Author's note: These lovely characters don't belong to me. I have simply played with them for awhile and will put them back in their DVD box later. This story is embarassingly a fanfic of a fanfic in a way. When I read Lavender and Hay's lovely "Mrs. Hughes' New Dress", it just didn't seem fair that Charles should be the only one preoccupied at mealtime. So here is the silly idea I came up with.

Mrs. Hughes blamed her too vivid imagination, and Mr. Carson, of course; men were always to blame. She just couldn't take her eyes off his hands. She watched as his fingers tapped impatiently on the table, as his hand gripped the knife to carve the meat, as he wrapped his fingers around his glass, and as he raised his fork to take a bite.

They were rather nice hands really. They were large, with long fingers. He kept them very clean, since he served at table, except for the faintest ink stain on the edge of his right forefinger from years of writing. They were strong from years of hard work, but not rough as a farmer's hands would be.

The fact that she knew now how those hands felt was her primary problem, and for that she most certainly blamed Charles Carson. She knew how his hand felt on the bare skin of her throat as he'd traced it with the tips of his fingers and how it felt gripping the back of her neck as he'd drawn her to him for a kiss. She could still feel the path that hand had taken from her shoulder to her bottom as he'd clutched her closer to him. Her imagination was to be blamed because she could also imagine how his hand would feel tracing that same path without the bothersome cloth of her dress in the way.

This last thought caused her to blush, blinking her eyes quickly and looking down toward her plate. What was wrong with her to be thinking of Mr. Carson, of all people, in such a wanton way? Not that he wasn't very nice; he had a good sense of humor and was intelligent, quite pleasant to spend time with actually. She had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she was probably going to grow old with him, and it was not an unpleasant prospect. She just had never thought she would grow old with him; with him touching her, stroking her, and holding her with those hands. Closing her eyes again, she tried to gather her thoughts and calm them.

She had loved Mr. Carson for years, certainly, in a sisterly sort of way. She'd always assumed they would grow old together like a spinster sister and bachelor brother. Spending their days and evenings together but going off to their own beds at the end of the day. Now, though, she felt anything but sisterly toward him, and she certainly wouldn't want him to go off to his own bed at the end of the day. She would want him and his hands in her own bed every night and perhaps some days as well, touching and holding her. She was appalled at the lust; there was really no other way to put it, she felt for the man. Again, she caught herself staring at his hand as he raised his napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth.

She looked away quickly and then her eyes darted back to his face. Unless she was very much mistaken, he had the tiniest of smiles and seemed to be biting the inside of his jaw to keep from smiling more. He couldn't suspect, could he? If he suspected she was sure that she would die of embarrassment. They needed to talk this out, and she was determined to do it as soon as possible.

"Mr. Carson, I was wondering if I could have your assistance with a small matter this evening."

"Certainly, Mrs. Hughes, I would be happy to give you a hand," he replied smiling.

He most certainly suspected, and her mortification increased to the point that she thought death might be preferable, after she killed him, of course.