My dear readers, this will start rather nicely, but I warn you: it's going to be a dark beast. I promise lots of goodies abd love, but this is not a comfortable ride. Consider yourself warned!

I'd like to thank my very dear friend Geminied for editing it and want to dedicate this story to my beautiful, adorable niece who was born last Thursday! I sincerly hope she will never stumble about the embarrassing hobby of her old aunt!

Chapter 1

If you want something very badly, set it free. If it comes back you, it's yours forever. If it doesn't, it was never yours to begin with.*

Downton Village, September 1924

Igor Kuragin sighed, as he stepped out into the summer night. Disappointed with the outcome of the dinner he lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke as deeply as possible. The car Violet had provided for him was waiting for him, but he wasn't ready to leave the Dower House. Not just yet. At first he needed to sort out his mind. Seeing Violet and Irina again in the very same room, at the very same table even had been a surreal experience. His wife and his mistress – he still refused to think of Violet as his former lover – were sleeping under the same roof and had eaten at the same table.

He had thought she was crazy to invite Irina to her house, but Violet had had the good sense to invite her friends to prevent the evening from ending in a complete disaster. The presence of Lord Merton and Mrs Crawley had at least minimized the damage and they were both trustworthy enough not to talk about it.

Kuragin had never thought that Irina's character could have taken a turn for the worse, but the years in Chinese exile had taken their toll on her. Irina was older, somehow weaker, but her tongue was sharper than ever.

He doubted a life in Paris with Irina at his side would have more value than a life in York without her. He didn't love Irina. He had once loved her, a lifetime ago, before things beyond their control had shown that they had never been meant for each other. If he wanted anyone at his side for the rest of his life, it was Violet. Without Violet his life was worthless. What did Lord Merton say earlier?

"If you're going to be miserable, you might as well do it in charming surroundings."

Perhaps the man was right. Even Violet was right when she claimed that there was no way they could be together as long as Irina existed. But in Kuragin's experience sometimes the right thing was what one could live with – regardless whether society or morals agreed.

In many ways Violet was much more practical and realistic than he was. Even fifty years ago in Russia she had always been the cautious one. He had often joked about her fear to be exposed, but once they realized that her maid, a woman she had trusted with her darkest secrets, had betrayed her, she had proven to be right. Still, caution had never been one of his virtues. He had always lacked caution and patience. When he wanted something he went after it and he usually didn't care for the consequences. If it were for him, he would ship off Irina to Paris while he stayed back in England, close to Violet. Perhaps not as her legal husband, but close enough to be part of her life. Who would care about them anyway? At their age they were past the interest of their environment.

He heard steps behind him and turned around. Lord Merton had left the house and approached him.

"What a lovely night," he said, as he stopped next to Kuragin.

"Lovely is not quite the word I would use," the former prince said with a hint of humour in his voice.

"I admit it depends on your perspective," Dickie agreed.

"Have you ever been married?" Kuragin asked after a few moments of silence.

Merton smirked, "Long enough to know it can be difficult business."

"And yet you think, it's worth another try," Kuragin remarked. He had noticed the tension – and the bond between Lord Merton and Isobel Crawley. Whatever was going on between them, was more than friendship and anything but simple.

"With the right person at one's side everything is possible."

Kuragin scoffed a little, "That sounds very romantic for an English gentleman."

"Even we English have our romantic moments," Dickie admitted good-humoured. "I guess we're used to approach things with patience. It takes longer, but very often the result is very rewarding."

Kuragin thought about this for a moment. Then he asked, "Do you really think patience is the key?"

"Patience and persistence."

Kuragin finished his cigarette and faced his companion with a mix of irony and sadness, "Well, I lack the first and I'm too old for the latter."

"If there's anything I can do to help...," Dickie knew the offer was useless. There was nothing he could do to help the prince, but he wanted to show his sympathy in some way.

"I doubt it, but when you come to Paris, let me know where you are. It'll be my pleasure to introduce you to the Russian side of France."

Paris, Summer 1925

There was something about the way Isobel used to undress that awoke instincts in Dickie Merton that he had believed to be buried too deeply to be recovered. Surely, picking France as destination for their honeymoon (his idea) was a romantic choice, but going without a maid or a valet (her idea) had turned their first trip together into the most sensual experience of his life. He had never watched his first wife undressing, nor had he shared a bedroom with her for more than a few rare occasions. His life with Isobel was so different from the life he used to live before and he couldn't remember a time when he had ever been happier. He had never been closer to anyone and he had certainly not known anybody as intimately as he knew Isobel.

At first he had been almost scared to share a bed with her, but that had quickly changed when he had realized she wanted to please him just as much as he wanted to please her.

He had known from the very first time he had lain with her that there was something bold about her. The way she spoke her own mind and didn't fear to be challenged fascinated him. There was also something very unique about her that he couldn't place his finger on.

Back then at the dinner before Mary and Matthew Crawley got married, he had tried to ignore it, her, because he had only been a widower for a few months. Even for someone who had never loved his wife, it seemed wrong to go after another woman so soon after becoming a widower.

But when he had seen her once again at a luncheon at the Dowager Countess' he had found himself even more enchanted by her – and had almost ruined it. Another woman probably wouldn't have forgiven him, but she had.

She was nothing like other women and certainly not like the women he had grown up with or was used to from his typical aristocratic environment. But he doubted the reason for all of this was her being a member of the upper middle class. As beautiful, well-educated and intelligent as she was, there was something vibrant inside her that would always catch his full attention. Sometimes, when he watched her like now, when she was oblivious to him, because she was concentrating on something else he asked himself, whether she was aware of the power she held over him; if she knew how much he loved and desired her. At times he thought she had an idea, sometimes she seemed completely unaware of it – like now.

His eyes lingered along the length of her legs, as she gently rolled down the silk stocking and placed it carefully over the rest of her chair.

"Wait," he said, interrupting her, when she reached down to take off her second stocking. She startled a little, but smiled when she saw him standing next to the bed.

"I didn't hear you coming in," she said with a nervous chuckle. "Where have you been?"

"Oh... I had to run some errands," he cleared his throat and took off his jacket, before he leaned down to kiss her lips.

"An errand?" Isobel's forehead wrinkled. "What is it?" She remembered the letter that had arrived for him in the morning. After reading it, his mood had suddenly changed. He had become rather silent and in the early afternoon he had excused himself and vanished. She had never noticed this behaviour on him before and it had left her a bit worried. And now that he was back and attentive as ever, she felt a little ridiculous for having been worried.

"It's a surprise," he returned and kissed her again. She closed her eyes and leaned in when he deepened the kiss. It was their last day in Paris. She already knew she would miss the privacy and lack of staff around them. In Cavenham the comparatively simple life they enjoyed during their trip would be over.

"If we want to make it for dinner, you should let me change now," she mumbled when they broke apart.

"Are you sure you're hungry?" he asked lowly and kissed his way down her jaw and neck. He sank to his knees right in front of her and ran his fingertips over her thigh to were her silk stocking ended and played with the garter. She chuckled and slipped her arms around him. She smelled his cologne and enjoyed the feeling of having him so close. She had never believed she could ever be as happy with a man as she had been with Reginald, but she was. With Dickie Merton she felt utterly safe, loved, and good God, desired. Every time he touched her, she felt shivers running down her spine. She hadn't quite expected this when she agreed to marry him, but their intimacy grew with every day and night she spent at his side.

"I have another question for you," she said with a wide smile on her face, as she started to loosen his tie.

"Hm..."

"Have you ever made love in the middle of the day?"

The artful dodger, a pub in York

The man at the bar finished his whiskey and instantly ordered the next one. The barman eyed his mysterious guest suspiciously. He was well-dressed, even well-mannered, but his consumption of alcohol was alarming, to say the least. The other odd thing about the man was an old photograph. Every ten minutes he reached into his pocket and looked at it, before he hid it back in his pocket. It showed a young blonde woman and a boy, just as blond as his mother, who smiled happily into the camera.

"What is it?" the barman asked. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Some days are worse than others," the guest replied gruffly.

"Maybe she just doesn't like your drinking," the barman suggested, as he handed him the next whiskey.

"I guess that's true," the man agreed and emptied his glass with one gulp. "She told me so once or twice."

~~~tbc~~~

*Cookies for the people who recognize the quote!