The Seduction of Sarah Marks (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Sarah slipped out of bed and made her way to the balcony doors where she flung open the curtains. A soft glow spilled into the room. No matter which way the window hangings were drawn, either open or closed, the full moon raised havoc with her ability to sleep. But then, she’d kept to her chambers since her arrival and had taken so many naps after her exhausting trip, no wonder she’d grown restless.

Her stomach growled. She ran a hand over her belly. Why did her appetite have to return full-force in the middle of the night? She ignored the inner grumblings and decided to spend some time writing in the journal Doctor Hemphill had insisted she keep.

Lighting a small lamp on her desk, she sat, dipped her pen into the inkwell and poised her hand over the open diary. Nothing. She propped her elbow on the table, set her chin in her hand, and stared at the moon. Her stomach bit at her backbone. She glanced down at the journal where she’d mindlessly scribbled the word “cake.” Would it be wicked to sneak down to the kitchen? Wherever that might be? Surely no one would mind. Another noisy rumble, and her stomach clenched.

Perhaps some milk. There’d likely be no sleep at all if she didn’t at least fill a bit of empty space. Donning a silk dressing gown, she took up the oil lamp, and shutting little Daisy in the room behind her, went in silent pursuit of sustenance. Reaching the main floor, she stood in the corridor a moment, pondering. Where to find the servant’s stairwell that led to the kitchens below? The dining room. Of course. She headed toward the rear of the house.

A subtle change in the air, and she paused. Then she
felt
more than heard a door snick open behind her.
Oh, dear.

“Are you lost?”

No mistaking that deep, husky voice sliding across her skin and leaving a tingling in its wake. And her in a nightrail! With the lamp in one hand, and clutching the buttons at the top of her robe—as if that would lend a bit of dignity—she turned.

At the sight of him, her breath hitched. She’d not seen him since their arrival. If anything, he’d grown more gloriously handsome.

He slipped his hands into his pockets and casually leaned a shoulder against the door’s frame. He wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled back, a pair of dark trousers, and black slippers. That curly hair of his hung softly over his forehead as though he’d swiped his hands through it so many times, he’d given up and let it fall where it may.

Her skin prickled. “Lord Eastleigh. I am so sorry to disturb you.”

Pushing away from the threshold, he strolled over to where she stood. “You don’t bother me in the least. I often have trouble sleeping when the moon is full. Tonight being no exception.”

“It’s kept me awake as well.”

He studied her through lowered lids.

Her stomach decided to harangue her again. Had he heard? Heat crawled up her neck and spread through her cheeks.

“Hungry?”

Oh, yes, he’d heard. “How utterly embarrassing.”

“Don’t be.” His eyes, dark and curious, settled on her mouth. The prickling that had been skating on the surface burrowed deep beneath her skin and raced along every nerve in her body.

She stood there, staring into those mesmerizing eyes as if she’d lost all reason. Gathering her wits, she took a step back.

He came forward, closing more distance between them than what she’d managed to carve out in her retreat. “Hemphill has been a bit concerned about the way you’ve been playing with your food. You ate a good meal that one night at the inn, but other than that, you’ve apparently eaten little these past three days.”

She could smell him now, the scent of soap and musk and a hint of liquor. Her hand tightened around the top button of her dressing gown.

His gaze dropped from her mouth to where she clutched her robe, skipped back up to her lips, and then to her eyes. The pulse low in her belly struck a new beat. What was happening to her? She cleared her throat. “Well, it seems my appetite has suddenly returned with a vengeance, and I was concerned I might not sleep at all if I didn’t do something about it. I was looking for the kitchen, but if it’s an imposition, I can forego.”

“Come.” He set his hand to the small of her back, and taking the lamp from her, held it aloft while he guided her along the hallway. “I’ve been known to sneak in at night on occasion, myself.”

Oh, his touch! So hot it seared through the silk of her dressing gown and chased after the tingling that refused to abate.

She should run.

Her stomach growled again.

A low chuckle reverberated through his chest. “We need to take care of that hunger, or you’ll be pacing the floor until breakfast.”

By the time they reached the kitchen, Sarah was a bundle of nerves, from the top of her head to her bare feet. Oh, no! Please don’t let him notice she’d not bothered with slippers. Or the havoc his nearness provoked. She eased away from his hand.

He didn’t seem to notice her maneuver. He set the lamp down and pulled a chair to a large wooden table. “Sit. I know where to look.”

A quick survey of the paraphernalia in front of her produced a few bowls nesting inside one another, a couple of pots holding heaven knew what, a tray holding various and sundry items, and a large knife that appeared to be exceedingly sharp. The cook’s preparation table.

Eastleigh returned with a platter holding a hunk of bread, cheese, and a jar of fruit. He set them on the table and pulled a chair next to her. “I found some excellent Stilton. Don’t know if you like morello cherries, but I brought them just in case. Cook hides all she can from Mum, or they end up in her liquor cabinet as a cordial.”

Lord, he sat far too close for comfort. She could barely think.

He sawed on the bread and tossed her a crooked grin. “I won’t bite if that’s what has you looking so concerned.”

She shifted in her seat. “I’m only wondering if this is at all proper.”

“What? Stealing into my own kitchen?” He speared a thin slice of Stilton on the end of the knife and lifted it to her lips. “Eat.”

For pity’s sake, she’d never done anything so unmannerly as to take food off a carving knife.

At her hesitation, he leaned closer and tugged at her chin until her lips parted. He slid the piece of cheese into her mouth. The rich, creamy texture nearly caused her to moan.

“That’s it. Good girl.” The timbre of his voice deepened, while at the same time, it took on a smoky quality. And his eyes—no mistaking the hunger in them. He speared another slice, popped it into his own mouth, and chewed slowly.

Oh, why was he looking at her like that? She wanted to say something clever to lighten the moment, but her frazzled brain came up with nothing.

“More?”

She nodded.

He carved a few slices, set the knife down, and proceeded to feed her by hand. “This is the first time we’ve been alone since our arrival.”

His words, low in his throat, came as a seductive breeze across her cheek. As his fingers left her mouth, they made a light sweep along her bottom lip. Her throat tightened. Had he done that on purpose, or was it merely her imagination?

“Indeed,” was all she could manage.

“There has always been someone around to inhibit my knocking upon your chamber door. I suspect on purpose. But what do you know, here we are in the kitchen.” He blinked, slow and lazily. “I rather like it. Do you?”

She dared not respond lest her voice not function. Instead, she watched him pick up the jar of cherries, and with the tip of the knife, remove the beeswax off the top. He set the blade down, his actions slow and deliberate.

Not bothering with a spoon or fork, he dipped his fingers straight into the jar, lifted out one of the dark cherries, and gave it a little shake. He was going to feed her again, and she wouldn’t stop him. Didn’t think she could. She didn’t want to.

“You have the most beautiful, kissable mouth I have ever seen.” His eyes darkened, and he leaned closer. “Now open.”

Heart pounding, she complied. Her eyelids drifted nearly shut as he slid the syrupy morsel past her lips. A drop of liquid pooled at the corner of her mouth. Before she could do anything about it, he swept up the juice with his thumb, and then licked the tip. “That should have been my tongue taking care of removing such sweetness.”

A ribbon of heat unfurled in her belly. Oh, Lord! Her eyes shot wide, and she stood so fast the chair fell back with a clatter. She gulped, swallowing the cherry whole.

“What?” He examined his stained thumb and licked it again. He looked at her with a sultry grin. “Do you have any idea how long I have wanted to kiss you?”

She reached for the lantern, hoping her trembling fingers could hang onto it. “I had better remove myself to my chamber.”

“I’ll see you there.” He stood.

“No, I had best make my way alone.”

“If you wish.” He picked up a candle sitting in a small pewter holder, and lighting it off the lamp, set the candle down. “Can I ask you a question before you take your leave?”

She was so lightheaded she was afraid to respond.

“Never mind, I’ll ask anyway.” He leaned a hip on the table and folded his arms over his chest. “Have you wondered what a shared kiss might be like?”

Oh, she had, but she wouldn’t dare admit it! “Lord Eastleigh, I do need to go.”

“Yet you haven’t moved an inch, your eyes just dropped to my mouth, and your cheeks are the color of the cherry you just swallowed. Whole, I’ll bet.”

His gaze swept the length of her and back up. “Let me tell you how it is—you do want to know, but you find yourself in a predicament. You are alone with me in your night clothes. And you are afraid.”

He unfolded his arms and leaned back, his palms against the table. “You’re safe with me. I would never hurt you or push you to do anything against your will. But it’s written all over you—you want that kiss.”

He tossed her a little grin. “You’ll get it, and we’ll both be happier for having done so. But I’ll make certain you’re in a place you feel safe and where nothing further can occur but a simple kiss. Now, good night.”

…

Sarah stood in the middle of the flower garden, her face to the sun, and breathed in the fresh, sweetly scented air. Doctor Hemphill had been right—keeping a journal was imperative. If she hadn’t snatched up the pen upon awakening her very first morning here, the vague memory of a spring garden filled with a riot of colors might have escaped her. At this rate of recovery, perhaps she would be home—wherever that was—in no time.

An orange and black butterfly flitted from one bright flower to another.
Such a beautiful thing.
The thought sent a wave of pleasure washing through her. She stepped around Daisy, who lay curled at her feet. “Look here, Mr. Jenkins, a painted lady.”

The gardener, bent on one knee checking cabbage roses for mites, glanced her way. “Other than Lady Willamette Malvern, I’ve not met anyone who knows so much about flowers and bugs, Miss Marks.”

“Can you believe that’s the third species of Lepidoptera I’ve caught sight of this morning? I’m going to need something other than a pen for my sketches.”

“Then you shall have whatever you require, madam,” came Eastleigh’s familiar, deep voice.

Startled, Sarah turned, and there he stood, leaning a shoulder against one of the thick pillars supporting the covered terrace, one long leg crossed casually over the other at the ankle, tea cup in hand. Her throat thickened, and heat scored her insides. He was dressed in shirtsleeves again, and a cream-colored waistcoat covered his flat stomach. She spied his dark superfine jacket hanging on the back of a chair. How long had he been watching her? The rakish way he grinned melted her bones.

Shading her eyes with her hand, she called out. “What a marvelous garden you have, Eastleigh. I feel as though I’ve come home.”

His smile widened, dazzling her. “I do believe you’re quite at ease amidst a blaze of flowers. Which I find most tantalizing. Three species of what, you say?” He set his cup down, stepped from the terrace, and approached her, moving with a lazy grace.

She swallowed hard, ignoring the way her heartbeat kicked up. Oh, please don’t let him mention the other night in the kitchen!

Gathering her scattered thoughts, she motioned around the garden. “Lepidoptera. Look here, a common blue.” She pointed to a small, periwinkle-colored butterfly perched on a flower and fanning its wings at about the same rate as her breath fluttered in her breast. “Although why it gets the lowly name of common, I hardly know, since it is quite the loveliest of flying things.”

“Ouch!” The gardener sucked on his finger. “Beg pardon, I cut myself.”

“Wash it thoroughly and dab it with honey,” Sarah replied. “Then wrap it in a clean cloth to prevent infection.” Her pulse tripped a beat. “Oh! How did I know that?”

“I don’t have a clue.” Eastleigh continued moving toward her, slow and easy. “But it seems you do, don’t you?” His gaze remained fixed on her. “Jenkins, make your way to the kitchens. Cook will provide the honey.”

“Yes, sir.” The gardener stood and hastened toward the servants’ entrance.

Something powerful shifted in Eastleigh, redefining the space between them. Sarah dizzied at his purposeful approach, wrought now with a kind of feral energy. If it was a species they spoke of, here was a magnificent human specimen. His shirt, crisp and white beneath his waistcoat, lay open at the neck. The black riding breeches tucked into glossy black boots could be called indecent the way they hugged slim hips that rolled when he moved.

Her heart left her chest and jumped into her throat. “Take care with the path you’re on, sir or you might trample the seedlings.”

“Oh, I’m clearly on the right path.” The intensity of his gaze deepened, sending a little shiver through her. “It seems that I find myself thinking of you to the point of distraction. Especially these past two days.” He paused in front of her and set his fingers to the stem of a pale blue graceful deutzia, as if meaning to pluck it.

“Oh, no!” She reached out to stop him. “I mean…” She froze when she realized what she had done, and that his hand beneath hers held more fire than the sun overhead. “What I meant was…was that it’s far too fragile a flower to be snapped off at the stalk like that.”