The Seduction of Sarah Marks by Kathleen Bittner Roth Page B

please.”
    Hemphill jerked. “Easy, Mum.”
    She waved him off with flippant fingers, poured a good dollop of gin into her own cup, and splashed a bit into Sarah’s. She lifted the matching sugar bowl. “You’ll need three lumps, dear. Two for the cup, one for the cheek.”
    Sarah deposited two lumps into her gin-laden tea and held the other aloft with the silver pincers. “For the cheek?”
    “It’s the Russian way,” Mum replied. “Works as well with gin as vodka. What have you, gentlemen?”
    Sarah took the sugar cube in her fingers, turned it about like a single die, then tucked it inside her cheek.
    “Small sips, madam,” Eastleigh said, certain this was a first for her.
    She gave off a little shiver as the liquid coursed down her throat. “Gads.” A pause, and then another sip.
    Mum beamed. Hemphill studied Sarah. And as for Eastleigh himself? Well, he might well be in love. Could one fall in love in a mere three days? Or was it merely lust? Of course, it was lust. He desired her—no doubt—and not in a room three doors from his, but in his bed, both of them naked, their mouths all over one another. He’d take the starch right out of her spine in a matter of minutes. Heat rolled through his groin. He set his serviette across his lap and silently thanked Mum for the overblown tablecloths she insisted upon.
    Who would have thought his life would take such a turn? He could have scoured the Continent from Saint Petersburg to Rome and never found anyone who heightened his senses the way this woman did. Despite her prim ways, he was certain there was undiscovered passion running through her. And just look how Mum took to her.
    But there was the bloody amnesia. What would come of that? Or her, once she regained her memory? She could be gone in a flash. It didn’t matter that he stirred something in her—and he well knew he did, no sense playing games about that. He’d had three days to do nothing but sit in the damn carriage and stare at that sultry mouth of hers or watch her rein in emotions running rampant across her countenance every time he’d caught her studying him.
    “Ahem,” Hemphill coughed into his closed fist. “As I was saying, Eastleigh—”
    He cocked a brow. “Yes?” Deuces take it, how long had his thoughts drifted?
    “I was instructing Miss Marks on the significance of keeping a journal during her recovery. Since you kept one, are there any insights you’d care to convey?”
    Eastleigh bunched the serviette over his fading erection and cleared his throat. “I cannot stress enough the importance of following that particular directive, madam…”
    “Sarah. You may call me Sarah while in private.”
    Sarah Marks. He still couldn’t get used to the name. “Patterns began to appear in my journal, and reading through them triggered recollections. My dreams were also helpful. They revealed things about myself and helped me recover pieces of my mind and string them together in a proper order. But don’t force anything—your memories will surface of their own accord.”
    “At least until the cherries ripen,” Mum put in.
    He turned to his grandmother. “The cherries?”
    Mum ignored him and gave Sarah’s hand a squeeze. “I make the best cherry cordial, dear. And then there’s apple season. I do a very nice cider. If your memory returns before then, perhaps you can fib that it hasn’t. I’d hate to have you leave before winter sets in.”
    Hemphill rolled his eyes. “It’s only May, Mum.”
    “That, too.” Mum’s face lit. “A right good spring we’re having, isn’t it? Did I tell you about my affairs in the desert, dear?”
    Eastleigh shook his head, warning Sarah not to ask.
    A wisp of a smile danced across her precious lips. “Please, do go on.”
    “Then let the cards fall where they may,” he muttered.
    Mum wiggled in her chair with her eyes mere slits from her grand smile. “Well, Lady Hester Stanhope and I…you do know of Lady Hester Stanhope?”
    Sarah