The Seduction of Sarah Marks (7 page)

Slowly, he turned his hand under hers until their palms met, one pulsating against the other. “You look beautiful this morning,” he said. “But then, I don’t find my assessment particularly unusual.”

The timbre of his voice vibrated through her as though a deep chord had been struck. And then, except for a small movement of his thumb, stillness came over him. She stared at the way he caressed her skin in soft, supple strokes. Her thoughts slowed until they only mimicked what had been, until a brief moment ago, a decently intelligent mind. His fingers were long and strong, his nails clean and trimmed, his palm broad. And that wonderful musk surrounding him.

She drew in a shallow breath. “Please, stop.” She didn’t mean a word. Not at all. The sense of freedom that had soared through her when she’d earlier stepped into the garden cried for greater release.
Touch me more.
She tried for another breath, only to have it escape her lungs in a quiver.

“You’ll have to be the one to pull free.” His voice came low in his chest, raw and husky. “For I cannot seem to let you go.”

She watched the slow swirling of his thumb.

He took a small step closer. He was so near, the heat of his body penetrated her more deeply than the sun’s rays. “We are in the garden now, in full view of whatever spectator might wander by, so you are in a safe place.”

“So I realize,” she uttered, continuing to contemplate his gentle caress as if it were a magnet—finding and capturing every fiber she possessed. Oh, her ears were ringing.

“And all they would encounter is me standing before you with your hand in mine.” He was so close, his words tumbled onto her mouth. “Innocent enough, wouldn’t they think?”

“I…I would suppose so,” she said calmly, but the quick inrush of her breath told another story.

A low sound left his throat. His other hand came up and tucked a loose curl behind her ear, sending a thousand shivers running through her. “They’d not have any way of knowing the simple act convolutes your insides, would they?”

“Oh, dear.”

“Nor would they know that I have hungered for such a moment as this.”

Tearing her gaze from his hand, she peered up at him. Lord, he was about to kiss her. And there was nothing she could—or would—do to stop him for she, too, had been thoroughly distracted by thoughts of him ever since that night in the kitchen.

“Eastleigh,” she whispered, and closing her eyes, swayed into him.

His supple mouth found hers and gently shaped it against his own. He kissed her with a slow hunger until she grew weak. His arm went around her, holding her upright—cradling her. His free hand found her cheek, and his fingers traced a warm, sensuous trail, like sunbeams washing across her face. He released her lips long enough to murmur against her mouth, things she couldn’t make out, soothing endearments. And then, with a low moan, his kiss deepened, and his tongue parted her lips, sweeping inside.

“Ho, there!” Doctor Hemphill called out, rounding the corner of the house.

They both stepped back, but the harsh expression on the physician’s face told Sarah he’d seen plenty. She turned her head in embarrassment.

Eastleigh put his back to her, shielding her, and fisted his hands on his hips. “What the devil do you want?”

Hemphill halted. “You’ve family arriving.”

“Bloody hell. How many?”

“Three carriages, five uniformed outriders, and two gentlemen on horseback, most likely Ridley and Thomas since Sebastian prefers holding court inside a conveyance.”

Eastleigh headed for the terrace. “Brilliant. The whole lot of them.”

She heard the noise then—the rattle of carriages, the pounding of hoofs. Fear gripped her insides.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Go the back way up to your chamber. There’s no need to join us until you’re ready.” He grabbed his jacket and headed toward the front of the house shooting her a mischievous grin. “Which could be next week, if it suits you.”

Sarah lifted her skirts and hurried past the doctor. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Miss Marks,” Hemphill called out.

She already had one foot inside the doorway, but she paused. “Sir?”

He stepped onto the terrace, deep lines furrowing his brow. “Again, I must remind you to take care, and that you are not my only patient.”

“And might I remind you that I have two very prominent goals, one of which is to regain my memory, and the other is to return home, which I cannot get to without the other. You offend me, Doctor Hemphill.”

Something in the man softened, but only a little. “And what if your memory returns and you find home is not a place you wish to return to? What would you do then, Miss Marks? Would you endeavor to remain here?”

Something dark flashed through her brain, and foreboding washed behind it. Wherever home was, it was not a pleasant place. Not at all. She turned and hurried into the house and up the stairs, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She entered her bedchamber, locked the door, and promptly ran into a fleshy, mob-capped maid. She stumbled backward. “Oh!”

“Beg pardon, Miss Marks. Tildy’s me name, and I’m to be yer permanent chambermaid. I was off to see me mum when ye arrived, so Sally saw to yer needs, meantime.”

“Oh, Tildy, please help me. I’m soiled from the garden. And my hair.”

The maid helped Sarah out of her gown, and then went to the wardrobe where she dug around and removed a pink frock. She shook it out with a snap of her wrist. “Will this do?”

A great roar sounded from below.

“What in heaven’s name was that?” Sarah stepped into the gown, giving no heed to the design.

“That would be the Malverns having at it. But not to worry, Miss Marks, they’s just playing sport with one another. Now, if’n ye’ll sit, I’ll see to yer hair.”

Moving to the boudoir table, Sarah slid onto the blue velvet-covered bench and proceeded to nervously tap her foot while Tildy combed the loose tendrils in place. The idea of remaining in her lovely chambers drew a sigh from Sarah. What was to dislike in here, while who knew
what
awaited her below?

“His lordship did up this room,” Tildy said, watching Sarah through the mirror.

“You mean he chose everything in here?”

Tildy nodded. “Except for Mum’s quarters, he done the choosing on everything in the house. Planned the outside, as well. A right talented gentleman, he is.”

Stunned, Sarah regarded her chambers from a new perspective. Like the gardens outside, everything in here was balanced to perfection. The white background of the wallpaper lent the room a sense of airy springtime. And if it weren’t for the soft blue of the counterpane, the bulky four-poster would have overwhelmed all else. So, he’d plucked the lovely, soft color off the breasts of those small birds dotting the wallpaper, and used it as accents, right down to the velvet chaise in the corner, the bench she sat upon, and the curtains covering the double doors leading to the balcony. “Amazing.”

Tildy nodded and smiled at Sarah through the mirror. “Did it while he healed. No one knew he had it in him.”

When Tildy finished the toilette, Sarah stood to make her exit. The maid swung the door open, and Sarah paused at the cacophony drifting up from below. There went her nerves. “Would you ready a walking dress for me should I feel a need to escape the Malvern frivolity?”

Tildy giggled. “Indeed, Miss Marks.”

Sarah made her way down the stairs and stepped into the noisy parlor, the taste of Eastleigh’s kiss still embarrassingly fresh on her lips. Every head turned her way, and conversation ceased. They were a beautiful and handsome lot, five men and three ladies. No…wait…didn’t Eastleigh say there were four brothers and four sisters? It only took seconds to pick out Lady Willamette, or Will, as he’d called her. She stood amongst the men, her hair in a like-style and dressed in men’s clothing.

Eastleigh stepped to Sarah’s side, but before he could speak, Doctor Hemphill came forward. “I’d like to introduce you to Mum’s ward, Miss Sarah Marks, he said.

She worked up the courage to speak. “I’m terribly sorry to be late. I was in the garden tending the flowers. I do so love them.” Oh, dear. They simply stared. What did they know about her? Had Mum told them of her amnesia? Had Eastleigh?

Lady Willamette scowled and made a beeline for Sarah, her long, panted legs swallowing up the carpet. “What did you say her name was?”

Sarah stiffened. She could darn well speak for herself. “I’m Miss Sarah Marks, and I take it you are Lady Willamette?”

Eastleigh frowned and took a step closer to Sarah. “What the devil, Will? Don’t start with your incessant pestering.”

Will ignored Eastleigh’s order. “You are partial to flowers, are you, Miss Marks? I’m rather proud of mine. Read every book I can get my hands on regarding the art of the English garden. Do you read as well?”

A bit of panic rose in Sarah’s throat at Will’s aggressiveness. She looked to Eastleigh.

“I’ve told them of your accident and loss of memory.” He turned to his sister. “Go easy on her, Will.”

Sarah tried to relax, but something made her wary of Eastleigh’s sister. Relief swept through her when he escorted her around the room and introduced her to the others. Ridley, a year younger than Eastleigh, was as tall and quite handsome, as were the lot of them.

“How are you getting along with Mum?” Ridley grinned. Unlike Eastleigh, his front teeth were even and unbroken, but not so, his nose. That had taken a beating at some point in his life, for there was a decided hitch near the bridge. Thomas stepped forward, friendly and full of easy laughter. But when it came to Sebastian, youngest of the four, he was wildly flirtatious, the kiss he settled on the back of Sarah’s hand far too lengthy. She thought it rather humorous that Eastleigh stepped between them and waltzed her over to visit with Lily, Rose, and Iris.

Will sat in a settee with her attention focused on Sarah all the while, a glass of champagne dangling between her fingers.

Each of Eastleigh’s brothers and sisters took a turn in conversation, one trying to outdo the other with wild tales of their youth. She thanked Rose for the use of her clothing and made the rounds until, reluctantly, she came face to face with Will once more.

Will patted the settee beside her. “Come, let’s talk of gardens.”

Sarah sat, not trusting the woman, but for the life of her, not knowing why.

Will lazily took a sip of champagne and went back to dangling the flute between her fingers. “Tell me what you know of the mignonette.”

“Well,” Sarah promptly replied. “If one is to grow a handsome tree, then one should never allow a single seed to ripen. One must assiduously remove the seedpods as soon as sighted.”
Now, that came out rather efficiently.

Will crossed a leg in a manly way and set her foot pumping. “And the Indian pink?”

“Only the most popular flower in today’s garden,” Sarah responded without hesitation. “If one were to sow them in a frame and set them out in May, then one would enjoy blooms the entire summer.”

“Excellent, Miss Marks.” Will stood. “Eastleigh, a word in the library in ten.” She left the room.

At Eastleigh’s approach, Sarah stood as well. “Would you mind terribly if I saw myself to my chambers? I feel as though I’ve had enough excitement for a bit.” She rubbed her temples.

Eastleigh’s brows knit together. “A headache?”

“I feel one coming on. If you don’t mind…”

“I’ll see you to your room.”

“No, please. I’m fine, and the others are watching. It wouldn’t do to have us exit together. Where’s your mother?”

“My father is unable to leave home, so she remains with him.”

“And Mum? Where is she?”

“Oh, she won’t show herself until high tea. See you then?”

…

Eastleigh made certain Hemphill was in the library when Will entered. By the aggressive manner in which his sister had addressed Sarah, this must be about her.

Will walked over and tossed a book atop the desk where Eastleigh was seated. He glanced at the title and felt the color drain from his face. “Where’d you get this?”

She leaned over the desk. “It’s mine, Eastleigh. A favorite I take everywhere with me. Read the title.”

“I just did.” He shot a speaking glance at Hemphill.

“Try page one hundred twenty-six,” she said.

Eastleigh shook his head and tried to swallow the cotton in his throat. That pulsating, familiar pain rolled through his head. Not another bloody headache.

She grabbed up the book. “Then I will. First the title, if you please. It’s called
A Treatise on the English Garden,
by none other than Miss Sarah Marks.”

Her lip curled at Hemphill’s fast approach. She flipped open the book. “Oh, and here’s the page of which I spoke. It’s regarding the mignonette—
If one is to grow a handsome tree, then one should never allow a single seed to ripen. One must assiduously remove the seedpods as soon as sighted.”

She slapped the tome back onto the desk. “Sound familiar? It should since it is verbatim the very words
your
Miss Marks spoke. I was in London not a fortnight ago attending a lecture by the
real
Miss Marks. I can assure you, the woman you harbor is a fake.”

Doctor Hemphill stepped to the desk and flipped through the well-worn pages. “Lady Willamette, I beg your confidence in this matter. The lady of whom we speak suffers amnesia. With her love of gardening, it is likely she owns a copy of this very book, and has it as worn through as yours. When asked her name after the accident, she mayhap responded with whatever her damaged mind could pull up. And if you knew exactly which page she quoted, what makes you think her brain doesn’t know the same? Have you forgotten your brother’s first response when asked his name was to give us that of his horse?”

Will snorted. “I don’t happen to agree with your method of keeping information from an amnesiac so as to allow one’s memory to return on its own. Why don’t we try it my way and wave this book under her nose? I’m not convinced she isn’t a liar.”

A muscle in Hemphill’s jaw twitched. “Lady Willamette. Should we accuse our guest of anything right now, we may well lose her permanently.”