A/N: Well, all the good things (and I humbly think of this story as 'not so bad') must come an end someday… so this is the final chapter. As I said before, this is more an 'M' than a 'T', so if that offends you, please stop right there and read no more.

(Also, I have initially thought of doing something a little more… shall we say, 'traditional', in this chapter, but then my wickedness, and the overall crackiness of the fic, took over.)

Thank you for all the reviews, alerts and favourites: you're all wonderful, precious people, and I'm glad you found this story plausible and pleasurable enough to keep reading. I'll be seeing you! (I hope…)

Chapter 4, or: Open the door and lay down on the bed…

August 1920

Elsie tossed and turned for hours, partly due to the anxiety caused by her nerves and the strange room, and partly because of the heat. The bed linen felt hot and stiff, making it impossible for her to get comfortable and causing her to change position every three minutes, the blissful sleep far out of her reach.

She finally gave up as she heard the big clock downstairs strike midnight and sat up, pulling her knees up to her chest and tracing her sweaty palms down bare arms.

Why did she ever agree on spending the last night before her wedding at Crawley House?

It was the proper way to do these things, they told her—'they' being Lady Grantham, the Dowager Countess and Isobel—as if she and Charles hadn't committed any and all kinds of improprieties during their engagement, not to mention before that! They insisted, though, insisted at length: and finally she yielded, and here she was, sleepless in a strange bed, in a strange house, empty of everyone save for Isobel, Mrs. Bird and a housemaid.

Not exactly how she'd hoped to spend this evening… but it couldn't be helped, now could it?

Just as she came to this sad conclusion and fluffed her pillow, preparing to make another futile attempt at falling asleep, somebody threw a small rock against her window.

Elsie jumped up and stifled a cry of alarm, silently berating herself for acting like a giddy schoolgirl. She got up and walked slowly to the window, pulling back the curtains to steal a peek outside.

It was a beautiful, moonlit night; the stars hung low and the air was warm, rich with scents of wild flowers. The guestroom window overlooked a small yard, and as Elsie leaned against the glass and looked down, she saw Charles standing on a patch of grass below her window, and looking up at her with a hopeful expression on his face.

She gasped and shook her head in awe. What was he doing here? Wasn't he supposed to have gone down to a pub with Mr. Molesley and Dr. Clarkson?...

Then she noticed a vaguely human-shaped lump sitting on the bench in the corner of the yard, and understood everything.

She quickly gestured Charles to wait, wrapped a thin shawl around her shoulders, and quietly crept down the stairs.

"You should have known better than to let him work himself into such a state!" she scolded her fiancée in an agitated whisper, watching him put a dead-drunk Mr. Molesley into bed.

"Richard thought he deserved to unwind a little…"

"That he did, and more," she quipped, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. "At least you had an eventful evening…"

Charles turned to her and arched one eyebrow, gently steered her out of the poor valet's bedroom and into the corridor joining the servants' quarters and the second floor rooms. "Why so glum, dear? I thought you were going to have a party of your own?"

Elsie rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Isobel got a terrible headache, so I told her to take an aspirin and retire early. And since I didn't exactly fancy spending time in the kitchen—"

"…you ended up here, alone, and bored out of your mind."

"I suppose you might say that."

Charles took a moment to ponder on the matter, before giving his bride-to-be a positively wicked smile. "Are you telling me that Mrs. Crawley is sound asleep at the moment?..."

Elsie frowned suspiciously as Charles sauntered closer, his eyes gleaming dangerously in the light of the candle she held. "Charles Carson, what exactly are you implying?"

He extended his hand and extinguished the candle, leaving them in darkness, before wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing her into the wall. "I'm implying," he murmured into her hair, sliding his hands down to cup her bottom, "that I wouldn't want to see you looking stressed and unsatisfied as I take you for my lawful wedded wife…"

She moaned into his shoulder and threw her arms around his neck, holding him even closer to her. "Even after everyone went to such lengths to ensure everything was absolutely prim and proper between us tonight?..."

"Especially then, Elsie." He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, and kissed her cheek ever so gently. "The decision, however, is yours. Should I go? Should I get back to my cold, lonely bed…?"

She knew he could tell she rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see her do it. "Don't you dare leaving me alone."

He insisted on carrying her over the guest room threshold, and she giggled helplessly into his neck. "Aren't we doing this backwards?"

"Not at all," he protested firmly, depositing her gently in the middle of the bed and divesting himself of his clothing with a speed that betrayed his urgency. "I shall be more than happy to carry you into whatever room you choose after we're married, and make love to you as Elsie Carson. As of now, I'm planning to have my wicked way with Elsie Hughes, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," she whispered against his lips, and pulled him into a deep, languid kiss.

They kissed for quite a while, slowly, passionately, not feeling the need to race against their own raging hormones. There was so much more they wanted to convey through this simple pleasure, so many wonderful, important feelings. Lust was but a part of it: a vital part, but by no means the only one. There was no rush, no instant need of gratification, of having the other person scratch an itch they couldn't reach by themselves.

They didn't talk. They knew everything already.

You are so beautiful.

You taste like the night.

I have always wanted to…

I need you.

It was always so easy with Charles, easier than it should have been for a woman of a 'certain age' who'd spend most of her life alone, shying away from physical contact, from getting closer to another human being than absolutely necessary. Perhaps it was so because of the undivided attention he'd always given her, purring into her ear like an overgrown cat, all the while working on removing the last pieces of clothing that separated them.

"My love," he murmured against her skin. "My darling, darling Elsie."

"Charles." It could have been an answer to his words, a cry or a whisper. Her body arched against his as she slid her hands up his chest, scratching his nipples as he nipped gently at her collarbone.

She always took immense pleasure in touching him—his hair, his strong neck, his broad shoulders, his back, down to the round, firm buttocks. He wasn't a young man anymore, but it didn't mean he was any less fascinating; on the contrary: his body appeared to her as a long, complicated story: she wished to know it, and learn it by heart. What were a few wrinkles, a couple of additional pounds, or some flabby skin, compared to the wonder of being close to the man she loved, for whom she craved?

And besides—he was hot, strong and firm in all the right places. And she knew it was all for her. It filled her with pride and made her head swim a little.

There was nothing else she could possibly need in this world.

Charles had always known instinctively what would bring her the greatest pleasure, and was now putting this knowledge to a good use, caressing her in all the right places: at the joint of her neck and shoulder, on the underside of her knee, a little to the left of her spine… She moaned into his hair and slid her hands down, touching him where he needed her most, making him thrust his hips forward and moan against her breast.

"Patience, you naughty boy," she scolded him with half-suppressed laughter.

Charles raised his head from her breast and caught her lower lip with his teeth, teasing it the way he knew she enjoyed. "Are you planning on punishing me, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I haven't decided yet… do you think you deserve to be punished?" She moved her hand even further down, determined to make him lose control completely—but paused in her tracks as he kissed her again, with even more fire than before, and returned the caress with astounding nimbleness.

The intensity of emotions he made her experience was almost frightening at times.

He touched her with reverence, kissing and stroking the most delicate parts of her, until she could take it no longer and pulled him back up, tugging at his hair as she wrapped her legs around his waist and tensed in a sweet, almost painful expectation before he finally pushed into her, filling her completely and deliciously, the way he always did.

She bit his shoulder to stop herself from crying out loud and waking the entire household, and he chuckled happily into her hair. "You could never be a punishment to me, Elsie," he said hoarsely, hooking his thumb under her right knee. "You are the most perfect reward I got in this life."

The rational, down-to-earth part of her mind wanted to point out that he was being overly sentimental—but that part had been seriously subdued by the more emotional and feeling one; instead of telling him off, she laced her fingers through his and kissed him, letting go of all the propriety in the world and allowing him take her wherever he would.

Their sweat mixed. Their tongues duelled. They were breathing the same air. The tension grew, and Elsie felt like she couldn't breathe anymore—and then Charles changed the rhythm and the angle just so, and…

Isobel could have marched right into the room and lectured her on the matters of tradition and propriety, and Elsie wouldn't have noticed anything at all.

"My beautiful girl," she heard Charles' breathy voice next to her ear and smiled, smoothing her hands over the skin of his back.

"I'm hardly a girl anymore."

"To me, you are."

"'The only girl in the world'?"

"Always."

He kept his eyes on her as he dressed, a very smug smile on his face.

"Do you know," he asked as he leaned down to kiss her again, "that after tomorrow I will never have to leave you alone in bed after we made love?"

She propped herself up on an elbow and smiled at him, raising her eyebrows. "Does it mean we'll stop doing all the things that might be qualified as 'improper'? Are we going to become yet another dull, married couple?"

"Oh, Elsie," he sighed happily, running his fingertips down her cheek, "I don't believe anything could be dull in our life, not when I'm with you…"

She let him out the back door, stealing one last kiss at the doorstep, and went back to bed, humming quietly under her breath, and positively vibrating with new energy. She had to admit—being able to have Charles to herself throughout the night, and the morning, would be quite an advantage.

"Tomorrow," she told herself as she stood by the window and watched Charles cross the yard and get out on the road.

She had a feeling she was going to be very, very happy as a married woman.

The End