The Seduction of Sarah Marks by Kathleen Bittner Roth Page A

that’s not it at all.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think it only fair to inform you that while yours was a knock on the head that broke no flesh, Eastleigh’s condition came out of a war, where not only did he sustain severe wounds to his body, but to his soul as well. Carving out the heart of an enemy, if required, can do terrible things to a person.”
    Hemphill’s dark eyes bore into Sarah’s, and a sickening feeling curled in the pit of her stomach. “What are you inferring?”
    “He’s been wounded in more ways than you will ever know. Ways even his family is unaware.”
    “But you have knowledge of everything, don’t you? Weren’t you on the battlefield with him?”
    He nodded, sorrow filling his eyes. “It was two years before he could look in the mirror and identify the image as his own. Perhaps there are things he doesn’t wish to recall. Take care, Miss Marks.”
    He turned and motioned to the front entry, this time clasping his hands behind his back and well away from her. “Shall we?”
    The entrance into the manse was lined on either side with carved benches in dark wood, candelabras, and one lone set of shining armor in the nook where the stairs made a turn. Sarah dared not ask about the relic since to inquire would be impolite.
    Instead of showing her to her room, Mum and Eastleigh led her onto a sunny terrace where a table was set for full tea—sandwiches, delicate platters filled with meats and cheeses, fruits, and carved vegetables. A tiered confectionery held several layers of desserts.
    Surely, they didn’t expect her to take tea without offering her a bit of privacy? She desperately needed a privy. “I beg your pardon, Mum, but may I see to freshening up a bit first?”
    “Why? You look just fine. Doesn’t she, Hemphill? Not a hair out of place.”
    Eastleigh’s lips curled at one corner. He whispered something in his grandmother’s ear.
    “Oh, that.” She waved her hand about. “Well, then, why didn’t she say so?”
    A female servant stepped forward. “This way, Miss Marks.”
    “I’ll show her to her chamber.” Eastleigh offered his arm.
    Sarah pretended she hadn’t noticed and walked past him, too embarrassed to make eye contact.
    “Nice enough gel,” Mum said in a voice loud enough for anyone within shouting distance to hear. “A couple of weeks around the Malverns ought to loosen that rod up her arse.”
    “Sink me,” Eastleigh muttered.
    Stunned, Sarah paused. A rod up her nether regions? At that moment, she was certain, quite, quite certain, she had never been around the likes of this grand old lady. From somewhere deep within, a bubble of laughter threatened to surface. With a flip of her head, she tossed her words over her shoulder. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

Chapter Six
    Mum was about to pour tea. She always poured tea. It was how she held court. Eastleigh raised a brow when a footman rolled in a tea cart laden with an intricately carved silver pot, the spout towering above its round belly like a crow’s nest on a ship.
    When Mum told the naughty tale of how a Turkish sheikh had gifted her with the distinctive vessel after she’d given him the night of his life, Sarah blushed until her ears pinked. Eastleigh nearly burst into laughter.
    Sarah. Despite wearing the same dress, she appeared fresh as the morning sun, spine straight as a tailor’s chalk line, with not an inch touching the back of the chair. So proper. So lovely. Most likely, she ached for a bath and fresh clothing, but one would never know.
    The servant lined the cups in front of Mum and then set two small pots beside her. Mum poured, and then gripped the handles of the small pots and regarded Sarah. “Milk or gin, dear?”
    Sarah blinked, wide-eyed, at Eastleigh.
    He chuckled. “And you thought the question would be one lump or two?”
    It wasn’t anything he could name, but something spirited washed over Sarah’s countenance. Her chin lifted. “Gin,