Hope this isn't too weird y'all.

This came about after a conversation with my sis Syriana94, after I had seen her Beauty and the Beast video on youtube (check it out), so my many thanks to her and my momma (dream of ragtime) for their love and supoort❤

Also:unbeta-ed, sorry. Mistakes are mine.

How does a moment last forever|| Cora x Robert|| Beauty and the Beast AU||

The breeze outside is blustery and harsh, and even the thick walls seem unable to quiet the howling of the winds. Cora rubs her hand up and down her arms to try and bring some warmth back into her body. She had been told by her father that she will be fine, that she needs not be afraid, but that is just a little bit hard to accept and believe when faced by the foreboding castle that is the House of Grantham.

People around here call it Downton Abbey¸ and for such a pretty name, it has such terrifying appearance—so intimidating, as if it had a life of its own. Her father had said that she's spewing nonsense, and that she just has such overactive imagination.

Of course, that's pretty easy for him to say—he's not the one in her position. She's not being pawned off to the Master of the house, being used as a collateral damage for all the money he owes the Lord Grantham. Cora understands that it had all been for her and her mother—for them to live a life full of grandeur and lavishness that she had resented all her life. She had longed to be normal, to study and read without having to attend balls after balls, dance with men after men who had thought they'll be bagging some serious money if they'd caught her.

Little had they known, little had everyone known.

All of the money, invested and put away—all of it gone, all of it now in the hands of the Lord Grantham, although it hadn't been enough. And now—now she's to be the payment for the travesty her father has caused.

She doesn't even know what she's supposed to be doing here. The short version of it is that she's to be the Lady Grantham, that'd been clear enough in the way her father had all but abandoned her after dropping her off in here, but the long version—well that she doesn't know.

First things first, she does not have a blithering clue how to be a wife. Sure, she can cook, and entertain, and do needlepoint, but she wants none of those things. What she's always wanted is to explore the great big world, to go beyond the four corners of this stupid town, to go far and wide and explore all the places she's only had the chance to read about.

But now…all that dream is gone, dissipated, turned into dust…caged into the four walls of this stupid Castle.

One thing she knows though, is that she might be a prisoner, but she won't be a servant. This castle doesn't seem to be lacking in that department (the cosiness and homely feeling can do a bit more work), and the castle as it were does not have much in the way of furniture, so the upkeep won't be troublesome, if compared to the number of servants already in the house.

She wonders how they are able to live in such stifling quarters, but she chooses not to question it.

She's scared enough as it is. Although she tries not to let her dears show as she makes another step towards wherever this Mrs. Hughes is about to bring her. She hopes it isn't the dungeons, but she's not entirely to be surprised if it is. Her hands are trembling and her heart is racing, but she bolsters herself, gives herself the courage and the strength she's not entirely sure she has right now.

"Your quarters will be in the East wing," Mrs. Hughes says, her voice soft and her accent thick as her words echo into the walls of the chilly castle (for all the fire in the hearth, it does not help in making this place warm at all). The older woman points to the east side where her room is supposed to be (she still hopes it's not the dungeons). "You'll be taking the Princess Amelia, and you are not, under any circumstance, allowed to go to the West wing."

There is a finality in her tone that makes Cora shiver. Cora turns her head to the side and looks over the general direction of the West Wing, curious as to why it should be forbidden. She bites down on her lip, wanting nothing more than to ask—except perhaps, go there by herself—but she tamps down on that urge, for she knows it's not her place.

"Please heed my warning milady," Mrs. Hughes asks of her quietly. There is a shadow over her eyes that Cora cannot begin to decipher. It is gone before she can make anything of it. "Do not even attempt to go there."

Fine then. She nods slowly, tries to put it out of her mind and curb the curiosity.

"Anyway," Mrs. Hughes starts again, diverting Cora's attention, "Your room should be the first room to the right. Anna here will help you get there."

A little blonde woman appears beside her, and she follows her—Anna—to the quarters assigned to her without another word.

…

Cora sits on the bed, sighing, wondering why, of all things and of all people, she's the one to be given such fate. She looks over at the huge and finely decorated bedroom she has been generously given. The bed was covered in the finest cotton—Egyptian—it seems, and was the softest bed she had probably felt in all her life. It is even softer than the one she had at their old home, and that had been very soft. She has not been anyone's servant before, but any doubts she has in her mind that she's brought here to be anything less than the mistress of the house is nixed, as she highly doubts any servant has had this much luxury that she's experiencing right now.

So, that—she supposes, answers the question of what she's doing here.

Before she can ponder on any of that, there is a soft knock on the door, and she jumps, startled.

"My lady?" she hears the muffled voice call from the other side. Baffled, Cora frowns. "May I come in?"

Cora breathes in deeply, troubled and in doubt as she scratches a nail against the quilt. She wonders, thinks. She has had a maid before—Ethel, her name had been—but when the money they had started to trickle and thin out, most of the servants had been let go and their services dispensed. She hadn't been My Lady or Lady Cora in such a long time.

"Sure," Cora calls out anyway, "Come on in." She's still a bit confused, but she won't get answers by herself.

A woman with soft brown eyes and dark brown hair comes shuffling in. She looks at Cora briefly, though kindly, and then curtsies. "I've come to fetch you for dinner, My Lady," she says. "And to help you get ready."

"I can dress myself," Cora says softly. She doesn't want to be rude, but there really is no need for help. She has learned to do it from doing it alone for the past few years. She looks at the woman in front of her, dismissal at the tip of her tongue. Besides: "I haven't got anything to change into."

The woman does not answer her, though she shakes her head slowly and then makes her way to the large drawers on the other side of the room. She ducks her head and fetches something inside, rummaging somewhere at the back of the wardrobe. She comes out a few minutes later with the most beautiful blue dress Cora has ever seen. It's a dark, dark, midnight blue, simple in cut—simpler than most, but the design and the beads that cover it are intricate, and it is honestly just so beautiful, she's in awe.

She reaches out to touch it, but she stops herself, half afraid she would sully it with her unworthy hands.

"Oh my," she gasps, her hand flying to cover her mouth instead as her jaw drops to the floor. "Oh god, it's so beautiful." Unable to stop herself this time, she reaches out to touch the soft, delicate satin fabric of the dress.

"It is yours, Milady," the other woman tells her, and she almost falls over in shock, because well…that's unexpected. It is rather too much.

Sure, Cora has seen the finer things in life, has had the pleasure to sit on the lap of luxury for most of her life, and losing all that had been a struggle, but for the past year, she's learned to cope, and really, for the past years, the itchy fabric of her dress has become bearable to her. Still not the ideal dress, or the dress she prefers, but she's learned to live.

"Oh, my, but what a fine thing," she murmurs, sighing.

The other woman smiles in response. "Should we get you dressed, Milady?" she asks softly.

"I can do it myself," she tells the woman kindly, for she might be dressed finely and be given a grand chamber, but she is no longer part of that world. "I'm used to doing it on my own."

The woman—bless her as Cora still does not know her name—shuffles from foot to foot, and looks uncomfortable. Cora realizes that she's only just doing her job, she must have been instructed to do it, but Cora isn't really all that comfortable in having her do these things that Cora has learned to live without.

Cora swallows. "Erm, um, you can lace it for me?" she says instead, a form of compromise, because she understands that there are roles and places they need to play and adhere to, and she needs to respect that, needs to let things fall into their rightful places. "I'll need a screen so I can get myself into the dress, then you can lace me up." Cora grabs the dress when the lady's maid hands it to her. She looks pretty much appeased, to be honest. "What's your name?"

"Baxter, Milady," she replies, and Cora nods before disappearing behind the screen to change into the beautiful dress.

…

Dinner is a tensed affair.

She sits on the chair she'd been directed to sit in, feeling anxious. The panic is rising in her chest, and her hands are trembling which she tries to hand as she keeps them out of sight and under the table. She is biting down on her lip (something her mother has told her a million times that she shouldn't do), trying to expel the fear that's making her whole-body quake.

The hairs at the back of her start standing and a shiver runs down her spine a while later, and she sees everyone around her visibly stand straighter, as though the fear that's nesting in her chest had suddenly become contagious.

She hears footsteps, loud and heavy, and she tries very hard not to turn her head, waits for the person to come to sight. She fiddles with her thumbs and reminds herself to breathe.

Suddenly, a man comes into the dining room. He looks thunderous, his mouth pulled into what seems like a permanent frown. He looks at her with beady eyes, and Cora looks back at him with wide eyes.

"My Lord," the butler, Carson, greets and waits as the Lord Grantham sits on his chair.

Everyone moves at once, serving food and wine. What should be chaotic is done in perfect synchrony, and Cora has not had enough education in her life (though she's had plenty, had been sent to the best schools before their money had ran out) to be able to call herself an expert in the dynamics of the human mind, but she can see how much of a perfectionist Lord Grantham is.

Up until now, Cora had expected a man with a boorish face to match the boorish attitude she's been told he has. He has none of that though—boorish attitude, check—his face is clean shaven, as opposed to the picture she has of him in her head where he has a face covered with beard. His eyes are hard and emotionless, but they are the most beautiful shade of blue she's ever seen.

He's actually a beautiful man, except—

"What are you staring at?" he asks in a low growl, and yes, except when he does that.

"Nothing, my lord," she replies in a murmur, dropping her gaze and concentrating on the food that's been laid out before her.

She feels the fear come back to her with a vengeance, and belatedly she realizes it never went away in the first place.

She swallows. This is her life now. And god, what a nightmare.

…

She's beauty and he's the beast.

That's what she's heard the servants say.

Honestly, she cannot see it. She's no great beauty, and he's no ferocious beast.

They are just two people, lost in this world and trying to find a way. He's misunderstood, she knows as much now. She can see the way his eyes would falter, would see it soften for a split second and then harden again as though he's protecting himself from something.

He is so guarded, so determined not to let anyone see what is inside. He intrigues her, though, for there is something about him, something there that she has not seen before, nor anyone for that matter, and that no one had bothered to see into.

Lord Grantham has so much history, has a story behind him he's trying hard to bury, or preserve, whichever applies. And he's such a complex person, has so many layers that she wants to know and understand.

She has been in this golden, gilded prison for about few weeks now and there has been talks between her and Mrs. Hughes when the wedding is to be. She doesn't want to marry someone she doesn't know, but as is correctly pointed out to her so many times, she does not have a choice in the matter.

Honestly, though, she's okay with that, has learned to accept it as fact, a fact of her life. She isn't going to be free, she's not going to get out of this, and despite not knowing her or even caring about her the Earl of Grantham seems to be intent on marrying her—and that, she cannot really do anything about.

Though intelligent, the Lord of the House does not seem to be very reasonable.

…

She's a beauty.

That is his first thought. He'd seen her come in the Castle, looking small and fragile, looking such like a frightened little doe. But there is strength in the way she carries herself, courage in her every step, and though he knows little about her, her admires her.

She's frightened of him.

That much he'd confirmed when he'd walked in the dining room and her eyes widened in fear. She seems to be studying him, seems to be seeing things that no one else could see, and she's not only done it that one time, but he knows she does it every time she looks at him—unnerving him. She is getting under his skin and he doesn't like it.

But he needs this.

He needs her, he doesn't want to but he does.

He had always been meant to marry, it's a part of the clause of keeping the house. He had not known it at first, and he'd lived a blissful life married to the love of his life. But when she'd died before giving him an heir, it had then showed in the contract that he needs a wife to keep the house. He'd had a five-year limit, after his wife's death to remarry, or the house will be gone, and everything else will be taken away with it, too.

So much of his wife's memories, life, and inheritance had been tied to the house, and he'd wanted to save it, had always meant to before time runs out on him, but he'd been too caught up in the pain, in grieving for the wife he's lost, and the love he can never have back. Finding a wife had been secondary, had been completely and utterly the last thing on his mind.

But the five-year time period is almost up, he needs a wife, needs to marry someone to keep the house and the money. So, he'd been determined to find a wife then, to save the house, to preserve the last memories he has of his wife, even if it's just this.

His saving grace had come in the form of Miss Cora Levinson, the daughter of the merchant who owed him so much money, even both their lives would not have been enough to pay it back. Robert, then, had not needed the money, had needed a wife to save his life and all his properties. Cora had been the best candidate—not that he'd had much to begin with, living as a hermit for the past five years had cemented his role in the society—which was not much at all.

Cora, though, was perfect. She was well read, had studied in a good school, and had been able to secure a position as a governess after the downfall of her father from the society. She'd been well respected, well liked in the village, and not only would she save Downton, she'd also save his reputation and would give him a better face to the townspeople.

It had been perfect.

What he hadn't anticipated, though, was how beautiful she was.

Robert had liked the finer things in life, the life he'd lived had been all about the extravagance and grandeur, and he had admittedly—before his wife, and maybe even a little after that—had been captured by beauty, beautiful women. His own wife had been of great beauty, and he had not been the only one who thought so.

Cora though—Cora is different, she is gorgeous, sure, more beautiful than any other woman he'd ever seen, and he does understand exactly why she'd been the talk of the town, why she had been the belle of the village…but there is more to her. There is more to her than anyone has ever tried to see, something there that he hasn't seen before as he'd been focused on her looks.

Now, though, now he's been living with her for the past few weeks, and he's watched her discreetly, has interacted with her a few times, he knows she's more. She is more than just a beautiful face.

He isn't in love with her, of course not, but he likes her, likes the way he feels when he's around her.

And though that might make him feel guilty at times, and that's why he stays away, there's a big part of him that craves the way she makes him feel.

And though it's a lonely life she seems to be heading to, he dives in, head first.

…

Cora is getting restless, he can see that, can see it in the way she roams the halls of the castle, drifting in and out of the rooms. He understands her, knows she's used to having things to do as a governess, knows she does much more when she's out and about town—something that Mrs. Hughes and their cook, Mrs. Patmore, had been quite keen to let him know.

She looks like she wants more adventure, can see it in the way her eyes would glaze, and he understands that the four walls of the castle had been akin to a gilded cage to her. It's not that she isn't allowed out, it's just that she's not allowed out without anyone to accompany her. Call it whatever, but he's just making sure she doesn't have the brilliant idea to run away from him.

But he understands her, understands her need to walk around, needs to explore. He'd been there, too, had been through a phase when he'd wanted to explore the world. It isn't exactly that he doesn't trust her—it's just that he can't let her get out without the doubt that she's not coming back.

"What can I do?" he asks Mrs. Hughes, because she always seems to be the one with all the answers. He's desperate at this point, needs help figuring things out because he cannot figure it out himself.

Mrs. Hughes shrugs at him and turns her nose up, sniffing. "The girl seems to love reading, at least," she informs him with an air of casualness that boggles his mind. What's he got to do with it? Mrs. Hughes blows through her lips, and sighs exasperatedly, "You've got a room full of books you don't use?"

And, ah, yes, the library!

He smiles triumphantly, shocking his housekeeper who is rarely ever phased. Whatever brought on his need to please Miss Levinson, he decides not to question or overanalyse, only accepts it as it is.

He makes his way to her bedchambers and knocks on the door excitedly, the smile on his lips ever growing with excitement. She opens the door and looks at him tentatively, the look of doubt and apprehension clear on her face.

He tries to school his face into a more serious look, rather than a giddy school boy.

"Come with me," he orders her, and she rolls her eyes, clearly displeased. He knows how she absolutely despises being ordered around. So, he looks at her with softer eyes and a softer smile, "Please?"

"Alright," she says, then, gathering her skirt about her and following her to the other side of the castle.

Inside, he smiles, excited.

If this doesn't smile over this, then he doesn't know what else would help.

…

The loud, banging on her door wakes her from her reverie and startles her enough that she jumps in her bed. She's been thinking about her father, how he is now, and has been thinking about the life outside of this enormous castle serving as her very own prison.

She wonders what he needs a wife for when he doesn't even bother getting to know her. Perhaps, he wants her to be his trophy wife, a decoration, an arm candy. In fact, he doesn't even trust her enough to go to the West Wing, which is stupid, because she's supposed to live in this prison for the rest of her life.

(Mrs. Hughes had seen her standing at the foot of the stairs leading to the forbidden wing, and she'd been promptly told off for even considering to look upon it).

Another loud bang, and she sighs, gets up and opens the door to find the Earl himself standing in front of the door, his hand raised in a fist, poised to knock—the door down, it seems. She looks at him apprehension and doubt, almost fearing him. But he's all bark, no bite, so she just stares at him and waits for him to speak.

He looks at her curiously for a while, and there is a look there that she can read, but it's gone before she could analyse it,

"Come with me," he orders her and she only stares at him, unphased and displeased. She really cannot care much for being ordered around like he tends to do. She is not amused, and he seems to realize that as his looks soften, and he adds, "Please?"

She sighs and nods, follows him to wherever he plans to take her. If he's about to push her off the tower for some reason, she's come to just accept her fate.

He doesn't lead her to the tower though, instead leads her to the other end of the East wing, and she thinks she'd be lost at the many, many hallways they just passed, the view becoming one blurry room to another.

Suddenly, he halts, stops in front of the door and opens it, brandishing his hand with a flourish. He even adds an overdone "tah-daahh", and it's almost hard to believe that this man standing in front of her is the same man who has been the crabbiest person alive for the past few weeks.

She doesn't question it though, instead, she turns her attention to the room. What she expects to be another empty room that he expects her to do lord knows what, she finds a room filled with books from ceiling to floor. The walls are made of shelves filled with books.

It's literary a dream.

Or a literary dream.

"Robert?" she gasps in wonder and amazement. She knows he's a learned man, an intelligent one, but she hadn't realized how well read he is exactly, until now.

She turns to him, and she knows that her heart are literally in her eyes at the moment.

…

She looks at him with stars in her eyes, and he feels like he might as well have hung the moon.

She looks so pleased, and he realizes that this, this is what he wants her to be for the rest of the lives they will live together.

He smiles down at her when she breathes out his name in that way that makes his heart skip a beat.

"I uh, it's yours. If you want it," he tells her needlessly and awkwardly. He feels heat rise to his neck and cheeks, and knows both must be reddening. He doesn't blush, hasn't in a long time, and so this is new.

"Really?" she asks, sounding surprised and amazed.

He nods and takes her hand, the touch of her skin in his is positively electric, and a shiver runs down his spine, making him wonder what exactly that means.

"Yes," he assures her, nodding slowly to show how sincere he is. "I know adjusting to this new life has been difficult, and though I can't give you back all the things that are now lost to you—mainly the freedom to explore, I hope you know that there is this room. And though it still has four corners, there's freedom here for you to explore, even with only the pages of a storybook."

Her eyes glaze, and she looks at him like he's the best thing in the world, and it's an odd feeling, for he's never had anyone look at him like that before, even when he'd been married—and he had been in a very happy marriage with the woman he'd loved dearly.

She squeezes his hand and tugs him closer to her and then she reaches up and places a soft kiss to his cheek. It's nothing scandalous. It's the basest of all kisses, innocent and without any kind of passion that would have sent his heart racing, but it does just that—sends his heart racing, has him breathing faster, and has him wanting to give in to the urge to lift his hand and touch the part of his cheek that he's kissed.

She's in and out of his arm length before he can think further into it. It's fleeting, quick, and almost nothing at all. It is everything, though, and Robert thinks how unfortunate it is to not know how to make a moment last forever.

But, lord oh lord, he'll die trying to make it happen again.