Even before their engagement, it had become a habit for each of them to close one another's door behind them. She had noticed the change of practice over the years, understood that it meant they had grown slowly closer, that their conversations might now hold a comforting morsel of something private, something personal. She wondered if he had noticed as well.

He raised his head at the sound of his pantry door closing behind her and he smiled at her. His fiancée. She walked behind his desk to stand next to him while he sat in his chair, something that was entirely new to them both as she'd only begun to do it a few days earlier.

"Are you just about done?" she asked.

"Almost," he looked down at the ledger. "Just a few more columns, and then I'll pack it in."

She sighed. "Well, I'm asleep on my feet, so I'll be off and up."

He smiled and said, "Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good night, Mr. Carson," she responded.

After a moment's hesitation, she lifted her hand to rest on his shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze before releasing it, trailing her fingers down his sleeve a few inches. It was as much as she dared.

Her back was already to him when he raised his head once again from his ledger, surprised.

"Wait a moment, Mrs. Hughes," he said, rising from his chair and reaching for her.

Not by any definition could it have been said that he grasped her arm. But his two fingertips lighting softly on her sleeve was enough to root her feet to the ground.

She stared at his fingers on her. He waited patiently until she mustered the courage to raise her gaze to him. He tried to convey confidence while he told her what he wanted with his eyes.

Mesmerized, she turned her body fully toward him.

Slowly, carefully, he placed one hand at her waist. The burst of sensation that flooded her body from the point of contact stunned her. When she felt the gentle pressure of his fingers there, pulling her toward him, she gave no thought to obeying. She simply obeyed.

And when the fingertips of his other hand skated a whispering line over the sensitive skin of her cheek to settle in her hair, she had no choice but to let her eyes close. His palm, warm on her face, his hand at her waist, holding her to him…it all made her tremble. She'd lost the ability to focus on one sensation at a time and she was overwhelmed. And so the first touch of his lips pulled a gasp from her.

Her eyes flew open to his concerned gaze. She tried to smile to reassure him, but she couldn't. She could only stare at his lips and rub her thumb over his arm. She hadn't even realized she'd placed her hand on him.

He seemed to understand, thank the Lord, for she knew she wouldn't have been able to utter a coherent word. He leaned toward her again. And that time she was ready. As ready as she could have been for her fiancé to kiss her for the first time.

He pulled away far too quickly for her liking. She'd just been about to wrap her arms around him when he pulled his body away from her and lowered the hand that had held her face.

They stood now with her hands resting on the arms that held her by the waist. He looked into her searching eyes and was charmed by the flush on her cheeks that fled down her neck to places he hoped he would soon know by heart. He wondered if she realized that she had hummed against his lips when he'd kissed her. He wondered if she had purposely pulled his bottom lip gently between hers. He prayed that she didn't notice the hardness that had come when she'd quivered in his arms.

Smiling down at her, he said again, "Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

It took her a moment to realize that he wasn't going to kiss her again. A part of her was sorry, but she knew he was being a gentleman, treating her with the respect he felt she deserved.

And so she smiled at him in return.

"Good night, Mr. Carson."

As she walked up to her bedroom in the attics, she paused several times, not even aware that she was doing it. As far as first kisses go, she thought, there certainly couldn't be any better than that.

After the announcement was made, they'd spent many a comfortable evening sketching out plans. They would not retire, they would be married as soon as was reasonable, they would fix up the home that would one day be theirs alone after they'd spent time renting it out to others. The wall that separated their rooms would be knocked out while they honeymooned in London. The idea was Mary's. The gift of the honeymoon was Lord and Lady Grantham's.

One evening, he sat patiently—or rather, impatiently—in her sitting room for her to be done with her work so that he could kiss her goodnight. It had been getting more and more difficult to pull away from her. Their kisses were growing progressively more…involved. He had thought that nothing could have been more intoxicating than when he'd first gently explored the inside of her mouth with his tongue.

But then, the next night, when he'd kissed her, she'd flicked her own tongue out against his lips and he had nearly collapsed. If anyone had been outside the door, they would have heard him groan in appreciation. He knew by then that she had to have felt what she did to him. They'd been pressed firmly together on more than one occasion, his hands spanning her back, valiantly avoiding traveling lower. But she'd never mentioned it. Of course she hadn't. He shook his head at the thought. He was going batty with wanting her.

"How many more?" he asked with an air of impatience.

"You know very well how many more," she answered, not looking up from her papers.

He fidgeted unhappily.

"I just like to know that you know," he said.

She gave a huff of laughter.

"I think I know the date of my own wedding," she answered back, still not giving him her gaze.

It was at just that moment that he noticed something. In her position, leaning over her desk, he could see the curve of her breast spill over the top of her corset with every breath she took. It would not have been obvious to anyone else, certainly, but he had been staring. And he could just make it out the curve of her through her dress.

Coincidentally, she chose just that moment to take in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh before moving her pencil along her ledger once again.

He stood. Reached over and took the pencil out of her hand to lay it deliberately on her desk. She looked up to him with a question in her eyes. In answer, he took her hand and pulled her firmly, not roughly, out of her chair.

Until that moment, he'd always been gentle when he first pressed his lips against hers. He wanted to give her time to get used to him. He didn't want to frighten her with his need. But today he swooped in recklessly, taking her mouth with his and crushing her body against him.

Her arms flew out in surprise before they came back to crush the fabric that covered his arms in her clenched hands. Her whimper was one of surprise and approval.

Holding tight to her waist, he lifted her clear off the ground. Her cry was muffled against his lips. Just after she'd placed her hands on either side of his face while she kissed him for all she was worth, she realized his intent as he agonizingly let her slide back down to the floor. If she'd had her wits about her, she would have been mortified by the convulsions her body made as she slid down his entire length. But, blessedly, she wouldn't have cared if the entirety of the East Yorkshire Regiment walked in the room at that moment.

They kissed and kissed and let their hands wander and roam as they never had before. She was able to keep quiet when he firmly grasped her bottom, but he swore softly into her ear when she wrapped her leg around the back of his.

What finally made him able to pull away from her was the fact that she'd been steadily lowering her hand down his chest as she nibbled his ear. He knew that he wouldn't be able to stop if she reached certain parts of him. And so he set her away from him though he still held her by the waist.

But she simply looked confused at his actions. Breathing hard, she swallowed a few times before stepping back into his embrace.

He couldn't deny her. He held tight to her and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He spoke his question to the silky, flushed skin of her neck.

"How many more?" He was comically desperate that time, deliberately trying to pull them out of their lustful atmosphere.

She brought her head back to breathe her answer against his lips.

"Eleven."

He groaned.

"It was eleven yesterday!" he protested.

She gave a shaky laugh.

"You say that every day."

"Eleven more days," he agreed grudgingly. "And ten more nights." He looked at her then. Love and impatient lust gleamed in his eyes.

"Yes, dear," she answered with a sympathy that could not have been more genuine. "Ten more nights."