The Lady to Match a Rogue: Faith (The Baggington Sisters Book 4)

by Isabella Thorne

  Bring them? Faith thought. Then how would she collect them? He would be expecting to meet a gentleman, not a lady. Her heart leapt in her chest. She frowned. She would have to think on this problem. She looked back at the letter, and smiled as she continued to read.

  I have read your work with much interest. It is a pity that the work is only printed and not seen upon the stage. Even so, I found myself chuckling at your characters’ antics. I hope you consider presenting the work to someone who can prepare it for performance. Mr. Jonathan Maddox would be a fine choice. If you decide to come to London, I would be happy to introduce you to the gentleman.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Adolph Chapman

  “A letter from an admirer, no doubt,” a deep male voice observed from her side.

  Faith jumped at the sound of Mr. Titherington’s voice so near, and hurriedly shoved the letter into her reticule, dropping the glove she still held.

  “Mr. Titherington,” she said. “You startled me.” Had he seen any part of the letter? She wondered. She grew gruff in her effort to hide her fright. “What business is that of yours whether I have a suitor or not?” she snapped.

  He picked up her glove from the ground and spoke. “I think I should like it to be my business,” he said. He took her naked hand in his own and brought it to his lips. Sparks flew through her at the touch of his lips. She was momentarily struck dumb. He attempted to replace the glove, his fingers sliding over her own. It was a remarkably intimate gesture and she snatched her hand away, leaving him with the glove.

  “Do not,” she snapped. Her heart was beating so fast it nearly jumped from her chest. It must be because he startled her so when she was thinking of writing and the machinations which must be done to publish the work.

  “I apologize, dear lady. I would never wish to cause you even a moment of distress, as I told you, I am reformed.”

  “A likely story,” she said putting her attention on a bauble from the table. It was a delicate thing, painted in intricate patterns. Her hand still held the memory of his fingers on hers.

  “I would like to speak to your brother and ask permission to call upon you, if you would give me leave.”

  “As you like,” she said turning away and pretending to view the pile of trifles. Her heart was beating fast and her palms were damp within her gloves… one glove. The man still held the other.

  “I must say, you have excellent taste.” The gentleman was closer than they might usually stand as a result of the shop’s narrow aisles. She could not help but notice that he smelled just the faintest bit like peppermint. She wanted to lean toward him and see if it was in fact the gentleman that was giving off the appealing scent, but she refrained.

  “How is it that we have once again chanced upon one another?”

  “I mean no affront,” he said, moving even maddeningly closer. “It was you who suggested a public place for our next meeting.”

  Faith was silent.

  “That is a pretty ornament,” he remarked. “Might I purchase it for you?”

  “Certainly not,” she snapped and then realized that she was being insensitive and rude. He was right. There should be no gossip since they had only met by accident in the store. Still, she could not help but think of their encounter on the road, and the subsequent scenes that she had written for Cassondra in which he had played a major part in inspiring. Of course, he did not know that. She forced herself to relax.

  “Your glove, Miss Baggington,” he said as he gallantly handed her the lost item. She had completely forgotten about it with his nearness distracting her, but now she pulled it on as she spoke.

  “Yes, well I think that I might find something for my sister, Prudence,” she remarked. “I thought that it might be nice to send an ornament. I know that it is well past the holiday, but still… a gift is a gift just the same,” she thought aloud. She stopped speaking suddenly fearing that she was babbling.

  “An excellent idea,” he mused. “I never do know how to choose the proper gift.”

  “I am sure that is untrue. From what I hear, you are quite the giver of gifts among the ladies.”

  He smiled wanly. “Has no one ever told you that nothing good can come from listening to gossip?”

  She had to agree with him since the Baggingtons were often the center of false gossip. Could she not give this man the benefit of the doubt? Her heart had slowed to a steady gallop, and she managed to catch her breath to think properly. “I find the best gifts are those that are given thoughtfully as to what the recipient would prefer.”

  “I say then, would you assist me?” Mr. Titherington then asked her to do him a service by helping him to select a gift for a dear friend of his, whose wife was expecting their firstborn child.

  “A child?” she said and a secret of thrill filled her heart. What would Cassondra’s children look like, she wondered. Would they have that lock of hair that kept falling in his eyes, and his perfect lips? Oh dash it! Thinking of his lips was bringing heat to her face. She would soon be sporting colors. She looked down and hoped she appeared demure. It was not an accustomed attribute for Faith.

  Such interactions, she guessed, were normal for those of a younger age, but the Baggington daughters had rarely been let out enough to even begin to test such experiences. Certainly Hope and Faith might have played romance when they were writing, but the reality was all the more exciting and foreign.

  “Of course, I will,” she said. She knew that she simply wanted an excuse to remain by his side. What a silly sort of thought that was! He was a rake, and she a naïve miss. She attempted to put on an air of sophistication.

  They evaluated several idyllic toys. A stuffed bear with round beaded eyes was deemed too advanced for an infant who may mouth the item. It was more suitable for a child of toddling age. A rattle was quaint, but far too small and simple for the gesture that Mr. Titherington intended, and an embroidered blanket was more like to be given by a lady who had invested her own time and effort rather than purchased at a store.

  In short fashion, they had settled upon a covered bassinet that was equipped with rocking legs. Faith had seen the item and known at once that it was the right choice. When their own sister had been with child; the twins had thought to buy Mercy just such an item. That was before she had lost the babe. Still Faith remembered thinking that the item was both intensely personal and extraordinarily useful. There was no better gift.

  Mr. Morgman brought forth the item from where it had been perched upon an upper shelf and Mr. Titherington arranged for its payment and delivery later that evening.

  “Now,” he said with a smile and a definite spring in his step as they passed through the chiming door and away from any ears that might overhear his profession of gratitude, “I should at least do you the honor of walking you home. If I do not there will certainly be a taint to my name for it is far too late for a lady to be out unaccompanied.”

  Faith allowed her eyes to rise to look at the sky. He was not incorrect. The time had got away from them in the store. Darkness would soon be upon her if she did not hurry home.

  “You know, we should arrive much faster if you allowed a ride,” he offered when she seemed concerned by the lateness of the hour. Demon’s Reach had been stabled at the Nettlefold Arms despite the fact that Mr. Titherington was not currently in residence at the Inn. With a sigh, she agreed. The last thing that she wished for was those at the manor to worry. At least with the speed of his mount she might still arrive before nightfall. Her family could expect no less since she had set out on foot. She nodded uncertainly, knowing that this was a bad idea.

  She walked out of town ahead of the gentleman while he went to retrieve the horse. By that time, her swift gait had taken her to the bridge. She crossed it, and entered the protection of the shaded lane, but soon, the lively beast was upon her.

  The gentleman reigned in beside her and dismounted, easily loosening the saddle and shifting it further back to accommodate a forward rider. It occurred to Fa
ith that he would need to lift her to her seat for there was no way that she could mount a horse of such a size from the ground. All at once she felt nervous. A fine heat spread through her body at the thought of his hands upon her, and she felt giddy. She took a hesitant step backward. She had never really been touched by a man before, at least not in so personal a manner. Her sisters had only tales of horror from such events. The twins had long been warned about what to expect. But he had kissed her bare hand, and no disaster had befallen her. In fact, the touch was quite pleasant.

  “With your permission,” he said with a shake of his head as if speaking to a skittish horse.

  He waited, his hand outstretched.

  So far as Faith was aware none of her sisters had ever been asked for permission to be touched. The right had always been taken from the lady against her will. The concept was beyond her comprehension. Then, she recalled Temperance and Prudence had secured themselves fine gentlemen who had eased that fear from their minds and taught them to trust again. If her sisters could learn such confidence, then so could Faith.

  She took a moment to evaluate his expression. If she were to decline, would he care? The patience in his eyes, the casual way that he gave her space and did not press himself upon her, influenced her final decision. With a nod she stepped forward and held her arms away from her body so as to allow the gentleman to grasp her about the waist. He lifted her to sit in front of the saddle.

  Demon’s Reach stood as still as she had ever seen him. Despite the many layers between them, she felt as if she could feel the heat of Mr. Titherington’s hands upon her skin as if he had touched her directly. Of course, that was nonsensical, she thought. She was imagining things. Still, the sensation was not unpleasant as she had come to expect. Not at all. She turned her face away so that he might not witness her blush. Thankfully, despite Mr. Titherington’s height, he was built like a willow. It would be nothing for such a giant of an animal to carry two riders of such thin frame. Mr. Titherington collected the reins and flung himself up behind her in one swift motion. Bound within the frame of his arms, she would be kept in position so long as the ride remained smooth. She was deeply aware of the gentleman who shared the mount with her. The heat of him was a reminder at her side and she could still smell the peppermint.

  Demon’s Reach moved along at a brisk walk without need for direction of any sort. Not, she reminded herself, that there was anywhere else to go but along the path ahead. He moved along at a steady pace, fast enough that Faith curled her fingers tentatively into the depths of the mane near her hip yet slow enough that the gentleman need not hold her firm against him. Every so often they bumped against one another. She longed to lean back into the circle of his arms. It took all of Faith’s self-control not to do so or perhaps leap away as if she had been burnt. Either seemed a valid option. Surely the heat of her face was telling. She was not sure if her reaction was due to this gentleman in particular or if it would be the same alongside any figure of the male persuasion. She forced herself to ignore it as best as possible. It was not until the gentleman spoke that she realized that her attempts had been futile.

  “You may breathe, you know.” She could hear the smirk in his voice. He was far more observant than the stories had let on. Perhaps that was because this afternoon, he was not foxed as so many stories told.

  “It is only that I do not ride often,” she said with a grimace at the half-lie. It was not completely an untruth. She did not like jumping, but she was a competent horsewoman. She had even ridden astride once or twice with Jesse, at Hope’s dare, but she was not like Mercy or Jesse and Simon who rode for several hours each day. However, she did know how to ride well enough and had no fear or discomfort with the creatures. Not, she reminded herself, that this gentleman would have any knowledge of such details.

  “I see,” he murmured. “Well, Demon is as gentle as a mare when he wishes to be.”

  “And if he does not wish to be?” she asked. She wished to question the rider more than the horse, but it seemed they were not so different from one another. She wondered if Mr. Titherington’s answer would be telling.

  “Perhaps I push him too hard sometimes, but I cannot deny that there is something to be said for letting the beast race to his heart’s desire.” He laughed. “He does love to race. However, he can also be temperamental in unfamiliar places if he has not yet spent his fire for the day. I suppose I am to be blamed for that as well. I ought not to leave him with strangers so often. Though, he did fine the other day when he was with the blacksmith.” Mr. Titherington released a burst of laughter. “I think the poor bloke thought it was some sort of miracle. His young wife has a way with the animal and for the first time Demon did not make a fuss.”

  “Are you a work in progress as well, Demon?” She leaned forward to whisper into the animal’s attentive ear, which was turned back toward the pair.

  At the lady’s sudden movement Oscar Titherington pulled her close, lest she fall. He had been uncomfortably aware of her femininity as she rode in front of him, but now, in that moment as he slipped his left arm more tightly around her waist and pulled her back hard against him, he was lost. The softness of her form and the scent of her invaded his person. She smelled of some lavender soap and beneath it a smell all her own, all feminine. He was undeniably aware of her softness against him.

  “I do apologize, Miss Baggington,” he stammered in response to her audible gasp of surprise. He reluctantly loosened his grip on her.

  “No, it is quite alright,” she said with a breathlessness that could not be explained away by the shock. “I was only whispering to your horse. It was my error.”

  “Not at all.” To his surprise, the woman seemed quite as rattled as he. They rode on in silence until they neared the turn that would finally reveal Mortel Manor.

  “You may let me down here, if you will.” She turned to look back upon him and he wondered if she saw his pained expression. He did not want to let her go. He liked the warmth of her held in front of him although her nearness was playing havoc with his good intentions. “I think it best if I walk the rest of the way alone,” she said.

  “Of course,” he gave a distracted nod, thinking he would have ridden on forever with her just so; in exquisite agony, as she sat unaware of his desire. He dismounted and lifted her from the horse, holding her close. For a moment they stood so, with her back to the horse, and her face turned up to his. Her lips were parted just so, and her eyes dewy with desire. The offer was too tempting, and he bent to steal a kiss. It should have been a chaste thing, but upon touching his lips to hers a fire was set off in his veins and he pulled her close, kissing her quite thoroughly, drowning in the scent and softness of her. Her hands slid up from his chest to link around his neck, and he reveled in her acquiescence, deepening the kiss. When he came up for air, and looked at her face, all flushed with wonder, and her lips rosy from his passion, he realized suddenly that Miss Baggington was a lady, not some drab he could tumble and leave be.

  “I apologize,” he said quickly, but he was not sorry he had kissed her. His only sorrow was that he could not have her. Not like this. He reached up and gently tucked a curl of her hair behind her ear where his over eager fingers had dragged it down.

  She did not speak. She only continued to look at him with liquid eyes, her breath fast and her chest heaving from the momentary exertion. He wanted to place a kiss upon that bosom as it rose and fell with each rapid breath. He did not. His presumptuousness could have already ruined his chances of any further acquaintance with the lady. He had to leave her be.

  “Good evening, Miss Baggington,” he said trying to regain some measure of composure. He mounted his horse.

  “Good evening, Mr. Titherington,” she replied still breathless.

  Her sultry tone sent a shiver through him, but he did not look back. He realized as he rode away that much to his frustration he still did not know the minx’s name.

  7

  Later that evening, Isaac commented on
his sister’s distracted nature. Faith made an excuse that she was merely tired from the exertions of her walks to and from town. The truth was that she was confused and torn by her recent encounters with their new neighbor. Faith had been taught to breed an inherent distrust for the male sex in general, save for her brothers who, if called to it, would die on the behest of their sisters. So it was that she was naturally hesitant and suspicious of Mr. Titherington, but caution was not really in her nature. She could not help her fascination with the man and found herself warming to him. Oscar Titherington had seemed a bit wild and mischievous, but far too well behaved to be the terror that Nettlefold recalled. Despite the tales that circulated, Mr. Titherington seemed a decent gentleman; that is until the last moment of their encounter. She realized now how tenuous that check on his behavior might be. There was a fire beneath his cool exterior. A gentleman would never have kissed her so.

  She brought her fingers to her lips remembering his kiss and her breath quickened. She had thought that a kiss was simply a touching of the lips. She had written about such sweet kisses. She was wrong. The kiss she had shared with him….was sharing the correct word she wondered. Oscar’s kiss was not a touching of lips; it was a touching of souls that set off a fire within her. It was a fire that would not be quenched. She did not want it to be quenched. She wished it to consume her. She wished to be transported as she had been in that moment.

  Was it possible that Oscar Titherington changed his colors? Faith spent a sleepless night pondering that exact question. She lay awake until the candle guttered out and dawn was looming. She did not think him so reformed. No, the rogue was still there, just a hair’s breadth beneath the surface, and heaven help her, she liked the rogue. Only what should she do? Normally, she would have shared her misgivings with her twin, but there was something private about her meetings with Mr. Titherington. She did not want to share them. Not yet. She thought of writing out her feelings, but Oscar Titherington was not her captain and she was not Cassondra. It was not Cassondra he had kissed with such passion in the lane, it was Faith Baggington. She closed her eyes and touched her lips remembering.