AN: Firstly, credit where it's due, the title of this story obviously came from part of Violet's quote at Mary's wedding, so naturally belongs to Julian Fellowes. I have a sequel to this story in the works which bares the other half of this conversation (Martha's reply) as its title. Obviously none of the characters are mine.

I am fully aware that many people have ideas, and/or have written stories for the beginning of Robert and Cora's relationship and I will take no offence if you prefer other people's, or your own versions, this is just what I think happened.

I hope you enjoy the story and please review, it means a lot.

"She's American." Robert spits the words at his father, unable to comprehend the facts being laid out for him. Marry an American, his father must surely be joking.

"We are nearing the end of the season Robert and you have yet to decide on any of the other heiresses I've named for you. Look, Miss Levinson is standing over there, twisting her champagne glass around." Robert turns in the direction of his father's gaze.

"The blonde?"

"No, the brunette, pale skin-" But Robert doesn't hear. His eyes are fixed on her. She is by far the most beautiful woman he's ever clapped eyes on. Her dark hair contrasts so perfectly with her porcelain white skin. Her lips are full and pink as if waiting for a man to claim them. Her eyes suddenly meet his and he turns away, the fluttering sensation in his chest dispersing with the absence of her in his vision. Robert turns his attention back to his father. "Her name is Miss Cora Levinson, very American I dare say . But most importantly she's rich, rich enough to save us from disgrace." Robert only nods, he doesn't like to tell his father that no way is a plain, dull man like him going to be able to lure the exotic and absolutely stunning Miss Levinson into matrimony. Instead, he picks up a glass of champagne and heads in her direction. Only for her to start walking towards the balcony, he follows.

"Miss Levinson, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mr-"

"Crawley, Robert Crawley. Viscount Downton actually."

"Well, a Viscount. Being such an important member of society I'm surprised you are so forward as to seek conversation with a woman whom you have not been introduced to."

"Well, you see-" How on earth does his father think he can put up with this woman? As much as she is very witty, and excessively pretty, he's not sure he could stand this on a daily basis. He moves to turn away but she reaches out her hand and speaks.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to be rude, where might your residence be?"

"Downton Abbey in Yorkshire." She stares blankly back at him and Robert has to focus to be able to tear his gaze from hers. "I'm sorry, I expect I've confused you. Your British geography is probably as good as my American geography. Yorkshire is in-"

"The North east, yes, I know." Robert stares at her dumbfounded. An intellectual American, since when did that happen? "It was Downton Abbey, it rings a bell, perhaps my mother mentioned it." This Robert thinks is familiar territory, he could talk about Downton all day long if he had to, even with an American.

"Well, it is a rather big and beautiful house, even if I do say so myself." She says nothing which unnerves Robert. He's never been much good at charming women and he knows that it's in these awkward pauses that he's supposed to say something charming, something that will make Miss Levinson blush. But no such comment comes to mind, all the things he is thinking of are not suitable for a first meeting. It doesn't help that he's becoming increasingly hot under the collar and that unfamiliar fluttering in his chest has returned. "My father said that you...never mind."

"Does your father have financial difficulties?" Bluntness, It has become clear is an American trait and discussing money openly, oh yes, definitely American. "Only because what I think your father was saying is that I have a rather large dowry, big enough to save your big and beautiful Downton Abbey." Robert gulps, if any other woman had spoken to him in such a way he would have excused himself. But something about Miss Cora Levinson keeps him fixed to the spot. Her accent maybe, or her beauty, or dare he think it, her American traits? He realises a little too late that he's leaned unintentionally closer to her, his eyes fixed on a plant the other side of her shoulder, in the overly manicured gardens behind him. Overly manicured, Robert sighs, that's what all women usually are, overly instructed by their mothers on what to say and what not to say. Miss Levinson he thinks sparks his interest, not only because she's pretty, stunning actually, but because she's not manicured, she's not been clipped of her personality by interfering parents, she's been allowed to be the woman she actually is.

"No, it was your enchanting eyes, set in a most stunning face that my father and I talked of."

"What colour are my eyes?" She turns so her back is to him and he just stares at it. Women aren't meant to ask questions like that, they are supposed to except the flattering comment with a blush. 'What colour are my eyes?' The most simple question, particularly whan they have been talking for so long. But Robert can't answer, he doesn't know, are they blue, green, brown? She's tricked him, was one step ahead of him, refusing to fall for his flattering comments. She's a woman with her own views, her own rules, as he had already discovered, he should have known the conventional wouldn't please her. She wasn't going to fall for a man that just flatters her. He thinks perhaps he might have a chance with her, he hates all the flattering that men bestow on ladies, only to take them to bed and move onto the next. He equally hates women that use the oldest trick is in the book to attract a man. He is far more interested in the likes of Miss Levinson, women with their own views and who are not scared of what other people think. A woman who is only going to secure a man by being herself. But, he can't remember the colour of her eyes, a simple question to check he wasn't just flattering her with the first comment that came to mind, it was a comment to check he'd been paying attention, and he couldn't answer it. She pivots around to face him and he sighs, blue, her eye are blue.

"The most enchanting blue."

"A word of advice Mr Crawley. Honesty is the best way to secure a woman, particularly a rich American one. They, or at least I, want honesty in marriage." He chokes on his drink and feels the cold, and now wet, fabric of his shirt sticking to his chest. Her bluntness had shocked him once again. Marriage, such a basic topic of conversation yet one that was unheard of in England. You never discussed marriage until you asked for a woman's hand. Yet here they were hunting for husband's and wife's! He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket only to find he can't daub the shirt while holding his glass. Suddenly a small, white hand takes the handkerchief and begins daubing his shirt, her glass abandoned on the floor. What a relief he thinks that they're outside, away from prying eyes, to be seen with a women daubing his chest would be one massive scandal that would result in very few women wishing to be persued by him. She talks as she works, but Robert struggles to listen as he's mesmerised by her hands. He should stop her he knows that, but somehow he can't bring himself to do it. When he catches what's she saying again, he realises she is obviously uncomfortable. "I'm so sorry, this was my fault, I momentarily forgot I was in England, and actually mentioning marriage is not allowed." Robert laughs, and then stops. There's no point in laughing. No woman would ever want to marry a man who spills drink down his shirt.

"And I should have been honest. But, it's too late now, you've already decided not to add me to your list of potential husbands." Robert looks down, embarrassed and upset. He really did like Miss Levinson's company. But just as he looks down the most thrilling sound reaches his ears. A sound sweeter and more musical than bells, her laugh.

"Who says woman keep lists of men they like?"

"Well, you know-"

"And who says you're not going to be put on my list?" Robert feels his cheeks go warm as her intoxicating gaze never leaves his own. He pauses unable to tear his eyes from hers to think of a sensible response. Eventually words stumble from his mouth.

"Well, even if I was going to be put on it, I'm sure it's full of far better men who actually like you and not your money, which means I have no chance." Honesty, that's what she wanted and now she's got it. She knows it's her money he wants, isn't it? But he falters, she is so very beautiful.

"Seeing as it's my list and I know who's on it. I think you're in with a better chance then you think."

"What!? How!? I insulted your intelligence, spilt drink all down my front and -"

"You're honest, funny, handsome and can't flirt to save your life and I like you. A lot." She walks away before Robert can utter a word. He watches her walk back into the room, leaving him alone on the balcony, the night he realises is much colder than it was before, did Miss Levinson somehow make him feel warmer. And as for handsome, he must have heard her wrong, no woman had ever thought, let alone called him handsome.