A/N: So, this is a late birthday present for ChelsieSouloftheAbbey. Asking her what she wanted, her request was simple 'if I had to request anything it would be some loveliness between Elsie and Charlie - what made him more comfortable kissing her in front of the staff, let alone using her first name, and the love nest admission from her was so out of character, or so we think. I need kisses...Chelsie kisses for my birthday, please.' Given I was already embarked on a love nest fic, I focussed more on the kisses part …. And then I wandered about a Canaletto exhibition, which had some beautiful sketches of women in it, and was inspired to write this. You know you've got it bad when renaissance art starts inspiring you.

Slightly A/U in that I don't think Carson can draw for toffee, but I like the idea of him having this hidden talent.

This is set somewhere in between episode 1 and 2 of season six. After the kiss but before the wedding planning troubles.

She had not fully appreciated the weight her worries had added to her mind until they were dispelled by the look in his eyes as he drew towards her, and the touch of his fingers at the base of her neck. They had dissolved completely as his lips had touched hers. He had wrapped his arms about her as she allowed herself to luxuriate in the closeness, and quietly hushed the residual concerns about how they would manage further intimacy. In those moments it was enough to hear his heart beat.

They did not discuss the worries that had made her withdraw from him and send Mrs Patmore as her emissary, their newest understanding was still too fragile. Instead they spoke of practical matters; the best time to call on Mr Travis and the preferred month to be married. All the rest could wait. They retired to bed that night happier than they had been since Christmas Eve, looking forward to what the new day would bring.

It brought, of course, the demands of their working lives and although they snatched the odd moment to talk, they were always surrounded by others, and there were no quiet spaces to be themselves, Charles and Elsie, alone together.

Three days passed in this way, and Mr Carson was beginning to become annoyed at the lack of interaction. He was largely confident that she was not avoiding him as she had been before, but that did nothing to stop his heart from clenching with worry. He missed her – which was ridiculous, he sternly reminded himself, given she was only on the other side of the wall behind his desk.

It was not just that he missed her presence. If he was honest, he missed the feel of her. They had not kissed again. There really had not been another opportunity. Again, he was not being entirely honest within himself. Truth pricked his mind, reminded him that if he'd been bolder, less concerned with those about him, he could have taken a chance when he met on the stairs just this morning, when they were both on their way to breakfast.

Neither had expected to see the other, he'd come barrelling through the door from the male side of the servants quarters and almost thrown the door in her face. They had stood, at the head of the winding staircase, staring, saying nothing, but communicating how glad they were to see each other in the gaze they shared. He could have moved forward, gather her in his arms, pressed her against the bannister and kissed her.

He could have done it, and she would have been willing, he was almost sure of it, but he had done no such thing. He was not about to risk discovery. Instead he lifted his hand, gesturing to the stairs, and said 'after you.'

If she was disappointed, she did not show it, and certainly their conversation at breakfast was convivial enough to suggest she had not expected him to break his habits of a lifetime all at once.

That was this morning. He had not seen her for most of the day, and now it was late evening, almost eleven o'clock he noted, and she would soon retire to bed. Another day wasted. Another day without telling her he loved her, something he dearly wished to express himself, instead of using a proxy. The need to see her grew so that it was almost a physical ache deep within his chest.

Why was he still sitting at his desk when he could be in her company? It did not make much sense. He went to seek her out, noting with satisfaction that the servant's hall was completely deserted.

His quiet knock at her door had alerted her to his presence, but she did not turn from her perusal of the linen rota. She would not allow herself to become distracted by him. That was precisely the reason why the rota was in such a state in the first place.

'I'm sorry we've not had a proper chance to talk tonight Mr Carson. Are you off to bed?' She could not think of, or allow herself to hope for, another reason for his visit.

'No. I was hoping to persuade you to take a break. We've got a great deal to decide, and much of it could have been sorted by now if …'

His voice faded as he noticed her shoulders stiffening. He stepped towards her and placed a conciliatory hand on one of them.

'I did not mean to imply that I blamed you. I do understand. I merely wish to spend some proper time with you.'

He was thankful that he felt the tension leave her and grateful when her hand reached up and patted his, although she did not turn to face him as she replied. 'I know, and I wish it too – I've just so much to catch up on. A situation for which my recent actions are very much to blame, so …'

She spread her hands and gave a little shake of her head, fully expecting that he would take that as a sign to leave and go to bed. She was therefore surprised by what he said next.

'Would you mind very much if I sat with you? I have a book I could finish and I'd much prefer to be in your company than alone.'

She agreed readily to the suggestion, craving his company too, and he returned to his office. He did not immediately pick up the book he was reading, however. When he had opened the door to her sitting room and saw her at the desk, he had been struck by the way the lamp light had glinted in her hair and shadowed the cheek she had turned towards him. He had been trying to think of a way to tell her his deepest feelings, not wanting to merely repeat the words he had spoken to Mrs Patmore, although he was sure they would do. A flash of inspiration had come to him as he stood in the doorway, and although it had been a great many years since he had last put pencil to paper, he doubted that his skills had completely deserted him.

He intended to sketch her without her knowing.

His plan taking shape, he unearthed a few blank sheets of paper and a couple of pencils, and returned to her sitting room.

'Won't you come and sit with me?' he asked, taking a seat at the little table usually reserved for their conversations over sherry, and switched on the lamp. She started to protest, but he cut across her.

'You know as well as I do that you can work just as well over here. Please Elsie. I'd much rather see your face than your back.'

He did not know what part of his plea persuaded her, and was only half aware that he had spoken her name. He had done so on the evening he had kissed her, so it was not the first time, but it was still a rare enough occurrence to thrill her. Wisely, she did not comment on it, but she did give him a wide smile and moved her papers over to where he waited.

'You can stay as long as you don't talk to me.'

'Oh, I wouldn't dream of it' he answered seriously, the humour in his eyes sparkling at her.

He waited for her to get settled, lulling her into the silence by pretending to read the book he brought with him, along with the paper and pencils. The silence was broken only by the scratch of her pen, the occasional turn of a page and their breathing. He could not even hear the clock. He supposed it to be quieter than the one in his office which had seemed to punctuate his proposal and mock him for the waste of time, until the sound of his heart drowned it out, as the touch of her hand on his arm had made it beat that much faster.

She tutted in disapproval at something in the rota, and shifted in her seat slightly so that her torso twisted to a more comfortable position. She rested her hand on the fist of her left hand and tapped her pen against her teeth as she pondered the sheets in front of her. 'Ah' she said softly, and began to write again, settling comfortably into the position she had chosen. Her neck angled to the left towards the lamp, and the light cast shadows over the contours of her face, highlighting parts and throwing others into gloom.

Her hair had turned to molten honey in the lamplight, gleaming out like a beacon to him, signally his safe haven that he knew her to be. He could not have chosen a more perfect pose if he had positioned her himself.

After a time, he slowly, so as not to disturb her, placed the book to one side, drew a pencil from his breast pocket, and began to sketch her. She noted the new sounds, of course she did, but only thought he had grown tired of reading as she had supposed he would, and had brought some other, less frivolous, activity to occupy him.

She did not look up and he was therefore free to study her as closely as he wished with perfect safety. He noted the lines about her eyes and the crease in her forehead as she puzzled over her work and thought he could tell the difference between those lines that had been etched by worry and those which laughter had shaped. He saw the sweep of her nose and the perfect curve of the one ear which was visible and recorded them faithfully on the sheet in front of him. He gazed at the column of her neck which he had so recently touched, and the swell of her lips he had felt against his own and tried to temper his desire to repeat those actions by applying fervent concentration to transcribing their curves in the leaden copy he was creating.

He moved on from these dangerous features which tempted him so greatly. Her hair captivated his attention and he put considerable effort into perfecting the waves he saw before him. He had noted the gradual change of her style as the years passed, how the beautiful curls which framed her face had subtly given way to more practical considerations. He could not really see the back of her head at this present time, nor the intricate set of the plait he supposed must be at the root of her hairstyle. A great many pins were employed in fixing her hair, he thought, and he idly wondered just how long it took to put up each morning. Or take down at the end of a long and weary day.

A sudden image filled his mind and arrested his pencil in mid air. He looked at her, still absorbed in her work, but really he saw another version of the woman. This one stood before him, quite en déshabillé, hair floating down about her face, over her shoulders, and tumbling almost to her waist was another Elsie entirely. He saw her in the lamplight that was now turning her golden, but he saw her in quite another place – the main bedroom of their newly bought house. It had been quite without furniture when they had viewed it, but now, in his mind's eye, it boasted a bed, which he seemed to lean against as she stood before him, her face unreadable, the same and yet completely different.

He blinked, tears of delight springing up unbidden, and the vision faded. He bent his head once more to his work.

A few minutes slipped away as they each concentrated on their tasks, but before long Mrs Hughes had to admit the folly of continuing to herself. She was tired, that was certainly true, but she was more distracted by the man who sat opposite her. She did not allow herself to glance up at him and therefore had not divined what exactly he was doing, but his very presence affected her.

It was why she had fallen so far behind with her work. The three days since they had cleared the air should have been ample time for her to catch up, but instead she had caught herself day dreaming on numerous occasions.

She had been annoyed and disturbed by the fact he had refused to call her by her name, or demonstrate by more than a touch of his hand how deeply he cared for her, but now that she knew what it felt like to be kissed by him, and how her name sounded when it slipped from his lips, as if he uttered the most sacred of prayers, she found the single occurrence not nearly enough to satisfy.

She was thoroughly perplexed by the fact her happiness should be so closely tied to his treatment of her, when before she had hardly cared what he thought, given he was so often reluctant to change with the times. But that was before. He had changed. They both had, and now she found herself presented with the duty of caring for the welfare of one other person, and it scared her. But it thrilled her too, because that gave her a responsibility she had never known before. To love and care for Charles Carson was a great privilege and it gave her so much as well, for the reverse was also true, and she keenly felt, when his arms had wrapped about her, that she had found a safe haven in him, with love and passion very much part of the bargain.

And therein lay the problem which kept her distracted, for she could still feel his lips on hers. Her forehead buzzed from the kiss he had tenderly bestowed on it. She wanted more, but knew him well enough not to demand public displays of affection. If truth were told, she was quite shocked at her need, given her age and the fact she had got along quite well without passion for the majority of her life.

She had not longed for the careful kisses Joe had placed on her cheek when they had courted. But she had never been as attracted to Joe as she was Mr Carson. No tiny sigh had escaped her when Joe kissed her, as it had when she experienced the brief caress of Charles's lips on her own. She wanted another kiss to see if the sound would be repeated, but she hardly knew how to go about asking. Therefore she was continually distracted by her imagination. It was a totally frustrating situation and now she had allowed the thoughts to filter through to the forefront of her brain, she knew she would never be able to focus on her work.

She threw down her pen with a touch of petulance and signed, but further movement was arrested by Mr Carson's voice, which was shot through with panicked urgency.

'No! Don't move – I've almost got you!'

A/N: I TOTALLY intended this being a one shot, but now I think their conversation about Mr Carson's surprising talent, what it reveals and the kisses should be kept for another day. I'm sorry to leave you all hanging, but ….. well, you'll all get over it, I'm sure.

As I mentioned, I was inspired by a Canaletto exhibition, but the image that was at the forefront of my mind was one done by Da Vinci …. I've used it as the image for this fic. I don't for a moment think Carson had that great a talent, but the way the lines are drawn are what inspired me.

A review or two would set me up forever