Downton, Summer 1913

The first time Mary saw Tom naked, he wasn't Tom at all, but Branson, the still relatively new chauffeur.

It was summer 1913, a stiflingly hot day, and she had taken herself deep into the Downton woods in search of a cool, shady patch where she wouldn't have to think all the time about just how unbearably hot she was. She might even – whisper it – be able to loosen her blouse from her waistband for a while or take her stockings off and sink her bare toes into the cool grass. Oh, what a treat that would be!

She found a perfect, beautifully shady spot, pulled her blouse from her skirt and wafted it around her middle, sighing in relief. She glanced around, checking once more that she was truly alone, and then she reached under her skirts to untie and roll down her stockings, slipping them off her feet, wiggling her toes in delight. The occasional slight whisper of a breeze teasing her calves as she hitched her skirts daringly up to her knees was nothing short of heavenly.

She lay back on the grass with her slim volume of poetry and began to read, lasting only ten minutes or so before she fell asleep.

She awoke some time later, gently and lazily coming out of her refreshing doze, then she turned her head, puzzled to hear splashes coming from nearby. Curious as to what kind of wildlife might be making such a noise, she rose and followed the sound.

Close by was Tanner's Water, a stretch of water bigger than a pond, but not quite big enough to earn the grander soubriquet of a lake. When she was a child, one of the footmen, Edwin, had told her tales of it being deep enough to hide a monster, a forgotten relic of the dinosaur age.

Even when she was small, Mary didn't believe in monsters, so she'd made it her business to visit Tanner's Water regularly, and she knew it well. Now, she crept up behind one of the ancient trees standing guard on its shores and peered around the trunk.

It was no monster making the splashing noise. Nor was it any local fowl nor beast. No, when she peeked around the tree, a man stood in the water, his naked back to her as he scooped up handfuls of sparkling water and poured it joyously over his head.

At first, she didn't recognise him.

She couldn't see his face and the water made his hair appear darker than usual. Plus, it was hard to tell how tall he was when he was waist-deep in water. And she was quite sure none of the young men of her acquaintance were quite so… well-built. Stocky, but quite clearly it was muscle, not fat.

It wasn't until she heard him speak that she realised who she was looking at.

'Ah, but that's grand, that is,' he said to himself after scooping up another double handful of water and pouring it all over himself.

Her eyes widened at the Irish accent. Branson!

She scanned the far shore near where he was and gradually, she picked out his uniform, the forest green neatly folded and camouflaging itself perfectly against the grass and trees, his tall, black boots unobtrusively but neatly arranged next to them.

Mary looked back at the young man in the pond, still sluicing himself with water, knowing she should give him his privacy, but she couldn't deny she was intrigued.

Branson wasn't the first naked man she'd seen – the unfortunate Mr Pamuk held that honour – but he was only the second, and this was definitely under less fraught circumstances than the first time. So, feeling both naughty and guilty, she let herself look, taking in the expanse of his back, the way his muscles moved under his skin, the way his upper body formed a pleasing V-shape with his broad shoulders tapering to his neat, trim waist, the way the water trickled so delightfully down his spine.

Eventually, she began to wonder just how naked he was. He was up to his waist in the water, so it was entirely possible he was wearing his underthings. Indeed, she could see no light-coloured linen on the shore. Not even his shirt, which gave her pause, because he was definitely not wearing his shirt.

Branson turned in the water, facing more in her direction, his arms spread out, fingers dappling the surface of the pond, his face tipped up to the sun, and Mary found herself biting her lip in appreciation at the sight of his bare and nicely muscled chest.

Well, she thought to herself, who knew Branson was hiding all that under his uniform?

That must be from the physical elements of his job, of performing car maintenance, she mused. It can't all be sitting around driving or lying under a car, not when his upper body looked like that.

The next thing she noted with interest was the hair on his chest. He had hair where Pamuk had been smooth. It was more than a sprinkling, more like a light furring. Enough that she imagined you would feel the texture of it if it was pressed against your own bare skin. Not that she was imagining any such thing.

Intriguingly, the hair ran in a trail down the centre of his torso, broken only by his belly button, then beckoning the eye on before disappearing teasingly into the water.

And just like that, she was back to wondering exactly how naked he was.

Branson waded a little further into the pond, making her shrink back against the wide trunk of her tree, suddenly afraid he'd catch her doing nothing short of ogling his (possibly) nude body. Luckily for her, the chauffeur was not there to play eye spy in the woods, though. He was there to cool down after a long, hot day in a buttoned-up, multi-layered wool uniform and knee-length boots.

He swam a few strokes into the middle of the pool and then he rolled over onto his back, and Mary could quite clearly see that, oh yes, he was indeed completely, utterly and totally naked. Undeniably so.

She could see the length of his legs, the shape of his calves, the thickness of his thighs. And she could also see that there was something very definitely bobbing in the water between his legs.

She sucked in a small sharp breath and pulled her head back behind the tree, closing her eyes. No, now, that was definitely wrong. Definitely. It was certainly an invasion of his privacy to be eyeing his… his manhood without him knowing.

But maybe, maybe just another quick peek wouldn't hurt. Perhaps it had been something else, something in the water, not part of him at all. Or a trick of the sunlight. It was entirely possible. It might even have been some kind of a water snake, which suddenly raised the awkward question of whether she was dutybound to warn him, to call out to him from the side of the pond, even if it meant revealing herself to be some kind of voyeur.

Mary steeled herself. Well, now she had to look, didn't she? As a representative of the family who employed him, she should speak up if his safety was at stake. Even if it would be excruciatingly embarrassing on her part. She would have to beg Branson not to complain to her father about her behaviour. Although, perhaps, he would be stayed by the possibility that Papa would not look kindly on his chauffeur floating naked in a pool on the estate where his daughters might have been innocently wandering.

She gave herself a little shake and peered cautiously around the tree, just in time to see Branson roll over in the water, inadvertently giving her a brief flash that confirmed that the "snake" was indeed part of him and definitely not about to bite him.

Mary blinked, biting back the gasp that rose to her lips, then watched transfixed as Branson flexed and dived deeper into the water, his feet, legs and – goodness! – his rather pert bottom rising above the surface of the pond to propel him downwards.

Her heart banged against her chest when he didn't immediately reappear, but then he popped up a short distance from where he'd been. And then he did it again, feet, legs and bottom all making another appearance.

It wasn't until the fifth time he did it that Mary dazedly realised she should perhaps make good her escape while he was under the water and still mercifully unaware of her presence. And so, the tenth time he ducked under, she scarpered, fleeing as quickly as she could back to where her shoes and stockings were waiting for her, her mind full of the images she'd just seen.

And if she perhaps let her eyes roam over Branson's green-clad chest for a few seconds the next few times he handed her into the motor, well, she was sure nobody had noticed.