No man has ever looked at her the way that he looks at her, the way that he is looking at her now.

Certainly, no hall boy nor footman ever has; not even when she was young and her figure firm, hips slim, skin smooth, her face not lined with wrinkles. No, they may have leered at her with dark, dead squinty eyes and a hint of mischief playing about their lips as they hid behind a door or around a corner waiting for her to pass by. They waited, reaching out to grab a handful of her skirt in a vain attempt to pull her into a corner to sneak a hurried kiss. That is until they met with the backside of her hand across her their faces.

No, no hallboy nor footman ever looked her the way that he looks at her, his eyes so soft with love and devotion that it makes her question why they've waited so long. Why it took a day at the seaside for her to reach for his hand, challenge him to love her, to acknowledge openly that theirs might be more than collegial affection.

Not even Joe Burns looked at her the way the way that he looks at her. The farmer had been, is still, a good and kind man. He cared about her she didn't doubt that then and still doesn't. But she knows that Joe wanted a farmer's wife, someone to help run the farm. Someone to help slop the pigs and tend the chickens, to manage his books, to clean his house and wash his clothes, and to have Sunday dinner on the table after church. He wanted someone to rub lineament into his sore shoulder after a hard day's work and warm his bed at night. He was lonely, but she was not.

She had Downton and she had him, whether she realized it then or not. She didn't love Joe Burns, not in the way that matters, not in the way that wives should love their husbands.

Not like she loves this man who hovers above her, his eyes locked with hers, soft murmurs tumbling from his lips; he's repeating the vows they've spoken only hours earlier. His nimble fingers gently tugging at the strings of her nightgown, lowering them reverently down her shoulders. He exposes freckled flesh that no man save the doctor has ever seen and he smiles and hums in appreciation. He lowers his lips to hers, a soft kiss before dipping lower, kissing a trail down the slope of her neck, the meandering lines of her shoulder. He brings his gaze back to meet hers as he begins to pull the nightgown lower exposing her inch by inch and she watches him, as he undresses her, as the satin of her nightgown slides across the plain of her stomach, over the flair of her hips, down the firmness of her thighs. Finally, she is bare before him. Exposed. And he does not seem to notice the scars and wrinkles, the signs of age that so troubled her.

No man has ever looked at her the way her husband is looking at her, his eyes dark, burning with hot desire that makes her feel simultaneously both comforted and drunk with power, intoxicated with the knowledge that she has done this. That she has caused this reaction in him, that she is the only one he desires; that hers is the body that he worships here in the stillness of their room and between the sheets of their marital bed, and it makes her question why she ever worried that she couldn't please him at this late stage of their lives.

She watches as he removes his pyjama top, sliding it over the broad chest that she had imagined, dreamed about when she fretted over what their married life would be like; when she wondered what he might expect of her. Her imaginings pale in comparison to what she sees as his shirt falls away and he folds it across the foot of the bed. She sees taut muscles that stretch and move and flex; a faint patch silver hair that catches in the moonlight that peeks around the drapes. Suddenly, she feels compelled to touch him, but is forced to wait as he shuffles out of his pyjama bottoms; he tries to be discreet. He doesn't rush, doesn't want her to feel shocked by his evident anticipation, by what she is doing to him and she is thankful for his concern, for the gentle, loving man that he is.

And when he settles himself, pulling the sheet back over them, once again he looks at her with an adoration transfused with lust and confirms that he not only loves her but that he wants her, desires her; he needs her. They have waited so long for this, to become fully invested in one another. As they move together, this first time as man and wife, she knows that he needs them to become one, needs for them, in this moment to be in agreement mind, body, soul.

It is her affirmation that he covets. The small sighs of pleasure that rise from somewhere primal, her fingers carding through his hair then dropping gently to caress his cheek, a lone finger tracing the along the soft curve of his lips, spur him on and she sees in his gaze everything that he is too much of gentleman to say aloud. She knows that he would never shock her with the words that he is thinking but she recognises his passion all the same, sees it etched in the lines of pleasure that tug at his lips, the crinkles around his eyes as he regards her with wonder that she accepted him and became his wife.

The city hums with excitement outside, a never-ending cacophony of sounds, but they hear none of it. Gentle passionate words of love and devotion, deep kisses, bodies moving effortlessly in rhythm with one another, these are the things that matter to them.

She feels a fool for having put him off, for not having settled their wedding date sooner when there was nothing at all of which to be frightened or worried.

She loves him, this man. Her husband.

Thank you so much for reading. If you've a moment, I'd love to know what you think.