Faith had long fished with her brothers and she and Oscar were one for one with both having put a fish in the basket that Oscar had settled in the water. “Not enough to return to the cook,” Oscar said, but at that point both of them caught another. Laughing they pulled in their catch and added them to the basket.
Oscar dropped his pole and ran a hand through his hair. “It is hotter than expected,” he said. Without further ado, he began pulling off his jacket and cravat and then began unbuttoning his shirt in quick succession.
Faith knew she should say something, but what? She could not remove her eyes from his chest though she knew she should. She sat frozen, her hands white-knuckled on the fishing pole. The sight of him in shirtsleeves warmed her face and she knew she was sporting her colors, but she could not look away from the expanse of skin he had exposed at his neck, and then across his chest, and lower as he pulled his shirt from his trousers. Her heart felt as if it was beating in her throat and she could not move. She could not breathe.
He paused on a button. “Care for a swim?” he invited.
She could not speak. She simply shook her head.
“Relax Emerson,” he called. “Friends need not stand on ceremony. You must be hotter than blazes in that jacket. Loosen your cravat at least,” Titherington urged.
She sat looking at him dumbfounded. At last, she gained a voice. “I think not,” she squeaked.
“Just a dip,” he urged. “Salty though you are, I promise, you shall not melt.”
She knew she must to decline, but the joy that sparkled in his eyes made her wonder just what it might feel like to give in to such a thrill. Oh she was barmy. She could not disrobe. She could perhaps take off her shoes and stockings and soak her feet. Would he notice that her feet were too small for her shoes? She shot a glance at Oscar. He dropped his shirt in a heap on the ground. Oh, sweet heavens!
Of course she had entered the river many times when she was younger, but only ever in the company of her siblings and never without…. Her mind would not quite contemplate the thought with Oscar so near, and in such a state of undress. He bent to untie his shoes. This was dangerous, she told herself. She could not.
“I would say that we should not,” she responded, as she ought. She had no idea how she could get out of this situation. She should get herself out of it, although the rapid beating of her heart and the flush of her skin begged to differ.
“Why ever not?” he asked. “Would it not be refreshing to have a swim?” He stood before her, his chest an expanse of skin. She had never once seen a man without shirtsleeves, not even her own her brothers, and here she was staring at Oscar Titherington. She felt giddy. This was beyond indecent. She turned her head away and looked at the river. The water would be very cold, she was sure. Perhaps it would cool the feverish blood that rushed hot through her veins.
“The water is sure to be cold,” she managed to say, her eyes going back to him.
“Pantywaist,” he teased, and laid hands on the buttons of the fall of his breeches.
“Wait!” she cried.
He hesitated.
She had no reason forthcoming why he should not disrobe right down to his small clothes.
She cast about for some excuse. Belatedly the thought came to her. She intimated that her cousins were nearby and might venture down to the river. “I would not want to offend the ladies sensibilities,” Faith said with as much decorum as she could manage, thrilled that she had thought of a believable ploy.
Grudgingly, Titherington only rolled his trousers. He plodded over to the damp edge of the bank with his trousers pushed up to his knees. His calves were muscled from riding and he had a great deal more hair upon them than her own legs sported. She looked away embarrassed, but could not quite keep her eyes from him.
“Join me, Emerson.” Oscar called. “It is not that cold.”
“Perhaps just wading,” Faith agreed reaching for her own shoes and stockings.
She had always loved the feeling of the water between her toes, but she was well aware that the water could not be as warm as it was in the late summer months. It was sure to be a shock, but she removed her shoes and stockings with care, setting them aside so that Titherington would not see the bits of cloth stuck in the toes of the shoes so that they would fit her.
“Come on, man,” he urged. “You dally like a woman.”
“I do not,” Faith protested, putting her journal neatly aside and at last joining Titherington at the bank.
“You have such dainty feet,” Oscar commented.
Faith ignored him. “It shall be cold,” she said.
“No doubt,” he agreed. “On the count of three?”
She nodded.
The gentleman offered the count at which point, with Faith’s nod of encouragement, he jumped into the depths … alone.
Faith was overcome with hysterics as she looked upon his expression of shock, which turned to accusatory an instant later. She was nearly bent in double with laughter so that she had not the foresight to pull away before he reached out to grasp her by the elbow and tug her in after him. She fell flat in the water, flailing wildly. Faith managed to get herself upright while Titherington nearly burst with mirth. She could not be cross with him, since she had tricked him first. They both shook with laughter.
“You are a tad bit wet behind the ears, Emerson,” he teased as Faith wrung out her plait. She brushed her fingers against her cheeks to find that her sideburns were still there, but the shadowing makeup on her face must be smudged. Still, Oscar did not seem to notice. Perhaps Hope was right. People saw what they wished to see, not what was really in front of their eyes. In any case, he had been right. Though shocking at first; the cool water did feel refreshing against her skin. However, now all of her clothes were wet.
“You are awful,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye and then she turned away so that he would be unaware of her intentions. In the next moment, she jumped upon his head, pushing him under; like she had seen her brothers do in their antics with one another. As a lady, she had never been able to participate in the sport. Titherington came up sputtering and without the encumbrance of skirts; Faith easily hurried out of his reach.
“Fair enough,” Oscar agreed. “I deserved the dunking.” Oscar swam out a bit and then back again.
Faith picked through the water at the moderate depth, careful not to slip on the moss covered stones beneath her feet as she headed for the shore.
With a wave of her hand she called him to follow and he did. They came upon a piling of rocks that made something of a pathway along the river’s edge.
He followed only a step behind her as she made to pass along the ridge. Without the need to hold her skirt she could keep her balance better than usual and it made her bold. She was only a step away from the water’s edge when the rock beneath her forward foot gave way and tumbled into the deeper part of the river. She went over and when she surfaced, Mr. Titherington was laughing uproariously.
“Blast and botheration, give me a hand, would you?” she said reaching out a hand.
“No,” he replied, “I shan’t fall for my own trick.”
But as she struggled on the slippery rock, he took pity on her. He reached out to pull her out onto the shore and put his foot on the same moss covered rock. Even without her pulling him, he slipped and was suddenly in the water beside her.
“Fiend seize it!” he bellowed and grasped for something to hold onto. His hand caught upon her, and he pulled her close. Suddenly, Faith found herself held awkwardly against his bare chest. The drops of water beaded there, and she felt the strength of his arms around her, a strength she had heretofore only imagined. She looked up. For a moment she stared into his so blue eyes and wished for him to kiss her. She forgot that she was meant to be Arthur Emerson, and not Faith Baggington. She turned her head up to his and melted in his arms feeling every hard sinew of him against her. The moment stretched. She was filled with longing and her eyes fluttered shut awaiting his kiss.
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He thrust her away, and she went under. She could not find the bottom. She sunk fast into the cold water. In the next moment, he had caught her flailing hand and dragged her from the river. He released her immediately and left her dripping on the bank as he stalked away. He did not even look at her.
“Titherington…” she began, but she realized almost instantly there was nothing she could say. The ruse was up.
Titherington marched away towards his discarded clothing, the muscles of his back clenched with anger. He did not need to tell her that he knew she was a woman. She brushed a hand over her face and realized one sideburn had migrated to her chin. She pushed it up towards her ear, but had no doubt that it was crooked. She was ill-disguised, but it no longer mattered.
Shivering, she climbed the rest of the way from the water and approached him. The wind had been knocked from her, but Faith was concerned that the reason that she was having a difficult time catching her breath had more to do with the memory of his arms about her than the fall. He looked particularly gorgeous with the water beaded upon his bare skin, shining in the sun. She wanted to reach out to him, but when her eyes met his she found nothing but anger. He knew she was not Emerson, and he was livid.
“Are you hurt?” he asked coldly. He would never have inquired so of Emerson unless he was bloodied, and even then, may not. Such was the manly code, which she had learned of both with her many brothers and Oscar himself. Gentlemen did not inquire of one another’s injuries unless just this side of fatal.
“No,” she breathed, hoping she could still salvage the situation. “Only, I shall need to craft a good excuse for the bruises, but I must admit this was more fun than I have had in ages.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve had your fun, Miss Baggington.” His tone was sharp. She felt the scathing sarcasm, like an icy burn against her.
“Tith—” she began.
“No,” he spat as he pulled his shirt on over his wet skin. “I cannot even look at you. What sort of woman are you?” He asked. “Have you no shame? No feminine attributes at all?”
Faith could not speak. She could not think. Perhaps he was right. She was an unnatural female, wanting for herself all the freedom men took for granted.
“You have had quite the joke, I see; well it’s over now.” He turned away.
She caught his arm. “I don’t want it to be over,” she cried. “I—”
“What?” He turned, appraising her with cold eyes.
She knew he was expecting some excuse from her, but her befuddled mind could not erect another falsehood. She could only speak the truth. “I love you.”
His fingers froze in their ministrations and then he continued buttoning. “You love me? Am I supposed to believe you? You are even more of a liar than the regular bitches of the ton.”
She caught her breath, but he continued.
“Oh, do not censure me for language now. You have taken falsehood to a new height. You might have thought of where this would end before you ran me on this merry farce. You lied to me. You humiliated me.”
“No!” she cried. “I never meant it so. I thought we were friends.”
“I was friends with Emerson,” he said coldly.
“We are the same.”
“Like you and your twin are the same?”
She had no answer for him, and she stood staring miserably as he dressed. With each button it seemed that he moved further and further away from her.
“You don’t have an honest bone in your body. I shared things with you, with Emerson…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, I hope you had a good laugh,” he spat. “Baggage and all.”
The cruel nickname sliced through her like a blade, and she choked on a sob as he turned away.
“Tell me, were you going to stand there and let me entirely disrobe?” He had paused in buttoning and she turned away, embarrassed. “Perhaps I was right all along. That barn was a place for a tryst, and I am twice the fool.”
He took two steps and pulled her back into his embrace crushing hard her against his chest. His lips found hers and he planted a deep and penetrating kiss upon her. A part of her registered that this was somehow wrong. This was not what she wanted from him, and yet it was. She had wished for days that he would kiss her again. She felt the length of him against her and her legs seemed to have turned to a softer stuff as if they would no longer hold her, but it was alright. He had her. He would hold her. He would forgive her. He would not let her fall. She moved her hands up to at last grasp the silky softness of his hair, clinging to him. He tasted of peppermint. Then with an abrupt motion, he broke the kiss.
She was undone. If he had not still held her, she would have fallen.
“Baggage,” he said acidly.
She slapped him. The ringing sound of the impact seemed to echo on and on. She could not breathe. She held his gaze with her own, fury brewing. How dare he call her that! How dare he kiss her like that! “How dare you!” she spat.
“I could ask you the very same,” he replied. He turned away and then asked softly, “Why would you do something like this?”
Faith could not speak. She felt as though her heart were lodged in her throat. She stood silently dripping on the bank.
“The books,” she said at last. “It was for the books.”
“Your blasted books!” He spat. “Fiend seize them all!” He did not look back at her. He only whistled sharply and picked up Demon’s bridle from the tree where it hung.
“Please,” she had the presence of mind to beg. “Please don’t tell anyone I’m Emerson. If people knew they would never take me seriously.”
“Tell anyone?” he snapped. “You think I am ever going to tell anyone of my humiliation? I am going to pretend I never met you and wish it were true.”
He could not mean that. He could not. Faith stood frozen, her world falling apart while he fixed the bridle over Demon’s nose and saddled the creature. Still, he did not look at her. Titherington mounted the stallion, put his heels to his horse and nudged him into a trot. He did not so much as glance back. A shiver ran through her, but Faith didn’t think it had anything to do with the cold. She felt as if she were shattered from the inside out.
She sank down to the grass on the side of the river and sobbed, long cries of misery. She had ruined everything. She loved him; she knew. Somehow she had allowed Oscar Titherington into her heart and now she had lost him. The thought left a physical pain in her chest, like she could not draw breath.
What would happen to the books now? The latest work was her own, hers and Oscar’s she thought miserably, but the rest she shared with her sister. Hope had no cause to lose them, because of Faith’s folly. Faith knew she could not even keep Emerson. Oscar had become so entangled in Emerson’s persona that she could not think of one without the other. Not only had she lost Oscar, she had lost a part of herself. Her soul felt rent in two.
The sun sunk low in the sky and the air turned chill. Faith could not stop shivering. She needed to get home. She noticed at last that Titherington had left his fishing equipment behind, as well as his walking stick. She picked it up, turning the fox head, which held a silver dagger. He would be upset to have left it. It was a gift from his grandfather. Faith hesitated wondering what she should do. She should take it home; she could have one of her brothers deliver it to him if he did not wish to see her. The thought almost brought another torrent of tears, but she felt empty now; hollow. Though there was a dull ache of what could have been.
Faith emptied the basket of fish, and watched them swim away, shining splashes of silver against the dark water of reality. She had been living in a dream, but now it was broken. She put the rods and reels by a tree. She did not take them home. She knew Oscar would not come to the manor to retrieve them, but perhaps he would come back here. She would not.
She looked back at the bank where the moss had been stripped by their footfalls. She would not forget. She touched her lips. They still felt bruised. She promised herself she would rem
ember his last kiss differently than it had been. It would be a kiss shared, rather than a kiss stolen. This was the place where she loved him and lost him. She collected her journal and her shoes and with eyes still filled with tears, she wrote out her pain. It was nearly full dark when she stopped. She had filled pages with her woe. Now, shivering, she would go home. She would lock herself in her room. No one would know her shame. And when Hope returned she would tell her sister that she was right all along. Faith never should have donned men’s clothing. More than that, Titherington was not the man for her, not because he was a liar and a cad, but because she was.
* * *
21
Faith wanted to curl around the pain inside her and sleep away the week, but she was not so lucky. She opened the front door, and realized that her brother had returned home from London. Isaac stood staring down at her still damp from her excursions. Her cravat was crooked, her jacket was soiled and her false sideburns were askew.
He took in her masculine attire and the silver cane in her hands. “So it is true,” he said.
“Wh--what?” Faith stuttered.
“Am I right to assume that you are my cousin Arthur Emerson?”
Faith blanched. How on earth had Isaac found out? “H—how?” she managed, but Isaac did not tell her.
“The cousin that is out gallivanting at all hours with Oscar Titherington?” Isaac’s voice rose in anger.
“You need not worry about Titherington,” she said. Surprisingly, her voice sounded cool and in control.
“That is his walking stick; is it not?”
Faith could not rise to her own defense. She wanted to cry again, but she would not. She turned on Isaac but was prevented from speech by her twin.
Hope hurried into the foyer. “Isaac, can’t you see, she’s chilled to the bone,” Hope interrupted. “Can this interrogation wait until she gets into dry clothes?”
The Lady to Match a Rogue: Faith Page 19