At last this thing is happening. I've been working on it for too long. A sprawling first night for the newlywed Carsons. It's in two parts because it was just too damn long. Enjoy!

At last they're on their own in Scarborough. The door to their little holiday cottage is closed. And locked. And there's tea waiting on the kitchen table — little sandwiches and a steaming pot, delivered at just the right time.

She rather wishes there were a little something stronger too. Her thoughts keep flitting about because she's trying to ignore the pounding of her heart. She's taking off her hat and she glances up at him to see dark eyes and hesitation.

He's standing on the other side of the little table, his hands resting lightly on the back of the chair.

"You're beautiful," he says, and his voice is both soothing and alarming (melting, velvet, a little rumbling, a half-whisper).

She wants to rush to him. And she wants to hide. Instead she stands completely still, her back almost literally up against the door.

To him she looks almost afraid. His little smile turns to a forlorn expression as he worries that he might have pushed too hard with his little compliment.

Feeling quite nervous, she hums, then remembers her manners and manages a little gasped "thank you." Her eyes flick up to his for only a second, then back down. She looks anywhere but at him. The table, the windows, the fireplace, needless on this warm day but stocked with coal nonetheless, she notes approvingly.

With nothing for her hands to do, she finds herself smoothing down the lines of that beautiful coat. It's completely unnecessary, of course. Her gloved fingers toy with the velvet edges.

Gloves. Right, they should probably come off.

She looks down at them and with a little smile, starts pulling at the fingers.

It is the most erotic thing he can recall ever seeing. His mouth drops open and he gasps, an audible intake of breath that makes her freeze in place, her eyes questioning.

"Are you alright?" she asks him, stupidly. She can see he is both perfectly well and not well at all, but what to do about it? She can't very well stride over there and kiss him. Can she? She is a married woman, after all. But what if he thinks it improper? She couldn't bear it if he rejected her now. He won't. She's sure of it... in her mind. But how that translates into action remains maddeningly unclear.

He was gazing intently at her hands a moment ago. Why? Has she done something wrong? No, surely not, but maybe there's something, a stain, a drop of punch...? He's looking back at her now, but she loses their little staring contest, dropping her gaze down to examine the dove-grey fabric.

He lets out a heavy breath when she looks down. Her eyes snap back up to his and all at once he realizes how uncomfortable he's making her. He's got to give her some privacy. He starts to turn around but she stops him.

"Mr Carson, is something wrong?"

Her quiet voice sounds pleading; it shakes almost as much as it did when they stood together in the drawing room back at Downton. When she explained her wishes for their reception in that soft, tremulous voice, she gently claimed yet another tract of territory in his heart. It belongs almost completely to her. Elsie Hughes and the Crawley family have taken him over entirely, but the balance shifts more in her direction with every little bit of herself that she reveals.

But enough of that. She's standing there looking at him, waiting for a response, looking awfully troubled, which makes no sense to him.

He gives himself a little shake.

"Er. No, no, of course not," he says, and attempts to dismiss her concerns with his light tone and a wave of his hand.

She hums vaguely. It sounds like what she did when he first kissed her. He's still standing there staring at her like an idiot (a lecherous idiot at that, he tells himself, getting all hot and bothered about her gloves coming off), going mad with this stupid table between them.

The table. Ugh. He steps back, walks around it and approaches her. He's still five feet away from her when he stops. She's staring at him, a little smile starting to curl her lips. It's teasing and joy all in one, because she's realizing something — against all odds; how on earth they've managed to bring it all to the surface enough to marry is beyond her, but there's so much still hidden away. Not just their bodies, but stories and emotions and things they might never get to, with all the time they don't have, but sad thoughts like that are not helpful.

She's on the second glove already and she smiles up at him, still standing so far away, and extends her gloved hand to him.

His eyebrows fly up and there it is, that gentle expression of shocked relief (the butler disappears when he looks at her like that).

She nods, stepping closer to him. He takes her hand in both of his and asks permission with his eyes. She nods again, her eyes closing at the touch of his hand through the fabric (a slow cat-blink, love and desire and shaking breath, her eyes open again and she looks up at him, differently than before, her eyes demanding, heated, pleading all at once).

He held her hand reverently in his today as he slid the ring into place; it cost her some effort to refrain from a small gasp as he did it. The memory of cool metal and his warm hands and the tender way he touched her, cradling her hand in both of his, makes her feel both steady and unbalanced even now. This time she does gasp as he tugs at the fingers of her glove. He's gently holding her wrist, skin to bare skin — it feels more intimate than anything they've done before.

The fabric slides from her fingers, across her palm, and here is her bare hand, polished nails, slender fingers, irresistible. Holding the glove and trying absurdly to fold it in one hand, he raises her naked hand to his lips and closes his eyes at the sound off her soft, high hum.

His kisses to her palm and to her wrist make her short of breath. Distracted for a moment by the fidgeting of his other hand, she takes the glove from him and lays them both on the table — with one hand, thank you; she's not about to pull away from what he's doing. Now he's kissing her fingertips and letting them go; he doesn't want to hold her here if she doesn't want him to. Her little sounds are encouraging, but what if she doesn't want it like this? What if she tires of him? What if he can't please her? But she's not tired of him, it would seem, because she's carefully, slowly laying her hand on his shoulder to pull him in close to her.

It's a gentle touch, a tentative one, and she needs his encouragement. She's grateful when he leans closer. Heart pounding, she moves her hand up to his neck. And impulsively, she goes up on tiptoes and pulls him down to her and kisses him. He startles half a second before leaning in, softening into the kiss, letting her lower herself onto her heels again. This time it's his hum that she hears. Encouragement indeed.

His hands find her face, as if to assure himself this is real.

They come apart for air. The kiss was still fairly chaste, but neither of them is ready to part yet, to lose contact. No, they cling to one another, his hands on her shoulders, hers trapped between them.

They very badly want to go further but how, when exactly… these questions seem insurmountable.

"Erm... Tea?" she asks weakly.

Oh, but that's delightful. He's never been so happy to see her flustered.

"Would you like tea?" he asks her evenly, holding her gaze.

"Erm, no, not particularly."

And she looks up at him again, those eyes of hers hungry and shy all at once.

"Perhaps we should..." He begins, and trails off. He absently takes one of her hands in one of his own, holding it gently in the space between them.

"...er..." She can't speak either. Why must it be so awkward between them?

They both smile at each other, helpless eyebrows high on their foreheads. Each of them is unaware that the other is also cursing their long years of flawless propriety and restraint.

Then he remembers something. He gives her hand a squeeze and almost kisses it, but speaks instead. His voice is gentle and smooth again, to her immense relief.

"I've got a bottle of wine in my case, if you'd like —"

"Yes," she interjects, a bit too quickly. He pauses for half a second to appreciate how charming that little outburst was, before kissing her hand, releasing her, and turning away to retrieve the wine.

She finds glasses for them and they sit together. Well, too far apart, really. It's awkward again, facing one another across the table.

"Might we... move to the sofa?" she suggests. Any more of this nonsense and she feels she'll keel over from exhaustion.

"Er, yes, let's," he replies gratefully.

And they sit together. A little closer than before. Much closer, really. The pounding of her heart makes a mockery of any thoughts she might have had of exhaustion. She dares relax into him a little — it's much like the way they sit together in the pews. She takes a deep breath, trembling a bit. This is nothing like the way they sit together in church.

She downs the rest of her glass in one go. It's not much, but it's more than a usual sip and he notices. Of course he does; for weeks (months, maybe years) he's been highly attuned to her smallest movement, looking for hints, trying to decipher this new version of her that joked (only it wasn't a joke) about checking her hair in the looking glass.

"Mrs Hughes, I…"

She giggles. Nervously. He can't take it; it's too adorable, so he laughs a little too. Also nervously.

"What is it?" he manages.

"I just — this. You calling me Mrs Hughes here, on our honeymoon. It's not as if we were working now."

Oh good Lord he's put his foot in it, and he's got to fix it.

"No. You're right," he says with a small smile. Elsie..."

"Yes?" Oh but her heart is pounding even faster than before.

"Would you..."

Silence.

She closes her eyes in frustration, furrowing her brow, pressing her lips together.

But it's difficult for him too; he's afraid he'll be a disappointment and that he won't please her. What's more, he's afraid that he won't please her, that he can't do anything for her with his aging body and his lack of experience. He knows women are supposed to enjoy it too, but how exactly... He simply doesn't know how to touch her.

In more than one way, he doesn't know how to touch her: most obviously, he doesn't know what she'll like. But even worse, he doesn't know how to go about starting to touch her. It's horrible and embarrassing and if only they had someth—

Ah. Right. He gulps his wine too and leans away to reach for the wine bottle. He asks her with his eyebrows whether she'd like another and she nods.

"Thank you." Her voice is barely a whisper. She finds she's alternating between hating her nerves and enjoying the thrill. Her side felt cold when he moved away to get the wine and now it's warm again. She's not sure how she feels about the fact that she can't seem to use her vocal cords. It's all a bit absurd.

"Charles?" she asks eventually.

"Hmm — " He's just taken a sip, but he holds up his hand, gently of course, but she waits. Something about hearing his given name — that form of it — from her lips doesn't quite sit right with him, so he swallows his wine, takes a deep breath, and dares himself to say it. Hopefully she won't laugh at him.

"I was wondering... if you wouldn't call me Charlie."

Her eyebrows up, she laughs, one syllable. It crushes him. Visibly. Urgently, she takes his free hand and squeezes it.

"I'm not laughing at you, Mr Ca—"

Now this is just confusing. And silly, she tells herself as she takes a breath and tries it out.

"Charlie." She likes it. And there's an audible smile in her voice.

They look at each other for a moment — too long, apparently, because for some reason it's awkward again. He's just got to ask her before his breath catches in his throat, so the words rush out of him —

"Elsie, may I kiss you?"

At her nod (bitten lip tinysmile with sparkling eyes), he takes their glasses and puts them on the table.

He turns back to her. It feels a bit like yesterday in her sitting room, only now there are no prohibitions. Which is both thrilling and terrifying.

With one hand resting gently against her cheek, he leans in. And her eyes slide closed as they kiss, soft and slow. This time it really is a moan that escapes her, a soft, high sound of ...something. Finding that sound very encouraging, he pulls back to look at her and sees heavy-lidded eyes and rosy cheeks and parted lips — and so he pulls her to him to kiss again (she kisses him right back and hears something rushing in her ears). The hand that was soft at her cheek now moves to her hair, caressing it — she feels bold indeed as she covers his hand with hers — but he worries that this isn't what she wants, so he pulls away. But no — she presses his hand there and then surprises him by finding a pin, which she pulls out and hands to him.

Happy disbelief as he realizes what she's done, and what she's inviting him to continue.

She watches him, fascinated by the concentration on his face as he carefully undoes the meticulous work of Anna and Miss Baxter.

The pins come out one by one and he holds them clutched in his hand, not knowing what else to do with them. She gently uncurls his fingers and takes the pins, giving him permission to deposit the rest into her open palm. It means he gets to touch her hand over and over.

From time to time a pin will snag and he slows down, unwinding it carefully while bravely leaning in to kiss her cheek, her neck, her temple. Anywhere he can reach, he wants to kiss her there. She deserves to be adored. Covered with kisses.

She knew he felt deeply, but she wasn't there to witness the way he spoke of her to Mrs Patmore. Now she's getting some idea of the depth of his feeling for her. It's overpowering. Kisses to her neck make her shiver — who knew it could be like this? The desire (she knows it's that, yes, and she's got no word for arousal, but that's what it is) grows, warmth flooding her body. If pressed, she might have said she felt hot and cold all at once.

Her little sighs, hums, and whispers give him the courage to run his hands through her hair. He thinks he's got all the pins out, but no — here's one more. He'd like to lay her down (he's shocked at himself for that, a bit, but not really) and he won't have pins poking her, so he checks thoroughly.

He ends up caressing her scalp, massaging her neck, indulgently touching her, burying his face in her hair, kissing her neck. Overwhelmed, she simply drops her hands into her lap and lets her head loll to the side to give him access. She's languid and limp, feeling weightless and heavy all at once.

Here's an unfamiliar feeling: her corset is bothering her. She wears the thing every day — she doesn't love it, but she's quite used to it. But now she wants to breathe more deeply (she wants to move in ways she's never done before) and wants to touch him as well. It's hard to ask him to stop. But she manages it, on a gasped breath.

"Charlie..."

She pushes gently on his shoulders and he lifts his head to look at her, his eyes full of desire, confusion, and the hint of an apology, which she immediately wants to soothe away. And she does: with a boldness new to her, she brings a hand to his face, brushing a thumb across his lips. He surprises her by closing his eyes and kissing her thumb. At her soft gasp he opens his eyes again, giving her a shy, unnervingly charming smile that makes her heart pound away in her chest.

With her hand under his chin, she gently tilts his face up toward her and kisses his lips. He inhales sharply through his nose and brings his hands to her face again. Cautiously, they open their mouths just slightly; it's thrilling to feel and even more exciting to think of the fact that they're finally doing this.

But this isn't quite what she wants. It isn't enough. She needs more of him; she needs less between them. Her hand drifts down to land on his tie, her fingers curling around it and brushing against the shirt beneath it. They break apart to breathe when he gasps at that unfamiliar touch. Not quite able to look into his eyes, she brings both hands up to undo the knot. She'd like to pull the tie off, slide it out from under his collar, but that seems too bold.

Bolder than undoing the top button? she asks herself as she does just that, while biting back a rueful grin. Her eyes flick up to him. He's not moving a muscle, nothing — the man isn't even breathing. And her hands suddenly go still. Has she gone too far? Surely not. He wants her, doesn't he? This is maddening. She needs some encouragement, some sign from him.

He lays his hands over hers as if to stop her. But the way he looks at her seems to be telling her something else. She pulls her hands back. Tears are just starting to form in her eyes; annoyed, she blinks them away. He sees it, understands her uncertainty, and with one hand behind her head, he pulls her close for one kiss, a soft, quick thing, undoes the next button, and places her hands back at the opening of his shirt. She inhales quickly, biting her lip yet again.

Seeing his chance, he touches her cheek and runs his thumb over that lip, making her gasp. He looks down at her hands undoing his buttons; she's made it through two more but the shaking of her hands is making it difficult.

"Elsie," he whispers.

She looks up at him, a nervous smile on her face. She's embarrassed about her nerves, making it very difficult indeed to break free of them.

And now he's calling her by her name and she can't even get words out.

"Hmm?" She manages.

"Would it be terribly forward of me..."

She presses her lips together, eyes smiling, then pleading for him to continue.

"...ahem, if I were to suggest that we move, er, to… to the..." His throat seems determined to close up.

She's beginning to realize that he's as nervous as she is, bless him. And that allows her to speak, even if it is only a whisper.

"...to the bedroom?"

He nods, barely.

"No," she says, her voice trembling. When he looks devastated, she shakes her head, her hands leaving his shirt to start oddly fluttering. Breathless, she manages "I mean it's not too forward of you, Charlie."

He smiles, sagging with relief. And he stands, the ends of his tie hanging loose, his hand extended to her. She thinks vaguely of a knight helping a lady.

She takes his hand and together they make their way to the bedroom.

He closes the door behind them. Then he wonders whether that was perhaps unnecessary (there's no one else here) or if he's made her feel trapped (heaven forbid, though he thinks he knows she wants him, but he would never press her) but in the end he thinks no, it would have been most improper to leave it open. Shaking his head in frustration, he moves away from the door.

This is ridiculous, she thinks.

She's standing there with her hair floating around her shoulders, with empty hands that want to touch him. And the ring is shining on her finger. There's nothing stopping them except their own hesitations.

He turns to look at her in the soft light of the lamps, wondering vaguely when exactly she switched them on. She takes his breath away. He wants to ravish her, lift handfuls of her hair, release her from the cloth and bone of her corset, feel the soft warmth of her pressed against him — and yes, he badly wants to touch the secret, hidden parts of her, the mere thought of which is causing a stirring (finally, hopefully) in his trousers. This is much more difficult than it should be, he thinks.

But that thought alone — this should be easy what's wrong with you old man she's right there and you can't manage to — is enough to send his frightened heart pounding again, and he loses the beginnings of … well.

She's fiddling with her hair as he stares at her. He blinks, realizing she's watching him, and he clears his throat. He opens his mouth twice before he can speak.

"You're so beautiful," he tells her at last. He's repeating himself but he can't help it.

A sad little laugh escapes her and she looks down, shaking her head and wringing her hands together.

Aha. She doesn't believe him? Maybe this is what will save them, he thinks wildly. And he crosses the room in a few long strides. Her eyes go wide, but they slam closed as he places his hands at her waist (she startles and sways toward him) and he kisses her, pouring all his emotion and desire into it. Surely she must understand that he means it. That he wants her desperately. She hums softly, longer than before, the time he kissed her in his pantry.

His hands tense at her waist and he pulls her closer. The coat from her Ladyship starts to slip off her shoulders and he breaks the kiss, bringing his hands to her shoulders to slide it off of her. Instantly she's afraid. Her dress isn't much to look at (let alone what's under it, she thinks bitterly).

But he slips the coat off and steps away to drape it over the back of a chair. In one smooth movement, and unaware of how seductive it looks, he swiftly pulls his tie free. The end of it snaps against the starched cotton of his collar before snaking through, and her breath catches in her throat. He drapes it over her coat, silk against velvet, the first articles of their clothing that have ever lain together.

When he turns back to her, she feels naked. She fixes her eyes on the open buttons of his shirt. He sees her nervously biting her lip and he smiles, a gentle, dark, erotic smile. Somehow, a shift has happened since they've entered the bedroom: the more nervous she is, the more inclined he is to reassure her. He wants her to know just how awfully he wants her, and so it is that now he approaches her with open hands, offering her... offering her everything. She puts her hands in his and he kisses them, one after the other.

Her mouth is open in a little "o" of surprise — and now he's turned and is pulling her toward the bed. She smiles at him, gently, happy to move in that direction — and after he's pulled the covers back, he sits, hoping she'll join him. Instead she stands between his knees and cradles his face in her hands, tilting it up so she can kiss him. His hands rest at her waist; she starts unbuttoning his shirt again (brazenly, she thinks, but doesn't quite care). He reaches up her back, asking permission with his eyes (which she grants immediately with an urgent nod) but the zipper is too high for him to reach, so she laughs softly and turns in his arms to give him access.

He practically forgets to breathe when she turns and he's supposed to open her dress. How long has he been dreaming of this? Good god, he can barely get his fingers to close around the zipper but now it's moving for him, the dress opening, her tender shoulders exposed. He pauses there to run his fingertips across her skin, appreciating her delicate shoulderblades — and freckles.

Freckles? He'd thought there was no way this woman could be more endearing, but she's proven him wrong. He gently urges her to step forward so he can stand behind her and drop kisses where his hands have been.

Chills run through her as he presses his mouth to her exposed skin. She might've known he would be like this. But worry had clouded her thoughts, and so this adoration comes as something of a surprise. She lets out a little shaking sigh as he undoes the zipper the rest of the way.

Slowly, gently, he lays her skin bare. And underneath, o lord have mercy, is her corset over a thin cotton shift. Unsure what to do next, he lays his hands on her shoulders. She inhales, shaking, and turns toward him.

Oh but he's so beautiful… so gentle and passionate and restrained. She gives him a shy smile that becomes a soft little laugh. His hands hover over her and she takes them and presses them to her shoulders, pulling the fabric of the dress forward and off her shoulders. It slips down; she pulls her arms out of the sleeves and steps out of the dress as it falls to the floor. He takes it, letting her step out of it, and drapes it carefully over her coat and his tie. Exposed in corset and shift, she shivers.

He notices it with dismay — he won't stand for it, her getting chilled! With a speed that surprises her only a little, he unbuttons his shirt and discards it. And she takes a breath and exhales, looking at him sideways with a bit of fear in her eyes as she opens up her corset. There's no need for that fear, of course — but even more ridiculous, he doesn't even see her little glance at him, because he felt silly fretting about his socks and so he's taken that exact moment to remove them.

He looks up just as she's taking her first deep breath out of the corset. Her hair down around her shoulders sways with each of her movements. She glances up at him, looks away again, and then snaps her eyes to his because he's staring at her with an expression that could only be described as lustful.

There they are, she in stockings, knickers, and shift, he in trousers, underwear, and undershirt. At least they're on even footing… sort of. For a few seconds she matches his stare, then looks away, down, at nothing. She feels awfully exposed in her shift, so she crosses her arms over her chest, as much from cold as from the cacophony of emotions.

With his brow furrowed in concern, he approaches her. She looks up into his eyes again, desperation making itself known in her expression.

"Oh Elsie."

She laughs and it's half sob. But he wraps her up in his arms, warming her.

"Elsie, I love you," he tells her. His voice is soft but insistent, his breath hot against her ear, his nose buried in her hair.

"I love you," he repeats in a whisper, and pulls back to look at her, his eyes full of hope.

"I love you too," she whispers. She pushes tears away, then smiles bravely.

"We don't have to..." he begins, then trails off, too proper to finish the sentence.

"Oh... Oh no," she says vaguely. At his confused, stricken expression, she needs to speak. "Charlie," she whispers, taking a moment to indulge in a loving smile at his name before letting her expression turn serious again. "I want to."

tbc