July 31, 1920

The sound of a motor running pulled him out of his reverie. Walking across the room to the window, he looked down onto the driveway, and smiled at the sight of the person behind the wheel.

He heard footsteps behind him, and smiled at the sound of her voice. "Who was that?"

"Edith. I'm guessing she's gone down to the station."

"Is Andrew coming on the afternoon train?"

"That's what he told me."

She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, her chin coming to rest on his left shoulder. "I'm so happy for them. You make quite a matchmaker, my dear."

"Not for long now. You know it's bad luck to keep the matchmaking up after one's been married."

"And we do not need any more bad luck, do we?"

"We most certainly don't," he answered, turning around to embrace the woman who was going to be wed to him in less than twenty-four hours. He reached up and traced the lines around her eyes with his fingertips, kissed her brow, smoothed his other hand across her back, still able to feel every bone in her ribcage through the material, although she'd regained some weight since the divorce finally came through three months before.

She smiled at him, her eyes shining with quiet happiness, and stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. "I'm coming back from the south wing," she said, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "I think it all turned out quite nicely."

"I'm sure it did, since you were in charge of redecorating. Did I ever tell you how I admire your bravery? You stood up to both your mother and mine, after all."

"Well, at least I had Granny on my side."

"That's true. Cousin Violet turned out to be a valuable ally in all this."

"She did. She likes you quite a lot, you know. Although I'm not sure if she's forgiven you for leaving her in the dark regarding your 'rescue plan'."

"I was afraid she might call the cavalry in if I did." He sighed and held her closer, his lips ghosting over her hair. "Though when I think about it now, it might have been just the thing to do."

He rarely allowed himself to go back to that night, to the sight of Mary curled up on the floor, the skirt of her dress torn to shreds, tears running down her face; Andrew standing over sir Richard whom he'd finally managed to knock down, massaging the knuckles of his right hand, blood trickling down this chin; Edith, pale faced and hyperventilating, pressed against the wall just inside Mary's room… He knew the plan had worked, that they now had witnesses who'd provide unquestionable testimonies—but he felt the price paid for that was much too high.

He had told her numerous times how sorry he was for making her go through all that—and he would have said it once more, if it wasn't for a condition she'd set some time ago. 'I don't want to listen to it anymore,' she'd said on one spring evening, when he was walking her home from a village fair. 'It's over, it's gone, and it will never happen again. You need to be punished for bringing it up over and over. From now on, every time you tell me that you're sorry for what happened, you need to kiss me, and properly too, Matthew Crawley,' she'd said and kissed him herself, quite properly indeed—and from that day on he'd told her that he was sorry many a time, for the sole purpose of claiming her lips.

But he wouldn't say it now, not when mere hours separated them from the moment they would finally be joined in matrimony—for he wasn't sure a kiss would suffice, and after having waited so long for this, for her, he didn't want to spoil everything on the last stretch.

"Tell me about the dress," he pleaded, hoping it would turn their thoughts away from the past. "What colour is it again?"

"Bisque. Honestly, you should be able to remember something that simple."

"I'm but a humble man, Mary. I'm not even sure I know what bisque looks like."

"It's similar to champagne, but lighter," Sybil put in, walking into the library and heading over to the settee. "Is it too early for tea? I think there's a bottomless hole inside me."

"It's called a baby," Mary answered warmly, and pulled the bell rope. "I'll have Mrs. Hughes bring you something. She's positively thrilled to have you back, all of you." She sat down next to her youngest sister, and tentatively brushed her fingers across her stomach. "She hopes you'll stay a little longer after the wedding, if Bran… Tom can spare some more time."

"Granny does too. She told me that if the child was born in Downton, it would make him less Irish."

"I'm telling you, we're having a girl, and she will probably have Irish red hair," her husband put in, coming through the door with a sandwich-laden tray in his hands. "I was downstairs when you called—Mrs. Patmore figured it'd be you, since it's been almost two hours since luncheon."

"You're all horrible… and right," Sybil pouted, reaching for the food. Tom gave her a radiant smile, his newly acquired horn-rimmed glasses catching the sunlight. Matthew observed the scene quietly from his place by the window, his hands stuck deep into his pockets. He grew quite fond of Sybil's rebellious husband, now a highly regarded journalist, looking quite serious and respectable in his new suit, the glasses and a slightly longer hair. It would be nice to have him as a brother-in-law, he thought.

Not much longer now. Keep it together, Crawley; you've waited this long, you can get through another day.

Mary looked up at him, her eyes glazed over with an emotion she reserved only from him—a perfect mixture of love, longing, desire and affection—and although the comfort was minimal, he felt better knowing he wasn't the only impatient person in the room.

Twenty-seven hours later, he was almost vibrating.

He blamed the bisque dress, of course.

The cut was simple, with a flare skirt, a fitting bodice, and thin straps running across Mary's perfectly milky shoulders (no sign of any bruises whatsoever) under the overlay of the sheerest silk.

There was no veil, only two perfect tea rosebuds behind Mary's left ear, a small bouquet of the same flowers laced with an eggshell ribbon, and very little jewellery: a string of blue pearls and matching stud earrings—a Christmas present from Cora—and the ring he'd given her: one perfectly cut diamond, surrounded by three miniature pearls of the same shade.

'Pearls symbolize tears,' he'd told her on that warm spring evening, merely hours after the divorce had been announced, minutes after he kneeled before her and once again asked if she was sure, if she really wanted this, wanted him: and seconds after their lips parted. 'And you must get used to these, because I never want to see you cry again.'

Well, she did cry a little when he slipped the ring on her finger, but so did he, so they agreed it wouldn't count.

And her eyes were full of tears as she walked towards him through the great hall of Downton, but, first, she smiled at him in the most captivating way, and second, so were the eyes of Cora, and Violet, and his mother, and possibly Robert, so Matthew decided to let her have that one.

When they were announced man and wife, he did everything he could to keep their kiss chaste and quick, but from the way Andrew whistled and cheered he gathered it didn't quite work out: all because of the way she looked in that dress, of course, perfect and sensual and the most beautiful thing he'd even seen.

The tension grew. He could see it in Mary's eyes too, and his whole skin tingled in anticipation.

That was almost five hours ago.

There was no real reception, no journey to go on and no new house to head off to—there were still journalists trying to hunt down the infamous divorcee, which had helped them to come to the decision of taking up residence in Downton, and least for a time, and skipping the honeymoon trip—which meant that everybody gathered in the drawing room, sipping on their cocktails and talking leisurely, nobody showing signs of wanting to retire. Matthew left Mary with Rosamund and Cora, and crossed the room to help himself to some water—he really didn't need the alcohol to feel dizzy on that particular evening, and if he didn't cool himself down…

"I have a feeling you'd rather be elsewhere," Andrew said, leaning against the cocktail cabinet with a smug expression on his face. Matthew rolled his eyes and groaned.

"Never thought I'd hate my own wedding reception, after waiting so long to be married to the love of my life," he quipped dryly, and swallowed the contents of his glass in one large gulp. Andrew smirked and sipped on his brandy.

"How much would you like me if I helped you out of this highly unpleasant situation?..."

"Excuse me, everyone! Can I have your attention, please? Edith and I have something to tell you…"

"I really think we should have stayed there for ten more minutes and congratulate them properly…"

"Would you rather go back down?"

"Heavens, no!..."

The gossamer silk fell off her body with a whisper-like rustle; he followed it with his mouth, kissing every inch of her skin he could reach. She arched against him, her fingers entwined in his hair, pulling him closer as he tasted her—the musk, the lilacs, the whole pallet of Eastern spices in her skin.

She pushed at his shoulders and he paused, unsure whether he'd hurt her or done something wrong, but she simply rolled them over, rising above him like a dream, a princess, a goddess.

"Andromeda," he whispered, and sat up to pull the pins out of her hair, letting it tumble down her shoulders like a mantle of hot chocolate.

"Perseus," she answered, throwing his cufflinks across the room and stripping him off his shirt, her hands roaming across his heated skin. "You saved me, and I'm yours."

"Mine," he repeated, capturing her lips in a kiss that consumed them both, and led to things they could never possibly talk about with anyone else, for they were too unreal, too magical and too beautiful to explain to people other than themselves.

"I have loved you since I first saw you."

"You know I didn't…"

"But I grew on you, didn't I?"

"Is that a trick question?..."

"Mary Crawley, what did I tell you about being wicked, and talking to me in that tone?"

"I can't remember. Care to remind me?"

So he did.

They missed breakfast on the following day.

And lunch.

Fortunately, Anna brought them a tray, and tactfully left it outside the door.

Fin

A/N: That's a wrap! Thank you SO MUCH to everybody who reviewed and favourited this story—you made me a very happy writer! I apologize for all the mistakes I've made—I know I'm no native speaker, but I'm learning… I hope my Muse will let me come back and write some more M/M fiction—for the time being, I've started a blog in which I plan to ramble on regarding some of my ideas, and share my general thoughts on all things I'm fangirling right now—if you have the time, please drop by to theotherfay(dot)blogspot(dot)com, I'd love to hear from you!

Love,
Lena