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

by Isabella Thorne

  The peace of the crisp spring that was budding to life brought a smile to her face and the muse to her heart. Why yes. Cassondra walked along just such a bank, she thought. In her story, the ice and mud had battled in inconsistent fury. Now, the soft blanket that had coated the countryside was gone and from beneath it had emerged an ethereal garden full of mystery and fantasy. And where was Cassondra’s dear captain? Would he come to their secret meeting?

  Faith stopped in the middle of the lane with her head tucked down over the binding of her journal. Her thoughts were completely with her imaginary heroine.

  Without looking from her work, she ambled toward the main throughway that led to town. The path to Upper Nettlefold had been ill used for many years, nothing more than an overgrown lane with rutted dirt and brambles that grabbed at one’s skirts in the shadows of the big oaks. Faith had no mind for that now.

  She continued on, walking slowly with her nose buried in her journal, her hand scratching furiously as she brought to life the tale of Cassondra and her feverish love affair with her betrothed Prince’s master of arms. Oh, to be swept away with such a wonderful love! She knew such things could never truly exist, but she fervently wished it so.

  Cassondra was just about to be happened upon by the Prince while caught in an embrace with the man who would always hold her heart, though they could never be. Faith closed her eyes and clasped the journal against her as she imagined the moment of Cassondra’s swooning, overcome with the turbulent beating of her own heart. She had to get these words just right.

  Faith herself sighed at her own imaginings. She began to write again.

  The Prince was a regal but unkind man…

  “Behind!” A voice shouted the word with such an urgency that it at last caught Faith’s attention. She leapt to the side where she landed with an undignified flop in a nearby bush.

  2

  Faith expected at least a phaeton or carriage that could not give way to a lone walker but, no, it was nothing more than a beast of a rider racing past at a breakneck pace. A milder lady might have gasped aloud and offered a cry for help, but Faith was far too reactive for such gentle femininity. She shouted out in anger that the rider ought to watch where he was going and then she realized that she had dropped her journal in the mud, and her reticule was also thrown aside. Frantic, she reached for the bag, concerned that the neat and careful pages had received some harm.

  The rider pulled his horse to an abrupt stop, and Faith thought what a thoughtless fellow he was to pull so on the horse’s mouth when indeed he should have had control of the animal from the outset. He turned the horse back towards where she had begun to scramble from her entrapment.

  “Blast and botheration,” she muttered as she attempted to free herself from the brambles along the roadside. She managed to retrieve the reticule and clutched it close. The fabric of the bag was dirty, but the manuscript inside seemed intact. She brushed the dirt from the bag.

  “I do apologize,” the gentleman said with surprising sincerity for the pace at which he had blown past on the first. “I have not seen a single living creature upon this lane for three days’ past, and I little expected to come upon a lady on foot when I crested the hill.”

  It was clear from his expression that he expected a good scolding. Perhaps he was accustomed to such things, what with his wayward behavior. Faith was not one to leave him wanting.

  “What sort of plague about the neighborhood are you?” she asked in a huff. “Are you not aware that this is a private lane? You have no business here, sir.”

  The gentleman dismounted from his steed and bent to pick up the notebook which had flung itself open in a flurry of pages.

  “Don’t you dare!” she cried thinking of the rough draft contained within. “Leave that be!” All the while Faith was struggling to extricate herself from the branches. The grasping fingers entwined themselves into the many folds of her cloak and her gown. She could even feel one such branch that had dug its tendrils into what had once been an elegant twist of hair at the base of her neck.

  “Allow me to assist you.” The man offered with one hand outstretched. Faith eyed the offering warily and gave one more futile attempt to disentangle herself with any semblance of grace. It could not be done.

  She swallowed the sigh that threatened to break free and accepted his hand with a muted word of thanks and a vengeful glare. She clutched her manuscript close while he reached forth with undeniable care and extricated her chignon from the tree limb that had accosted it. He snapped the twig between his fingers and worked it free of her hair. With a single heave he pulled her back to the safety of the lane so that she now stood beneath his prying gaze. She heard the fabric of the collar of her dress rip. Apparently, it had still been caught upon a branch.

  “Oh blast and botheration,” she spat.

  “Are you quite alright?”

  She looked up. “Yes,” she muttered uncharitably. If she had thought the horse a beast, she had yet to consider the gentleman. Faith, was slightly on the smaller side of middling height for the female sex and she was unable to gaze above his shoulder. Rather, he stood more than a full head above her. She felt dwarfed. Dark, brooding features and windswept hair that she suspected would look in disarray even after a fresh trim gave him a troubled and roguish appearance, just like she imagined Cassondra’s captain of the guard. She shook herself out of the thought. She was not Cassandra, and Mr. Titherington was certainly not her captain. Still, she thought, a man such as this lived on the cusp of life, ever chasing the next bout of excitement, much like the hero in a novel.

  “Oscar Titherington, at your service,” he offered with a sweeping bow.

  Faith’s eyes grew wide at the revelation. Faith’s assumption was not far from the truth. Oscar Titherington had broken more hearts than Faith would care to count. She recognized the name and could see that he had deduced as much from her expression. She snatched at her journal in his hand, but he was too quick for her. He held the treasured possession just out of her reach and offered her what she supposed he meant to be a charming smile.

  Oscar Titherington was somewhat of a legend around these parts. Tales of his wild adventures and drunken evenings of debauchery with his friend, the Baron Torsford, and a batch of uncouth Oxford gents preceded him. Last she had heard, he had been essentially driven from Nettlefold and the surrounding estates under firm instruction not to return. The baron, whom Titherington often visited, had reformed his ways, no longer craving the distraction and trouble that their wild adventures might bring. In fact, Faith had heard tell that the Baron Torsford had found himself quite taken with the local schoolmarm and it was little wonder that she had set him straight. They had been wed little more than a year ago and, if Faith’s memory did not fail her, they were expecting their first child.

  Titherington grinned at her, still holding her book high, and anger burned. Faith and her twin were the smallest of the Baggington sisters and her brothers had often done the same trick. It infuriated her. Somehow she still seemed to be infused with Cassondra’s bold spirit. She did not give the matter a second thought, but with amazing alacrity she literally climbed the man like Cassondra had once climbed a tree to retrieve her wayward cat. Faith snatched the journal from the man’s hand, and still clinging with the opposite hand realized that she could feel the warmth of him straight through his coat and her own, and he was not her brother.

  Her face filled with fire as she dropped to the ground. She clutched her journal close and tried to recover some of her dignity, but she supposed that was completely lost with her forwardness.

  “Ho,” he said as he steadied her. He seemed as surprised as she that she actually retrieved the journal.

  “If you will excuse me, Mr. Titherington,” she murmured with a slight nod as she pulled from his grasp and settled the manuscript more securely in her reticle. She made a move to step around him, and he let her, but still Faith cursed her luck for running into him. Although she and her sister had often g
ot themselves into loads of trouble around the manor, word of their mischievous ways had never made it beyond the borders of their own properties and into town. The very last thing that she needed was the chance of being seen in the company of a well-known rake and disturber of the peace. She was not even introduced to the man, although all the town knew who he was…primarily to avoid the gentleman.

  “You are a frisky one,” he said, bright eyed and attentive to her in a way that made her quake inside, but not with the fear. This was a wholly different kind of shiver. She looked up at his face, his eyes, his lips, and somehow she could still feel the warmth of his body against hers as she retrieved the journal, as if the memory of his form was burned against her skin. It was an unfamiliar, but not at all unpleasant feeling.

  “I assure you, I am not,” she said with all the icy coldness she could muster, but she thought there was still a tremor in her voice and her eyes lingered too long on his full lips. Cassondra, minx that she was, would have kissed him and laughed. Faith began to walk quickly away.

  He followed.

  “I do apologize,” Titherington continued. Though he had no hand upon the reins of the gigantic horse, the animal followed at his heel. Faith continued ahead with dogged determination, but the gentleman would not mount and be on his way. Instead, he continued on at her side with repeated attempts to express his apologies. Her quick steps were no challenge for his long stride. “I was reckless, and should have been more attentive to my surroundings. There is no excuse for nearly riding you down.”

  “I assure you, it is nothing,” she said finally, when it appeared that he would wait for her response whether she willed it or no.

  “Please, allow me to deliver you to your destination to repay the fault. You must be soaked to the bone from the damp foliage.” Of course the gentleman had no way of knowing that the bottom half of Faith’s gown and skirt had been wet from her ambling long before she had fallen to the road side.

  “Oh, please no!” she cried. “What I mean is… I am only going a short way into town and I am perfectly capable of making the journey.” She could not admit that she lived upon the lane because then the gentleman would be capable of sleuthing out far too much information about her. “I am quite dry, I assure you. Please, continue on your ride.”

  “I could not leave a lady in distress,” he said in a low tone that spoke to something deep inside of her. She shivered.

  “See, you are chilled,” he said. “I am truly sorry.” It was as if he were doing penance and chastising himself for his behavior. “You see… Well, I am trying to…” he shook his head but did not finish the thought. Instead he was occupied with unbuttoning his jacket.

  What was the man doing?

  His long fingers flashed at the task. Faith wondered what it was that he might have said, but she was distracted by the sight of his long arms, pulled from his coat and now visible thorough the fine fabric of his white shirt. His waistcoat was embroidered perfection against his chest. She was not willing to press the issue and encourage further conversation, but he had suddenly loosed his jacket and was wrapping the garment around her. She was inundated in the scent of him, held in the fabric of the jacket. She breathed in, savoring the fragrance. Then remembering herself, she quickly shrugged out of the jacket and handed it back. She thought she would never be able to forget the scent of him. As she looked at him now, the memory did strange things to her breathing.

  Still she needed to shake this gentleman before she stepped any nearer to the prying eyes of the townsfolk of Upper Nettlefold. They loved to make sport of the “Baggage” as they had once called Faith and her sisters. Even their express interest in friendship had only thawed a few of the ladies’ hearts. Hope was better at cossetting such relations than Faith. Still, most in town still considered the Baggington sisters as much outcast as the Titherington gentleman.

  In any case, she had no intention of baldly strolling to town with him. That would set the tongues to wagging. The best that she might manage is to cross the bridge as if that were where she were headed, take cover in the small copse of trees behind the smithy, and then double back through the wood and continue on to the bookstore at a later time.

  “May I at least walk you to the bridge, Miss…” He waited for Faith to supply a name, but she did not do so. He looked at her as if he could somehow glean her thoughts. “I understand if you have no desire to be seen in my company, nor can I blame you,” he said at last.

  He still held his jacket in his hands, his arms wrapped around the garment. Faith could not hold back the smile that crossed her features and a smile echoed on his lips. There was no denying that he had read her true. “However, you should not walk so far alone. There could be dangerous men about. Villains who would take ladies from their home and …”

  Faith raised one dark eyebrow and stared at him with a look of disbelief.

  “Use them ill,” he finished weakly.

  He stopped as if realizing his topic of conversation was not suitable for a young lady, but of course, Faith was no stranger to villainy. She knew of such things. She held him with her gaze and he read the look.

  “I have never been a danger,” he pleaded with her. His explanatory tone revealed that, he had misjudged her look to accuse him. He began self-deprecating and Faith had to suppress a laugh. Instead, she bit her cheek and forced her features to remain placid. “Wayward, wild, a rogue perhaps… but never, have I meant any ill will. At least, not on purpose. It was only that, as my grandfather says, I never thought about anyone else but myself and… well, that sometimes led down a troubled path.”

  “You speak as if the habit is in the past,” Faith replied with obvious disbelief and, perhaps, a hint of mirth.

  Titherington shrugged awkwardly. “It is clear that I am still likely to run one down with my horse from time to time, but I am, shall we say, a work in progress.”

  “Your progress ought not to be tested here,” she replied. “You shall be driven from town at first sight, I think. The townsfolk of Upper Nettlefold are not terribly forgiving.”

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But I shall not know until I make my attempt.”

  Faith, for one, did not wish to be around to lay witness to the gentleman’s demise. Such a flurry of gossip and dramatic tale telling had occurred on the heels of his most recent departure that she could only imagine the speed at which the tongues would wag this time around.

  “I really should be going.” She turned to move forward but found that, once again, her legs were no match for his long stride. Again, she came to a halt and pierced him with her most serious glare. She even did him the benefit of placing one hand firmly upon her hip so that there might be no mistake that she was not to be trifled with.

  He looked as if he wished to groan aloud with frustration for she would not give him an inch of leeway.

  He submitted, holding his hands out as if to show he held no weapon, but she realized Titherington’s armament was the gentleman himself. A lock of his hair fell forward, and she wished to brush it from his face so she could see those lovely long lashed eyes again. She thought she had never seen such a beautiful countenance. No wonder that he was the talk of the town. She could hardly believe that she had so forwardly touched his person when she retrieved her journal. A blush filled her face again, and she looked away.

  “I shall leave you to your peace.”

  What would she have done if he had read the words within? Her most personal thoughts and imaginings were spread upon the pages and had, if only for a short while, been in his possession.

  Faith had been too distracted by the man to pay attention to the enormous piece of horseflesh that had snuck up behind her. She felt a nudge upon her gown from a large set of probing teeth that caused her to hastily stumble backward. At the same time, she heard a sharp command from the beast’s owner for the animal to halt. She caught her feet beneath her and gave her skirts a firm shake to set them right once again. Nothing was harmed save a small portion of h
er dignity.

  “I am so very sorry,” he continued his battering of apologies until she wished to silence him. Again she thought of Cassondra who would have shut his lips with her own. Oh no. She thought this was no fantasy story where a gentleman could be roguish and still a gentleman. No. She had no doubt that rogues in real life remained rogues and villains. Her father had been such a man. Her elder sister had nearly fallen prey to another.

  The horse, curious, bumped his head against her back.

  “I simply do not know what has gotten into him. He is normally soundly in my control. Though, admittedly, he does not behave so well for others,” he said with a look of dismay, “but we are working on that as well.”

  “In your control?” she questioned. “Was he in your control as you nearly ran me down?”

  “I have apologized.”

  “So you have. Be on your way then.” She waved a hand in front of him.

  She had heard tales of the terror that this gentleman and his horse, aptly named Demon’s Reach, had fraught upon the town. Now, it seemed that the pair was contrite, or at least, abashed. Never had she expected to witness such a moment. She doubted that any in Nettlefold would believe it.

  Mr. Titherington ran a hand over his weary features. “Has he damaged the item? I assure you, it will be replaced.”

  “There is no harm done,” Faith said. She found the gentleman’s discomfort amusing. After all, if she believed the rumors, the animal was like to run her into the ground and then leave her for dead. “He was only checking my pocket,” she explained.

  She reached into the depths of the folds of her gown and pulled out the small red apple. The animal must have sniffed it out. From the tossing of his head, Faith could venture a guess that it was his favorite treat.