of it?' Tom said, belligerently. 'It's my name, isn't it?'

'Not to the likes of them, it isn't. As far as they know, you've only got the one name and that's Branson.'

Tom said nothing, trying not to glower at the other man.

Thomas tapped a bit of ash off the end of his cigarette, eyes still fixed on Tom. 'So, how come Lady Mary knows your Christian name then?'

Tom pressed his lips together, debating just walking away, but knowing Thomas, he would only turn that into something bigger, worry away at it until he found out something juicy. Better just to front it out.

'She asked me.'

'She asked you?' Thomas echoed, raising an eyebrow and lifting his cigarette up for another drag. 'Lady Mary did? Why?'

Tom shrugged, trying to keep his body relaxed. 'Don't know. She just did.'

'And you told her?'

'Well, what was I supposed to do? Ignore her? Lie to her? Tell her I was born just plain old Branson?' Tom snapped, despite his best intentions to let Thomas' probing roll off him.

'So, she calls you Tom now, does she?'

'Sometimes. Not all the time.'

'Only when you're alone, eh?'

Tom glared at him.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. 'Well, I'm assuming she's not going around calling you Tom in front of her mum and dad or her sisters. Certainly not the Dowager.'

Tom kept quiet, swallowing a retort.

'Thought not. They'd have bleeding kittens if they heard that.' Thomas said, with a small, smug smile. 'So, the big question is what do you call her?'

Tom narrowed his eyes at the footman, itching to grab him by the throat and shake him. 'Milady. Same as you do.'

'So, it doesn't go both ways then, this being on first-name terms thing?' Thomas asked, that sly smile still on his face. 'You're not secretly going around calling her Mary then?'

Despite his best intentions, Tom balled his hand into a fist. 'What do you think?' he spat.

'Well, I'm sure I don't know what to think, Mr Branson,' Thomas said, silkily. 'It's all very peculiar because Lady Mary is usually such a stickler for protocol, for the right way of doing things. I know she never called old Taylor by his Christian name when he was the chauffeur. I don't think she ever knew it. So, I ask myself, why is she asking you for your name and calling you by it?'

'She calls you by your Christian name,' Tom said, defensively.

'Yes, because I'm a footman and that's the proper way of doing things. But you, you're a chauffeur. You should just be Branson to her. So, why aren't you?'

'You'd have to ask her,' Tom said, knowing Thomas would never do that.

'Yeah, like that's going to happen. She'd have me thrown out for insubordination.' Thomas took another drag of his cigarette, still eyeing Tom like a cat eyes a sparrow. ' It's interesting, though, isn't it?'

'Not really,' Tom said, aiming for nonchalant dismissal of the topic.

'Hmm, I think it is. It makes me wonder,' Thomas said, a calculating look on his face.

Tom stared at him, telling himself not to ask, but he couldn't help it. 'Wonder what?'

'Well, if Lady Mary hasn't taken a little fancy to your pretty face.'

'Don't be stupid,' Tom retorted, feeling a flush creeping up his neck.

'It's just odd that she's not interested in knowing the chauffeur's Christian name until we get a young, virile one that looks like you do,' Thomas observed, taking another suck on his cigarette.

Tom cocked his head, suddenly seeing a way to puncture the other man's cockiness.

'Careful, Thomas. It sounds more like you're the one that thinks I'm pretty. Are you trying to tell me something? Is this you trying to flirt with me? Because I have to tell you, I'm not like you, so you'd be out of luck.'

Thomas stiffened, his eyes hardening like flint. He pulled himself up straight, taking a final drag on his fag and then he dropped it, grinding it below his heel.

'I'm onto you, Branson, you and Lady Mary and whatever is going on there. I'll find out. You mark my words. And when I do, you'll be thrown out of here like yesterday's rotten fish,' he hissed.

'There's nothing to find out,' Tom said coolly, staring Thomas down.

'We'll see,' the footman replied, his voice as cold as ice, and stalked away back inside the house.

Tom raised his hand, rubbing at his forehead. It looked like he and Mary were going to have to be even more careful if they were to carry on with this liaison of theirs.

Anna frowned, scratching at the material of Lady Mary's skirt.

Mary glanced up from her dressing table at the sound, looking at her maid. 'Is everything all right, Anna?'

'Oh, yes, milady. Just… well, it looks like you have a grass stain on your skirt.'

To Anna's surprise, a blush crept over Lady Mary's face. 'Oh, right. I'm sorry about that, about making extra work for you.'

'Not to worry. I'll soak it for a while. I was just surprised because it wasn't there this morning and I thought you were in Ripon today.'

'I was, but I, um, stopped for a walk on the way home.'

'A walk?' Anna said, surprised. 'Well, I suppose it was a lovely day today.'

'Yes, it was,' Mary said, thinking back to the perfect afternoon she'd spent in the woods with Tom. The guilt she was feeling about what had happened in the car when they got back flooded through her again, churning her stomach.

'Are you all right, milady?' Anna asked, noting the sudden shadow crossing her mistress' face.

'Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine, thank you, Anna,' Mary replied, looking away, her mind full of the hurt she'd seen in Tom's eyes when he helped her out of the car.

She thought about him as Anna bustled around the room taking care of her clothes. All she wanted to do was to go to him and explain it all, put his mind at rest but with visitors coming for dinner this evening, she wouldn't be able to slip out and see him.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. She looked up at her maid - one of the people she trusted most in the world - and made a decision.

She reached for the drawer with her personal stationery in it and pulled out a sheet of paper and her pen and scribbled a message, sealing it into an envelope.

'Anna, could you do something for me?' she asked, rising to her feet and turning to her maid.

'Of course.'

'Could you give this to Branson for me?' Mary said, holding out the envelope.

'Mr Branson?' Anna asked, looking in surprise from the envelope to Mary's face.

'Yes. But I'd be grateful if you could be discreet about it.'

Anna stared at her, a small frown creasing the skin between her eyebrows, and then nodded and took the envelope, tucking it into her apron pocket. 'Certainly, milady.'

'Thank you,' Mary said, simultaneously relieved and a little worried. She trusted Anna, but she knew she was taking a big risk here in sending a note to Tom. Still, if she couldn't get to see him herself, it was the best she could do. She simply couldn't bear the thought of him going to sleep tonight thinking badly of her.

'Mr Branson.'

Tom looked up from his workbench, surprised to see Anna at the door to the garage.

'Anna. I don't often see you here. What can I do for you?' he asked, getting to his feet.

The maid glanced over her shoulder and then hurried into the garage, dipping her hand into her pocket.

'Lady Mary asked me to give you this,' she said, producing an envelope from her pocket and holding it out to him.

Tom felt his heart jolt in his chest. He walked forward and took the envelope - creamy, good quality paper, but nothing written on the front of it.

'Lady Mary did?' he asked, staring at it.

'Yes.'

He looked up at Anna. 'Do you know what it says?'

'No. But I can wait a minute if you want to send a reply,' Anna said, curiosity burning through her about what Lady Mary could possibly be sending a secret note to the chauffeur about.

Tom stared at the envelope debating what to do, but then he turned away from Anna to open it. He pulled out the single folded sheet of paper, flipping it open.

I'm sorry, Tom.

I didn't mean any of what I said about Matthew.

Please forgive me.

M

He read it twice, his heart thumping. She'd taken a risk sending him this note, he knew that, and he did appreciate it, but it didn't heal the hurt in his heart or push back the knowledge that however he looked at it, their love affair was doomed.

He folded the note again, composed himself and turned back to Anna, who was waiting patiently, doing her best to mask her curiosity.

'Can you tell her I understand and…' he trailed off, trying to think about what he could say back without giving too much away. 'No, wait.'

He crossed to the workbench, found the newspaper and ripped off the clean top edge. He picked up the pencil he'd been using to do the crossword and scrawled his reply, sticking it inside the blank envelope Mary had sent her message in.

'Can you just give her this, please?' he said, holding out the envelope to Anna.

Anna nodded, taking the envelope and pushing it back into her pocket.

'Thank you, Anna,' he said and then hesitated before pushing on. 'You won't… you won't tell anyone about this, will you? I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea about anything.'

Anna pulled herself up straight, a slight scowl on her face. 'Of course, I won't. I'm not in the habit of discussing Lady Mary's business with anyone.'

'Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply you would,' Tom said hastily. 'It's just that Thomas has been saying some things and I wouldn't want him to have any fuel for his mad ideas.'

'What things?' Anna asked, curiously.

'Um, well, he, er, he heard Lady Mary call me Tom and, well, you know what he's like; he loves causing mischief and making a mountain out of a molehill,' Tom said, belatedly realising he was digging himself in further.

'Lady Mary called you Tom?' Anna asked, surprised. 'In front of Thomas?'

'Well, not exactly in front of him, but he was close enough to hear.'

Anna stared at him, her mind whirring. 'Does she call you Tom often?'

'Sometimes,' Tom answered, feeling uncomfortable.

'Hmm, that's not like her,' Anna said, looking at him thoughtfully. 'She must like you.'

'Well, I hope I'm a likeable person,' Tom said awkwardly, giving a little shrug. 'I try to be.'

'Hmm,' Anna said again, still staring at him. 'Well, I'd better get back.'

'Yes, of course. Thank you, Anna.'

'You're welcome,' Anna replied and then turned to leave.

Tom watched her go, misgivings stirring in his gut.

'Have you and Edith had words?' Sybil asked quietly as she came to sit beside Mary on the sofa in the drawing room.

'You could say that,' Mary confirmed, also keeping her voice low. 'Can you not tell by the way she's glowering at me from across the room?'

Sybil sighed. 'What happened?'

'She accused me of engineering this wretched church trip, so I could ensnare Matthew.'

'And what did you say?'

'I said I had done no such thing.'

'And?'

Mary glanced at her sister. Sybil raised a knowing eyebrow in return.

'Come on, Mary, I know that wasn't the end of it otherwise Edith wouldn't be starring daggers at you. What else did you say to her?'

Mary rolled her eyes, driven to confess the rest of it. 'I may have said I could take Matthew or any other man from her any time I wanted. And I may have called her a dandelion.'

'A dandelion?' Sybil asked, her lips quirking up. 'Why on earth would you call her a dandelion of all things?'

'I said I was a sunflower and she was a dandelion growing in my shade,' Mary replied, not in the least bit contrite.

'Oh, Mary, why do you have to always needle her so?' Sybil sighed. 'You know she's sensitive about never being labelled the pretty one. You don't need to rub it in her face.'

'Oh, but it's so easy, Sybil. And satisfying. Usually,' Mary replied, thinking once again how she wished she'd been able to keep her mouth shut and not rise to Edith's provocation this afternoon.

'I think you should apologise to her.'

Mary whipped her head around to glare at Sybil, indignantly. 'I absolutely will not!'

'You should make peace with her before the church trip.'

'Why? She'll only smell a rat if I apologise to her. She knows as well as I do that it will be a cold day in hell before either of us apologise to the other for anything we've said to each other.'

Sybil sighed again. 'Sometimes I think the two of you live to make my life harder. And Mama and Papa's.'

'Nonsense,' Mary said, patting Sybil's hand. 'I just like to keep things from getting boring around here.'

'So, you won't apologise to her?'

'No.'

'Aren't you worried she'll retaliate somehow?'

Mary gave a small laugh, her face saying exactly how unlikely she thought that was. 'Edith? She hasn't got the imagination to do anything that would actually make a difference to me.'

'I wouldn't be so sure about that, Mary. I think you should give Edith more credit than that. She can be quite wily sometimes,' Sybil warned.

'I very much doubt that,' Mary scoffed. 'If Edith's wily, I'm a hippopotamus.'

Sybil shook her head, rolling her eyes. 'Well, on your head be it if she has her revenge on you.'

'Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, Sybil. You'd be better served spending your time thinking about just how you are going to charm Cousin Matthew enough on Saturday to capture his attention for the whole of our church trip. I shall be very disappointed if Edith even gets within sniffing distance of being alone with him,' Mary said, quirking an eyebrow at Sybil.

To her amusement, Sybil blushed a pretty pink, dipping her head to hide her smile.

'I shall give it some thought, I promise.'

Mary smiled. 'Good. Because I'm relying on you to put a major thorn in our dear sister's side. There is no way we're letting her get her claws into poor Matthew.'

'Come in,' Mary called as she sat at her dressing table removing her earrings.

Anna entered the room, Sybil and Edith's evening dresses draped over her arm. She set them aside on the chaise longue and then walked over to Mary, who looked at her anxiously in the mirror.

'Did you deliver my note?'

'Yes, milady. Mr Branson sent you a reply,' Anna said, delving into her pocket for the envelope she'd been carrying about all evening.

Mary felt her stomach flip. She hadn't really expected Tom to reply. She took the envelope from Anna, who stepped away to go and turn her bed down.

Mary forced herself to put the envelope down, her instinct telling her not to open it until she was alone. But then almost immediately, she began to worry that it might look strange to Anna that she was waiting until her maid had left before she opened a note from the chauffeur. Her mind churned, wondering what was the best, least suspicious thing to do.

Finally, she decided a casual glance would be in order, nothing more. She could make it seem as if she'd just been requesting the motor or something.

Screwing her courage up, she opened the envelope and took out a scrap of newspaper heading with Tom's familiar writing on it.

There's nothing to forgive.

TB

Mary stared at it, not knowing quite what to make of it. Did it mean he'd forgiven her or was he still cross with her?

Hearing Anna coming up behind her, she hastily slid the scrap of paper back into the envelope.

'Have you had a good night, milady?' Anna asked as Mary stood to let her unfasten her gown.

'Um, not particularly. The guests were quite dreary tonight,' Mary said, half of her mind still on Tom's note.

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Tell me, how did… how did Branson react to my note, Anna?' Mary blurted out, turning to look at her startled maid.

'Er, well, he was surprised to get it,' Anna said, not quite sure what her mistress wanted her to say.

'And he read it while you were there? What am I saying? He must have if he gave you a reply.'

'Yes. Well, he turned away to read it.'

'And then what? How did he seem?' Mary asked, unable to stop herself.

'He… he, well, he didn't seem like anything. He read it and then he said to tell you that he understood and then he changed his mind and wrote the note I've just given you,' Anna replied, wondering even more now about the connection between her mistress and the chauffeur.

'He said he understood?'

'Yes.'

'That's exactly what he said?'

'He said, 'Can you tell her I understand' and then he wrote the note. And he asked me not to tell anyone about it. Which I never would.'

Mary squeezed her maid's arm. 'I know you wouldn't. Thank you. I do appreciate how loyal you are.'

Anna nodded, hesitating before venturing to speak again. 'You know you can talk to me about anything, don't you, milady? If anything is bothering you or you have anything on your mind.'

'I do, yes,' Mary said, nodding and turning around again to let Anna finish unfastening her dress. She said nothing further, simply stood there, waiting.

Anna went to work, her quick fingers unhooking Mary's dress while her mind raced around the mystery of what had gone on with her lady and the chauffeur today. Something had because Lady Mary was not in the habit of addressing members of staff so familiarly as Mr Branson had revealed. And she most certainly was not in the habit of exchanging notes with the hired help. Something was definitely afoot.

The next afternoon, Tom was all fingers and thumbs in the workshop, his ongoing bad mood leading him to be less precise and careful than he usually was. The upshot was spilt oil on the white shirt of his uniform.

Annoyed with himself, he went home to change and soak the shirt in a pail of water. He'd probably have to ask Mrs Hughes if the laundry girls could have a go at it, but he could at least try to get the worst out of it.

He draped his jacket, waistcoat and tie on the end of the bannister and ran upstairs, unbuttoning his shirt and wrenching it off as he went.

He stopped dead as he entered his bedroom and saw Mary lying in his bed, asleep.

He'd been in such a rush, he hadn't noticed whether her hat was on the kitchen table where she usually left it when she came to his cottage.

He stared at her, his heart thumping, marvelling at how beautiful she was, her dark hair a little mussed, her cheeks slightly red. He took a step towards the bed and then stopped short, suddenly realising he was half naked. There was no way he could get on the bed with her like this.

Quietly, he circled around the bed, laying his dirty shirt over the end of the bed frame and opening up his wardrobe to retrieve a fresh shirt.

'Well, what a lovely sight to wake up to,' Mary said behind him, her voice husky with sleep.

He froze and glanced over his shoulder at her. She pushed herself upright, her eyes fixed on his naked back, her lips parted, her eyes shining.

'Why aren't you wearing a shirt?' she asked, sounding slightly breathless.

Tom turned slowly, watching as her eyes roved greedily over his chest.

'I spilt motor oil on it.'

She rose to her knees, moving across the bed to kneel at the end of it in front of him, only the brass frame of the bed between them. Hesitantly, she lifted her hand, her fingers hovering over his chest.

'You're… you're so… so beautiful,' she murmured, her eyes glued to his bare chest. 'Can I touch you?'

He swallowed, knowing he should say no, should nip this in the bud before things got out of hand, especially in the light of what had happened yesterday, but he found himself longing to feel her touch on his skin.

She looked up at him when he didn't say anything. 'Can I touch you, Tom? Please?'

Slowly, he nodded, pulling in a breath as she lay her warm hand on his chest.

'You have hair on your chest,' she murmured, gently flexing her fingers, scratching her nails lightly through his thatch of chest hair.

'Yes.'

She drew her fingers across his chest, moving down to touch his nipple, watching in fascination as it pebbled up beneath her fingertips. She rubbed her fingers over it, bringing up her other hand to touch its twin.

Tom made a small noise in his throat, and she glanced up at him.

'Do you mind me touching you like this?' she asked, her voice low.

'No.'

She smiled and ran her hands down his sides, tracing over his ribs and down his abdomen, making him shiver slightly.

'Your skin is so soft. So lovely to touch, and then you have all this hair,' she whispered, and then dragged her fingertips down towards his belly button. She looked up at him, a heated look in her eyes. 'Does the hair go all the way down? Right to your thing?'

He nodded, tensing his stomach muscles as she trailed her fingers over them. She smiled up at him in a way that made his stomach somersault.

"What a delicious thought," she said in a voice that sent shivers through him.

And then she leaned forward and kissed his chest about three inches above his right nipple.

'Mary,' he groaned as she kissed him again, nuzzling her way across his chest. 'Mary, stop.'

'Why? Don't you like it?' she murmured between kisses, her hands resting lightly on his waist, her fingers tracing circles on his skin.

'That's the problem. I do like it; I like it a lot,' he replied, struggling to keep his reaction to her in check. He reached up, grabbing hold of her arms and pushing her away from him.

Mary looked up at him, her dark eyes alive with desire, and his resolve broke. He clasped her to him, his lips crashing down onto hers.

She groaned, twining her arms around him, pulling him closer, his bare chest pressed against her, her fingers caressing his back.

The kiss deepened, heat rising between them as lips and tongues melded together, twisting, sliding and licking, until some kind of sense finally descended on Tom and he stopped, pulling back, flushed and panting, Mary leaning forward to chase him.

'Stop,' he said, breathing heavily, trying to get himself under control. 'We have to stop.'

'Why?' she asked, reaching out for him, her fingers running over his skin. 'Why do we have to stop?'

'We can't do this.'

'Why not? I want to do this. Don't you?'

'God, yes, I do.'

'Then why are we stopping?' she asked, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pulling him back towards her.

'Because if we keep doing this, I'm going to want to make love to you,' Tom confessed, taking a step back even as his heated gaze slid over her body before returning to her mussed hair and her kiss-swollen lips.

'Maybe… maybe I want you to make love to me,' Mary breathed, tugging him back towards her, her warm fingers caressing the soft skin underneath his waistband, tangling in that tantalising trail of hair leading down from his belly button.

'That's not what you said yesterday,' he reminded her, his hands gripping the bed frame between them. 'You said you weren't ready and that it scared you.'

'I'm not scared now,' she said, gazing boldly at him. And she leaned forward and kissed him again, running her tongue over his lips, slipping it into his mouth when he groaned and opened up to her.

Another searing kiss almost undid Tom's resolve, his body demanding that he take her in his arms and push her down onto the bed. With a supreme effort of will, he pulled away from her again, steeling himself against her grasping fingers and the small noise of frustration she made.

'No, Mary, we can't. Not like this.'

'Why not?' she griped, petulantly.

'Because now isn't the right time and… and I'm not entirely sure this isn't about yesterday,' Tom said, voicing his concern.

Mary stilled, frowning at him. 'What does that mean?'

'Are you still trying to apologise for what you said to Lady Edith? Is that what this is?'

She narrowed her eyes at him, annoyed but not entirely sure he wasn't right about that. 'Of course not. I haven't engineered this. You're the one who came swanning in here half-naked!'

'Because this is my home!' Tom cried.

'Oh, so are you saying I'm not welcome here anymore?' Mary snapped, her heart pounding for a different reason than it had been a minute ago.

'No! I didn't say that!' He held his hand up, silently asking for peace. 'Look, we've gone from one extreme to the other here. Can we just stop and take a minute?'

Mary pursed her lips and then nodded stiffly.

'I need to put a shirt on. Why don't you go and put the kettle on while I do that?' he said, gesturing at the bedroom door.

Mary tipped her head and then nodded again. 'All right,' she said, wriggling off the bed. She walked over to the door and then turned, taking another look at his bare torso. 'Hmm, you are lovely to look at. Especially with your shirt off.'

She flashed him a cheeky grin and then left, running down the stairs.

Tom groaned and rounded the end of the bed, sinking down onto the mattress, and adjusting the hardness in his trousers.

He'd wanted nothing more than to climb onto the bed with her, shed all their clothes and make love to her. But he couldn't escape the fact that this was Lady Mary, not some kitchen maid he might be able to have his way with. Neither could he ignore the fact that his heart was more involved in this than was wise.

He needed a clear head to deal with this situation, not the fog that filled him when his body took over. There was too much at stake here.

Downstairs, Mary filled the kettle, all the time picturing Tom's naked chest and how seeing it and touching it had made her feel.

She wanted him. That was the long and the short of it. She wanted him, physically and emotionally.

She was honest enough to know that if he'd laid her on the bed and climbed on top of her, she would not have said no. In fact, she suspected she may have been a very willing partner in whatever may have happened despite what she'd said yesterday.

She turned to set the kettle on the hob and light it, and then she paced the kitchen, waiting for her man to come downstairs.

When he appeared, he was completely covered up, wearing a fresh shirt and buttoning up his waistcoat, although he had not yet put his tie on.

He set about making the tea as she watched him from across the room, holding tight to the back of one of his kitchen chairs.

'What did you mean about me still trying to apologise?' she said, her voice sharper than she perhaps intended it to be.

He finished spooning tea into the pot and looked up at her. 'Just that. Were you trying to make me feel better about yesterday by touching me and kissing me?'

'No! I wasn't! I… I just…'

'What?'

Mary stared at him and sighed. 'I want you, Tom. I saw you there half-naked and… I just wanted to touch you. That was all I wanted.'

His face softened. 'Really?'

'Yes! Couldn't you tell that?' she cried, her knuckles turning white as she tightened her hold on the chair, stopping herself from going over there and touching him again.

He nodded slowly, heat flaring in his eyes, making her knees weak. 'Yes, I could.'

'Then why did you put a stop to it?' she asked, bewildered by why he'd pushed her away. 'Didn't you want to take things further?'

'Of course, I did. I wanted to press you down onto the bed and make love to you,' he admitted, the truth of that written all over his face.

'Then why aren't we doing that right now?' Mary asked, frustrated by the fact that they'd both wanted the same thing but he'd refused to let them follow their desires.

'Because I don't know what we're doing, Mary!' he erupted. 'You and me, what are we doing?'

'We're… we're…' Mary trailed off, unable to find the words to describe this unexpected, crazy thing she had going on with her family's chauffeur.

'Is it a love affair? A tryst? Am I just your youthful rebellion?' Tom cried, all the hurt he'd felt yesterday pouring out of him. 'I don't know! Do you?'

Mary stared at him, her heart racing.

'Because I know one thing for sure. This, this thing – ' he waved his hand between them, ' – it's not going to have a happy ending, is it?'

'You don't know that,' she whispered, shaking her head.

'But I do! Because you're Lady Mary Crawley and I'm just the hired help,' he bit out. 'All those things you said about you being meant to marry the heir – they're true! If you don't marry Mr Crawley, you'll marry someone like him! Someone like you! Not someone like me!'

Mary watched him as he wheeled at the sound of the kettle boiling, watched him lift it and slam it onto a cold hob.

He dropped his head as the anger seemed to whoosh out of him.

'So, maybe I can make love to you, but you'll never be mine. Not like I want you to be,' he whispered, a note of anguish in his voice.

'Tom,' she murmured, walking towards him, wanting to make things better. She came up behind him and slipped her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his back, hugging him tightly.

He put his hand over hers, rubbing it lightly. 'I just… if we're going to keep doing this, I need to come to terms with that, that you'll never truly be mine.'

She squeezed him harder, her heart breaking a little because she knew he was right. Whatever happened between them, in the end, she would have to marry someone else, someone her family would approve of. And that would never be him.

'Do you want to keep doing this?' she asked in a small voice, suddenly scared that he was going to cut her loose, end this thing that was now at the centre of her life.

He turned around, lifting his arms up and dropping them over her, encircling her.

'Do you?'

'Yes. With all my heart,' she whispered, letting all her emotions show on her face.

He pressed his lips together, gazing at her. 'So do I.'

'Really?'

'Yes,' he said, dipping his head to drop a small kiss on her lips. 'God help us both.'

Mary leaned forward, chasing his lips until he kissed her again. 'Well, thank heavens for that. I thought you were going to banish me for a moment there.'

He was silent for a moment before replying. 'I'm not sure I'm strong enough to send you away.'

'I'm not sure I'm strong enough to stay away from you,' she confessed, snuggling tighter into his arms, wishing for the umpteenth time that they were equals.

Tom held her closer, his heart swelling.

'You're not my youthful rebellion,' she said quietly, lifting her head to look at him. 'But I very much think you might be my first love affair.'

He held her gaze, feeling himself fall even more under her spell, and then he leaned forward and kissed her again, deeper than before, pouring his emotions into it. No, this was not going to end well, but by God, he wasn't going to let her go without a fight.

Edith sat on her bed, staring out of the window, her mind racing with everything the kitchen maid had so haltingly told her.

Mary and the dead Turk.

Daisy had seen Mary the night Mr Pamuk died. She'd seen her moving his body. At least, she was fairly sure she had. She wasn't completely sure, she'd said, but it was good enough for Edith.

She remembered seeing her sister flirt with the handsome foreigner. She remembered that feeling of once more being seemingly invisible to men when her elder sister was around.

Mr Pamuk had been the most handsome man Edith had ever seen. Breathtakingly handsome. But as usual, he hadn't so much as looked past Mary once. He'd never so much as glanced in Edith's direction. It was irritating, infuriating and utterly humiliating.

And it seemed that Mary had succumbed to the Turk's charm and allowed him into her bedroom. Edith could only imagine what had happened between them behind closed doors. And whatever had happened had ended in his death. Perhaps whatever Mary had done with him had killed him. Whatever had happened, Mary had proved herself to be nothing but a slut.

And whatever she'd done, she'd got away with it. Scot free. Like she always did. Well, not this time.

Especially not when she was threatening to take Matthew for herself too.

Because as much as Edith hoped that Matthew was more interested in her than in Mary, she wasn't sure of it. Not really.

Men had a habit of falling for whatever mysterious charm they perceived in Mary. What that was was beyond Edith's comprehension. She would grudgingly admit her sister was attractive with the same dark hair and porcelain skin as their mother, but Mary's character was appalling. She was mean, sarcastic and unkind. Unfortunately, men were too easily swayed by her beauty to bother to notice her personality left much to be desired.

But now she had the means to put a major spoke in Mary's attempts to woo Matthew away from her. Once it became common knowledge that Mary was soiled goods, no decent man would want to even associate with her, let alone marry her. And it would serve her right.

Edith smiled to herself, her mind made up. She would write to the Turkish Ambassador in London and inform him of her sister's part in Mr Pamuk's death. If that didn't set the cat among the pigeons, nothing would. And Mary would deserve every bit of condemnation she got. Really, she only had herself and her loose morals to blame. She'd brought it entirely on herself.