A/N: Merry Christmas you lovely Andith shippers! Nothing too new here, but hopefully enjoyable—a sickly sweet bundle of fluff for your stocking—because you've been so awfully nice sharing our wonderful OTP all year! I'm always grateful for your generosity and kind support! Mad love! ~Lady T

Chapter 1

Twas two days before Christmas, and The Sketch's junior editor was not only stirring, she was bustling, whirling, positively skating around the office. Like an out of season honeybee she buzzed from desk to desk, ensuring her colleagues completed their work before they left on holiday. She tried to keep up a festive attitude, but as it seemed was inevitable, meeting the Christmas deadline meant jumping over hurdles and putting out fires all week long. Already she had been the receiving end of a rather nasty tirade about shift swapping over the holiday, and had spent the morning wading through letters and tweets to the editor—which always served to darken her day, but especially this time of year. In a season that was supposed to bring out the goodness and brotherhood in people, it seemed that certain persons became even more hateful and ignorant than ever. And underpinning all of this was the knowledge that tomorrow she would be going home to her parents and two married sisters, while she was all alone.

Edith knew she was being unreasonable. She was a modern woman, her job fulfilled her and she had many interests and friends. She didn't need a relationship. But this time of year she always found herself wanting one. Christmastime, when every jewelry store, TV special, and even her own paper promoted the idea that Christmas was not complete without someone to kiss under the mistletoe, she couldn't help feeling her loneliness all the more.

When her senior partner, Michael Gregson, ducked his head into her office around lunchtime he found her bent over her desk, her head in her hands.

"Hello, what's this?" he said, making her look up.

She sighed. "Oh Michael, you know Christmas always gets me."

He came over and sat on her desk, taking one of her hands and rubbing it comfortingly.

"There's no reason why you should let it get to you. You are a fabulous editor, a fabulous boss, and a fabulous woman, and you are greatly valued by every one of us here. I don't know what I did before you came to work here," he smiled down at her, and she caught the twinkle in his eye that sometimes surfaced, that "if-I-weren't-married-you'd-be-just-my-type" look.

"Thanks, Michael, it's sweet of you to say."

"It's true. And don't you forget it," he leaned down to give her a friendly peck on the cheek. "Lunch?" he said, straightening.

She nodded. "Lunch."

Edith made it through the rest of the day and trudged up her front steps well after eight-o-clock. In her bedroom, her unpacked suitcase leered at her from the corner—but she ignored it. She was in no mood to pack. She had a late dinner of leftover pizza, plopped herself in front of the telly, drank too much wine, and went to bed.

The next morning, she woke from a fitful sleep, to bright light streaming through her window. She blinked, and then was seized with a sudden dread. She reached for her phone and checked the time. Bollocks! She was going to be late. She sprang up, vaguely registering that it was snowing as she rushed around, throwing things into her suitcase. Expletives tumbled from her as she attempted to find missing shoes, gifts, and earrings. At last she stumbled out her door, dragging her suitcase. At the station she ran to catch her train, nearly missing it. As the train began to move, she noticed that by now several inches of snow had accumulated. She overheard another passenger worrying to his companion about making it to their destination, what with the ice the night before.

Great. I have to drive through all that, and I'll probably still be late for lunch at the house. And then I'll have to suffer through Mama's speeches about punctuality and duty. As if I were still twelve. She gave an exasperated yawn and closed her eyes, pushing against the headache she could feel brewing and wishing she had been able to stay in bed.

When she arrived at Downton Station, she trudged around the corner through the deepening snow and retrieved her car out of the garage that kept it for her while she was in London—where the underground and taxis ran everywhere she wanted to go. A glance at her dashboard clock as she pulled out of the garage elicited another curse. She was supposed to be home for lunch in forty minutes!

In a distinctly unchristmas-like mood, she cursed the last-minute holiday shoppers cluttering the crosswalks, and the slow snow-wary drivers which made it impossible for her to hurry along. Once she made it beyond the town to open roads, she was able speed up some, but the storm had increased so that she could see only a few feet in front of her. Her clock glowed 12:00. Brilliant! Late again!

As she thought it, she felt her tires lose their purchase with the road and was suddenly lurching uncontrollably sideways with her car as it arced across the road, feeling the terror of the inertia as her seatbelt locked against her shoulder. Then just as abruptly, her rear door collided with a fence and with an awful thunk and crunch and shatter she was blissfully still.

She sat in silence a moment, feeling the cool air rush in through the broken back window. She looked over her shoulder to see a fencepost leaning through the area where the windowpane ought to be, and exhaled a shaky. "Shit." She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the headrest and released a stream of hot tears of utter and complete stress. Everything was going wrong today, this week, this month.

After several moments her heartbeat had returned to normal. She opened her eyes and began to look about her and assess her situation. She didn't appear to be injured, and decided she'd better get out and see how the car had fared. In addition to the broken window, it appeared she had shattered her taillight, dented both her passenger side doors, and her rearview mirror was hanging from its wires. She was wondering if her undercarriage had been spared, when she caught sight of a figure striding towards her through the storm.

Oh great, that's all I need. The owner. These farmers will practically take you to court if you so much as climb on their fences, much less crash your car into them. She reached into her car and found a paper and pen, which she was using to write her contact information when a tall man appeared out of the swirling snow.

"Are you alright?" he called.

"Yes, I'm fine, thanks. I'm sorry about your fence. I'll be happy to pay for any repairs," she answered, holding the paper out to him as he approached.

He surveyed her critically for a moment, before taking the paper and glancing at it.

"Edith Crawley," he read. "You're not Robert Crawley's daughter?"

"Yes." Bloody brilliant! Now he was going to go complaining to Papa.

He took a few moments to examine her crumpled car.

"Well, it looks like you won't be going anywhere, and this storm is not going to let up any time soon. Let's go inside and we can talk more. You must be in need of a hot cuppa."

"Oh, well that's very kind of you, but I couldn't possibly—"

"Please, Ms. Crawley, we'll worry about this later."

"But what about your fence? I feel awful, really, and—"

"Don't worry about it. Let's just make sure you really are alright," he smiled kindly down at her.

Something in the corner of his smile gave her heart a little tug.

"Well, I suppose I should call a tow truck," she said, blushing in spite of herself.

"Right then," he put out a gloved hand to help her over the broken fence.

She took it, saying "You really are being very nice about this, but I know it's really horrible of me to have done such damage to your property."

"The truth is, you're not the first person to crash into the fence just there—the ice is awful with those trees at that bend. I sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be safer for me to take down the fence."

"Oh but why should you? It was my fault. I was in a hurry," she said, a bit glumly.

He caught her tone and said comfortingly, "Come now, it isn't as bad as all that. And it's not like my sheep are going to get out."

"Do you keep sheep?" she asked anxiously.

He laughed, and Edith's heart gave a flutter. "No. I don't keep any livestock myself. The fence was merely ornamental. Old house, old fence," he said, gesturing forward.

Edith had been paying such attention to her footing that she hadn't really examined the house that was now only feet in front of her. A grand, yet somehow cozy, Georgian mansion rose before her, the snow swirling around its smoking chimneys and the frost playing on its wide windowpanes making it all the more picturesque.

He watched her admiration with satisfaction. "Welcome to Loxley House," he said cheerily.

"Loxley House? Then you must be—"

"Anthony Strallan, Bart," he smiled, "at your service."

"Oh, well, then I am doubly ashamed. Papa has nothing but good things to say about you," she said, catching his gleaming blue eyes. This time her heart began to beat rapidly, and a thrilling felicity flushed up into her cheeks.

"Ms. Crawley, I beg you not to give it another thought. I'm only glad that this incident has afforded me the pleasure of your company," he said softly, his smile twitching nervously.

Edith grinned. "Yes, I—I mean, me too," she said clumsily.

XXX

Minutes later Edith was shrugging off her coat in Loxley's rear hall, turning her head to admire the portraits looking down on her from the paneled walls. As her host led her into the library, past glittering tinsled Christmas trees and swooping pine garlands, she was struck again by the snugness of it all, not perhaps in the first style of elegance, but homey—and distinctly masculine. The library in particular suited him, with its stacks of books and overstuffed chairs. He invited her to sit in one of these, and she sank into it. He pulled an afghan from the back of the sofa and with her permission, spread it over her legs.

"There now, that's much better. I think perhaps you'd better take it easy for a little while. That chair reclines if you'd like a nap, or perhaps a cup of something?"

"Thank you, that sounds lovely."

"Tea? Or perhaps come Christmas cocoa?"

"Cocoa sounds lovely," she answered, but her smile faded into a frown as she remembered. It was Christmas Eve—and she was late for lunch with her family. "Actually, I need to call that tow," she said, digging her phone out of her pocket.

"I'll just be about that cocoa then," he said, politely retreating to the kitchen.

There, he began heating some milk in a saucepan, stirring lazily. His mind was on his unexpected guest, thoughts of her spreading his mouth into a private smile, and filling him with a warmth that had nothing to do with the stove before him. He told himself he was being a fool, but he couldn't deny that he felt himself drawn to her—that he wanted very much to become more than merely acquainted. And the best of it was, that she seemed to want that too. It was so preposterous, that an old man like himself and a vibrant young woman should want to be together, and yet it was with considerable excitement (and not a little nervousness) that he placed two cups of steaming cocoa on a tray and pushed his way through the kitchen door and into the hall.

When he entered the library, Edith was gazing into the fire and her eyes shone with glittering tears. He stood observing her for a moment, and his heart drooped. He wanted to banish all anxiety from her, to wrap her in warm comfort. He cleared his throat, and Edith blinked heavily, swiping aside her tears with the back of her hand.

"Is there anything I can do?" He asked gently, setting down the tray and handing her a steaming mug.

"Oh, I'm just being silly," she said with a sniffle. "The tow company won't come until Saturday because it's Christmas. And my mum is far from pleased that I'm missing Christmas Eve. She says they're about to decorate the tree with the kids." Her gaze dropped to her cocoa, and her sorrows struck her anew. Her lip trembled and tears began to roll down her cheeks. "It's just," she sobbed, "I've never been away from my family for Christmas. Love them or hate them, we've always spent Christmas together. And-" she stopped and swallowed hard, tears still streaming from her eyes, "the worst of it is—they probably won't even miss me."

She bowed her head now, giving vent to all the stress and exhaustion of the day, and the trauma of her accident.

Anthony came over and placed a hand chastely on her should and gave a small squeeze.

"Please don't cry. It's not as bad as all that. You're not stranded here forever," he said soothingly.

"But look at it out there!" she gestured at the window where the snow was still piling up. "There's no way I can get through that. Especially without a car, which is probably totaled."

"Lady Edith, if it would help, I'd be happy to give you a ride home, as soon as you wish it," he offered.

She looked up at him. "Anthony! I mean, Sir Anthony. That's—incredibly kind of you—wonderful really. Are you sure?"

"Anthony, please. And I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it. I understand how important it is to spend Christmas with your family."

She frowned. "But what about you? Will you—I mean don't you have plans? Perhaps someone…special…?" On the one hand, she hoped there was no one. On the other, she couldn't bear the thought of this kind man spending Christmas Eve all alone.

"Oh, well, I was going to go to church, but with this weather, I think it might be best to stay put after sundown. As to family…I have few that I still keep in touch with. So, you won't be spoiling my Christmas," he said with a smile, heartened by the sight of her tears drying. He had the sudden desire to reach out and brush one lingering tear from her cheek, but he suppressed it. "In fact, you've improved it greatly."

Edith smiled at the compliment and he couldn't help grinning back at her. "And you mine," she said softly, falling into his affectionate blue eyes. Her eyes dropped momentarily to his lips, wanting to surrender to the impulse to lean forward and kiss them, but instead she looked into the fire and said a bit loudly, "I mean, if you hadn't rescued me, I'd still be down in that ditch."

He let this linger for a moment before he stood up. "Well, did you want to head out after you finish that cup?"

"Oh, no!" she protested a little too earnestly. "I mean, I wouldn't ask you to go out in this," she corrected, a shy smile playing on her lips. "Maybe if we wait a little the snow will stop. Besides, I don't think I'm ready to go out into that again just yet."

He beamed down at her, glad she'd be staying longer. "Neither am I," he agreed, settling down onto the sofa and reaching for his own cocoa.

"Mmm, Anthony, this is delicious!" Edith said as she sipped hers.

"Thank you." He raised his cup playfully and she reached over to clink hers to it.

Edith took another deep pull of the warm, perfectly choclately mixture, watching him.

"Anthony…" she said tentatively.

"Mmm?" He responded, mid-sip.

"Seeing as you don't have any plans tonight, I was wondering if you might…well, like to come spend Christmas with my family." She turned her eyes back to the fire as his fixed on her in surprise. "It's ok if you don't, but, you are a friend of my father's and…it's Christmas and…"

She ventured a look at him, to find his sincere eyes fixed upon her own.

"Edith, if you really want me…" he began in a low voice that brought Edith's pounding heart up into her throat.

"I do," she said a little hoarsely.

"Then I would be honored to join your family for Christmas," he finished, and once again Edith found herself fixated by the angle of his jaw and curl of his lips. If only she had the courage to lean forward…

Little did she know, Anthony was fighting the same temptation. There was a bend in the top of her lip that he was just aching to taste…

But instead he cleared his throat and returned to his cocoa.

"Well, I'm glad we got that cleared up then," Edith said administratively, and took a hearty gulp.

XXXXX

A/N: I hope to have an update in this week, btw. Ch. 2 is awaiting revisions.