“Not angry,” Westcliff said in reference to the pig. “Feral, and therefore dangerous. Domestic pigs set free in the wild can easily become aggressive and quite large. I would estimate the one we just saw to be at least twenty stone.” Seeing Swift’s perplexity, the earl clarified, “Approximately three hundred pounds.”

Swift helped Daisy to her feet, bracing her against his sturdy form. “Slowly,” he murmured. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

Daisy felt absolutely fine. But it was so delicious to stand there with him that she said breathlessly, “Perhaps a little.”

His hand came up to her head, gently cradling it against his shoulder. Her temperature escalated as she felt the protectiveness of his embrace, the wonderful solidity of his body. All this from Matthew Swift, the most unromantic man she had ever known.

So far this visit was producing one surprise after another.

“I’ll take you back,” Swift said near her ear. Her skin prickled in delighted response. “Do you think you could ride in front of me?”

How topsy-turvy everything had become, Daisy thought, that she should feel a shameless thrill of anticipation at the prospect. She could lean back in his arms as he carried her away on his horse, and she could secretly indulge in a fantasy or two. She would pretend she was an adventuress being abducted by a dashing villain—

“I fear that would not be wise,” Lord Llandrindon interrupted with a laugh. “Considering the state of affairs between the two of you…”

Daisy blanched, thinking at first that he was referring to those torrid moments in the library. But there was no way Llandrindon could know about that. She hadn’t told a soul, and Swift was as closemouthed as a clam about his private life. No, Llandrindon had to be talking about their rivalry at lawn-bowling.

“I think I had better be the one to escort Miss Bowman home,” Llandrindon said, “to prevent any chance of violence.”

Daisy slitted a glance at the viscount’s smiling face and wished he had kept his mouth shut. She parted her lips to protest, but Swift had already replied.

“Perhaps you’re right, my lord.”

Oh, drat. Daisy felt cold and disgruntled as Swift eased her away from the warm shelter of his body.

Westcliff viewed the ground with a grim expression. “I’ll have to find the animal and cull it.”

“Not on my account, I hope,” Daisy said anxiously.

“There is blood on the ground,” the earl replied. “The animal is wounded. It’s kinder to put it down rather than let it suffer.”

Mr. Mardling went to fetch his own gun, saying eagerly, “I’ll go with you, my lord!”

In the meanwhile Lord Llandrindon had mounted his horse. “Hand her up to me,” he said to Swift, “and I’ll return her safely to the manor.”

Swift tilted Daisy’s face upward and extracted a white handkerchief from his pocket. “If you still feel dizzy by the time we arrive home,” he said, carefully wiping the dirt smudges from her face, “I’m going to send for the doctor. Understand?”

Despite his overbearing manner there was an elusive tenderness in his gaze that made Daisy want to crawl inside his coat and huddle against his heartbeat. “Are you coming back too,” she asked, “or will you stay with Lord Westcliff?”

“I’m going to follow right behind you.” Replacing the handkerchief in his pocket, Swift bent and picked her up easily. “Hold onto me.”

Daisy put her arms around his neck, her wrist tingling where it pressed against the hot skin of his nape and the cool silky locks of his hair. He carried her as if she weighed nothing, his chest rock-solid, his breath soft and even against her cheek. His skin carried the scent of sun and outdoors. She could barely restrain herself from nuzzling into his neck.

Bemused by the force of her attraction to him, Daisy remained silent as Swift handed her up to Lord Llandrindon, who was seated on a large bay. The viscount settled her in front of him, where the edge of the saddle dug into her thigh.

Llandrindon was a handsome man, elegant and dark-haired and fine-featured. But the feel of Llandrindon’s arms around her, his lean chest, his scent…somehow it wasn’t right. The clasp of his hand at the side of her waist was foreign and intrusive.

Daisy could have wept with frustration as she wondered why she couldn’t want him instead of the man who was wrong for her.

“What happened?” Lillian asked as Daisy walked into the Marsden parlor. She was reclining on the settee with a periodical. “You look as if you’ve been run over by a carriage.”

“I had an encounter with an ill-mannered pig, actually.”

Lillian smiled and set aside the periodical. “Who would that be?”

“I wasn’t speaking in metaphor. It really was a pig.” Sitting in a nearby chair, Daisy told her about the misadventure, casting it in a humorous light.

“Are you really all right?” Lillian asked in concern.

“Perfectly,” Daisy assured her. “And Hubert was fine as well. He arrived at the stables at the same time that Lord Llandrindon and I did.”

“That was lucky.”

“Yes, it was clever of Hubert to find his way home—”

“No, not the deuced pony. I’m talking about riding home with Lord Llandrindon. Not that I’m encouraging you to set your cap for him, but on the other hand—”

“He wasn’t the one I wanted to ride back with.” Daisy stared down at the dirt-stained fabric of her skirts and concentrated on plucking a horse hair from the fine muslin weave.