By the end of the day, Mary was utterly furious with herself for suggesting they wait until tomorrow to take their relationship to a different level. If she'd thought she was obsessing about sex before, she'd been a fool. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she should have taken him up on his suggestion that they could make love in the office. At least then she might have had a moment's peace instead of this ongoing torture.
Since they'd come to their arrangement, every nerve in Mary's body seemed to be on high alert. All she could think about was Tom and what he might do to her the following night.
In the office, she hadn't been able to concentrate on her work, acutely aware of every move he made. She'd found herself fascinated by small things he did that she'd barely noticed before. Like the way he sometimes caught his bottom lip between his teeth when he was reading. How he'd lick his finger to turn a page. How he'd tap his pen against his lips when he was thinking. Mary saw sex in every one of these moments.
Walking home, she'd thrilled to every casual touch. His hand at the small of her back as they walked out of the office. His shoulder brushing against hers as they made their way back to the house. His fingers as he'd helped her over the stile.
At the dining table with the rest of her family, she found herself staring at his fingers again as he held his cutlery or ran them down the stem of his wine glass, imagining how they would feel on her skin. Now, as she watched him talk to her father, she'd moved on to his lips, thinking how delightful it would be if he were to plant a trail of kisses from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine.
'Mary, dear, is there something particularly fascinating about Tom's attire this evening? Only you seem to find it much more interesting than my conversation.'
Mary started and shifted her attention guiltily to her grandmother in the chair next to her. The Dowager was eyeing her beadily. 'I'm so sorry, Granny. I was miles away.'
'So I noticed. I had hoped I still had some skill in the art of after-dinner conversation, but perhaps I overestimated my ability to keep the younger generation enthralled.'
'Not at all. I was simply thinking about the plans for the new houses.'
'If I may offer a small piece of advice, my dear; all work and no play make for a very dull dinner companion.'
'I know, Granny. I do apologise. Now, tell me more about your afternoon with Isobel.'
After valiantly keeping her mind on her conversation with her grandmother, Mary sighed in relief as the Dowager took her leave. As the family moved to bid her goodnight, Tom slid into the seat next to Mary, whiskey in hand.
'You have to stop looking at me like that,' he said, pitching his voice low.
'Like what?' Mary bluffed, somewhat perturbed that she'd obviously not been as discreet as she'd thought with all the… looking.
'Like you want to eat me alive. You're going to get us caught before we've even done anything.'
Mary cringed. 'Oh, God. Is that really what it looks like?'
Tom nodded emphatically. 'Plus, it's doing all kinds of things to me. It's hard enough as it is to answer your father's endless questions about pigs while I'm picturing you naked in my bed. You looking at me like that isn't helping. These trousers might be well tailored, but they won't hide all sins.'
At that, Mary turned her head to stare at him, half shocked, half giddy at his confession. So, Tom wasn't as impervious to the situation as he appeared. He was simply better at hiding it than her. Which was somewhat annoying.
'Stop looking at me, Mary.'
'I'm sorry, Tom,' she murmured, contrite. 'It's just that my itch has got so much worse.'
Tom glanced around, checking how near the others were then leaned in close, lowering his voice to almost nothing. 'Don't worry, darlin'. I'll scratch that itch for you good and proper tomorrow night.'
With that, he rose to his feet and went to join the farewells, leaving Mary desperately trying to school her face into a blank expression while a liquid heat pooled in her stomach.