Mid-February, 1889

Cora Crawley wasn't certain what she expected from her marriage – but it wasn't this. Indeed, when Robert Crawley, future Earl of Grantham, walked into the room at a ball during her first (and what turned out to be her only) season in London, he captivated her immediately. She knew that the Crawleys allowed him to pursue her, an American, for her fortune. She knew he didn't love her. But she'd imagined that somehow, someway, she might convince him to love her in return. Perhaps not straightaway after marrying, but within a few months.

But it appeared she hadn't. And, rather quickly, she became painfully aware that the life she had essentially bought with her fortune wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Not that her new husband was awful to her – or even that he ignored her. During their short, somewhat hurried, courtship, Robert Crawley had been impressed by the pragmatism and wit of his betrothed, and he was not disappointed after their marriage. In fact, he often sought her counsel and her company. Cora appreciated that he respected and requested her opinion, that he appeared to hold her in high esteem.

Their almost nightly encounters in the bedroom were not unpleasant. But neither were they the hazy, ecstatic experiences of which her closest friends from home had written to her. Robert was gentle, courteous, and did endeavor to please her. There was nothing to complain of there. However, of heat and passion – of love – there was nothing either. The air of duty forever hung over their bed, and afterwards, Robert dutifully put his pajamas back on and went into his dressing room to sleep, leaving his bride feeling quite lonely.

And loneliness overcame Cora as she entered her fifth month of marriage, despite the fact that Robert had become a sort of friend to her, despite the fact that she lived in a house with a mother- and father-in-law, as well as a veritable army of servants, despite the fact that she had chosen this. She hadn't anticipated being stifled by expectation, by scrutiny, by duty. She hadn't anticipated being homesick.

She hadn't anticipated having to tell her husband for a fourth time that there was no child, no potential heir, on the way. Or that she would be hurt that he seemed more concerned by this absence of a child than by the fact that his wife might be unhappy. She began to despair that the life she had chosen for herself, the man with whom she was still utterly besotted, in spite of everything, would never make her truly happy.

Cora's melancholy had not gone unnoticed, however. It affected the entire house. The young American mistress was held to high standards, and many occupants of the house were skeptical that she would meet them. She had won over many of them with her bright and cheerful disposition and her kind heart. Others had seen her potential by observing her shrewd intellect and steep learning curve. And if some still doubted, they were in the minority, and none could honestly say that they didn't like her. Over the past month, the cloud over her head became evident to everyone.

And, despite what she might think, her unhappiness was most acutely felt by her husband. Robert would be the first to admit that he married her for her money. No, he wouldn't have married just anyone, but if he had to marry an heiress, he had to confess that one reason he had chosen Cora Levinson was that, after just a few hours in her presence, he knew he would never, ever, be bored so long as she was around. Yes, she was rich. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, she moved in the first circles in New York and Newport. But there was something else about her that appealed to him. Nothing he could put his finger on. Nevertheless, he knew it had to do with the fact that in the middle of another boring ball, with the same boring people his parents kept pushing upon him, she alone had made him laugh. She alone had made him want to dance. She alone had made him forget for a moment his life of duty and responsibility. She alone had made him willingly attend the next ball, knowing that he would see her again.

Many young ladies pursued him for his title, the pleasure of living on a grand estate. Somehow he knew that, although that might have brought Cora to England, to attend balls thrown by those who moved in the best circles, that her attention to him had nothing to do with that. That she could please her mother with the match proved merely a perk of the arrangement for her. Robert was keenly aware that Cora had fallen head over heels for him.

Cora had even told him once. He had not rebuffed her, exactly, but he didn't want to promise her something he wasn't sure he could deliver. He never wanted to hurt her. That much he knew to be true. He was honest with her, and she appeared to accept it. But ever since that time, which had happened a few weeks before their wedding, she had not ventured to repeat her declaration to him.

Robert did his best to help ease Cora into the life he had been born into. He paid attention to her, he walked with her in the afternoons, he memorized the things that made her smile. And, unbeknownst to her, he defended her to his mother. During the first months of their marriage, Robert not only got used to her presence, he found himself looking forward to seeing her, to talking to her, to bringing her small gifts, to simply sitting in the same room with her. He loved her smile, and he came to love even more when he was the cause of the smile that lit up her features.

Of late, however, her smile appeared less and less frequently. It pained Robert to think that she was unhappy. Despite what Cora thought, her happiness did concern him. And the more melancholy she became, the more aware he became of his desire to make her smile again.

It was Rosamund who came up with the plan. Robert had brought his concerns about his wife's happiness to his sister partly because he trusted her, partly because she and Cora seemed to have formed something of a bond, and partly because he was smart enough to realize that Rosamund was smarter and more worldly than he was, well beyond her years, even if she was his younger sister. If Rosamund couldn't help him, he despaired that anyone could.

After he told her what he wanted to do in general, Rosamund's forehead creased in thought for several moments. "Robert, you do realize that Valentine's Day is in two days, don't you?"

He hadn't, actually. "Rosamund, when have I ever had a sweetheart long enough to have to remember Valentine's Day?"

"Fair point, dear brother. But you're married now. Whether or not she's your sweetheart, you did just tell me you would like to see her happy. Perhaps a little romance won't go amiss?"

Robert cleared his throat. "But, Rosamund…. Will she misinterpret it? I – I don't want to mislead her. I would never hurt her."

Rosamund regarded her elder brother steadily and with no small amount of carefully concealed curiosity. And she wondered.

Turning his head slightly, Robert flushed a trifle under her unblinking stare. "What is it?"

She dismissed his query with a tilt of her head. "Oh, nothing." Picking up her teacup, she took a sip, then said to him, "Robert, I know, and I think Cora knows, that you would never do anything to hurt her. And that your affections for her are lukewarm at best." Rosamund was delighted to note that he flinched somewhat at this frank observation. "Do you want me to tell you what I think you should do?"

Nodding eagerly, he leaned forward. "Please, Rosamund."

"Get her away from Downton for a few days. Take her to London. Don't even stay at the house – stay in a hotel. Make reservations in one of the top restaurants for Valentine's Day dinner. And then – turn on the charm we all know you have, dear brother." Rosamund put her teacup down with an air of finality.

And so, it was set. Robert and Cora would spend three days in London, away from the prying eyes and provincial setting of Downton, with a suite of rooms booked at the Cavendish Hotel and a Valentine's dinner reservation made for two.