Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers 4)

Daisy tried to explain that she’d just gotten the wind knocked out of her, and he seemed to understand her incoherent sounds. “All right,” he said. “Don’t try to talk. Breathe slowly.” Feeling her stir against him, he resettled her in his arms. “Rest against me.” His hand passed over her hair, smoothing it back from her face. Tiny shivers of reaction ran through her limbs, and he gathered her closer. “Slowly, sweetheart. Easy. You’re safe now.”

Daisy closed her eyes to hide her astonishment. Matthew Swift was murmuring endearments and holding her in hard, strong arms, and her bones seemed to have melted like boiling sugar.

Years of uncivilized rough-and-tumble with her siblings had taught Daisy to recover quickly from a fall. In any other circumstances she would have sprung up and dusted herself off by now. But every pleasure-saturated cell in her body sought to preserve the moment for as long as possible.

Matthew’s gentle fingers stroked the side of her face. “Look at me, sweetheart. Tell me where it hurts.”

Her lashes swept upward. His face was right over hers. As she was held in the compass of his extraordinary blue eyes, she felt as if she were floating in layers of color. “You have nice teeth,” she told him groggily, “but you know, your eyes are even nicer…”

Swift frowned, the pad of his thumb passing over the crest of her cheek. His touch brought a wash of pink to the surface of her skin. “Can you tell me your name?”

She blinked at him. “You’ve forgotten it?”

“No, I want to know if you’ve forgotten it.”

“I would never be so silly as to forget my own name,” she said. “I’m Daisy Bowman.”

“What is your birthday?”

She couldn’t repress a crooked smile. “You wouldn’t know if I told you the wrong one.”

“Your birthday,” he insisted.

“March the fifth.”

His mouth curved wryly. “Don’t play games, imp.”

“All right. It’s September the twelfth. How did you know my birthday?”

Instead of replying, Swift looked up and spoke to his companions, who had gathered around them. “Her pupils are the same size,” he said. “And she’s alert. No broken bones, either.”

“Thank God.” Westcliff’s voice.

Looking over Matthew Swift’s broad shoulder, Daisy saw her brother-in-law standing over them. Mr. Mardling and Lord Llandrindon were also there, wearing sympathetic expressions.

Westcliff held a rifle in his hand. He lowered to his haunches beside her. “We were just returning from an afternoon shoot,” the earl said. “It was pure chance that we came upon you just as you were charged.”

“I could have sworn it was a wild boar,” Daisy said in wonder.

“But that can’t be,” Lord Landrindon remarked with a patronizing chuckle. “Your imagination has gotten the better of you, Miss Bowman. There have been no wild boars in England for hundreds of years.”

“But I saw—” Daisy began defensively.

“It’s all right,” Swift murmured, tightening his hold. “I saw it too.”

Westcliff’s expression was rueful. “Miss Bowman is not entirely mistaken,” he told Llandrindon. “We’ve had a local problem with some escaped livestock that have farrowed a generation or two of feral litters. Only last month a horse-woman was charged by one of them.”

“You mean I was just attacked by an angry pig?” Daisy asked, struggling to a sitting position. Swift kept a supportive arm at her back and tucked her against his warm side.

A last ray of sunlight flashed over the horizon, temporarily blinding her. Turning her face away from it, Daisy felt Swift’s chin brush against her hair.

“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.

“One can’t blame you for that,” Lillian said. “Llandrindon is nice but rather innocuous. I’m sure you would have preferred to ride back with Mr. Mardling.”

“No,” Daisy said. “I was very glad not to have come back with him. The one I really wanted to ride home with was—”

“No.” Lillian covered her ears. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it!”

Daisy stared at her gravely. “Do you really mean that?”

Lillian grimaced. “Bloody hell,” she muttered. “Damn and blast. Son of a—”

“When the baby is born,” Daisy said with a faint smile, “you’ll really have to stop using such foul language.”

“Then I will indulge myself to the fullest until he gets here.”

“Are you certain it’s a he?”

“It had better be, since Westcliff needs an heir and I’m never going through this again.” Lillian scrubbed the heels of her hands over her weary eyes. “Since the only choice left was Matthew Swift,” she said grumpily, “I assume he was the one you wanted to ride back with.”

“Yes. Because…I’m attracted to him.” It was a relief to say it out loud. Daisy’s throat, which had felt pinched and tight, finally dilated to allow her a long, slow breath.

“In a physical sense, you mean?”

“In other ways as well.”

Lillian rested her cheek on her hand, which was balled into a sharp-knuckled fist. “Is it because Father wants the match?” she asked. “Are you hoping somehow to win his approval?”

“Oh, no. If anything, Father’s approval is a mark against Mr. Swift. I don’t give a fig about pleasing him—I know very well that’s impossible.”

“Then I don’t understand why you would want a man who is so obviously wrong for you. You’re not some madcap, Daisy. Impulsive, yes. Romantic, of a certainty. But you’re also practical and intelligent enough to understand the consequences of being involved with him. I think the problem is that you’re desperate. You’re the last one of us to be unmarried, and then Father delivered this idiotic ultimatum, and—”

“I’m not desperate!”

“If you’re considering marrying Matthew Swift, I’d say that’s a mark of extreme desperation.”

Daisy had never been accused of having a temper—that distinction had always gone to Lillian. But indignation filled her chest like the blast from a steam kettle, and she had to fight to keep from exploding.

Glancing at the curve of her sister’s stomach helped her to calm down. Lillian was dealing with many new discomforts and uncertainties. Now Daisy was adding to the problem.

“I said nothing about wanting to marry him,” Daisy replied. “I merely want to find out more about him. About what kind of man he is. I don’t see the harm in that.”

“But you won’t,” Lillian argued with forceful conviction. “That’s the point. He won’t show you who he really is, he’ll deceive you. His skill in life is to find out what people want and manufacture it for them, all for his own benefit. Look at how he made himself into the son Father always wanted. Now he’s going to pretend to be the kind of man you’ve always wanted.”

“He couldn’t know that—” Daisy tried to say, but Lillian interrupted in a heedless rush, inflamed beyond the ability to have a rational exchange.

“He has no interest in you, your heart and mind, the person you are…he wants controlling shares in the company, and he sees you as the way to get them. Of course he’s trying to make you like him…he’ll charm you out of your knickers until the day after your wedding when you find out that it was all an illusion. He’s just like Father, Daisy! He’ll crush you, or turn you into someone like Mother. Is that the life you want?”

“Of course not.”

For the first time ever Daisy realized she could not talk to her older sister about something important.

There were so many things she wanted to say…that not everything Matthew Swift had said and done could have been calculated. That he could have insisted that she ride back with him to the manor and instead he had handed her over to Llandrindon without a protest. She also wanted to confide that Swift had kissed her, and that it had been glorious, and how much that had worried her.

But there was no point arguing when Lillian was in this mood. They would just chase in circles.

The silence unfolded in a smothering blanket.

“Well?” Lillian demanded. “What are you going to do?”

Standing, Daisy rubbed at a spot of dirt on her arms and said ruefully, “To start with, I think I had better take a bath.”

“You know what I meant!”

“What would you like me to do?” Daisy asked with a politeness that caused Lillian to scowl.

“Tell Matthew Swift he’s a loathsome toad and there’s no chance in hell you would ever consider marrying him!”

CHAPTER 8

“…and then she left,” Lillian said vehemently, “without telling me what she was going to do or what she really thought, and damn it all, I know there were things she left out—”