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into a trot. “Shall we begin, my lord?”
    For just a moment he glanced at her dubiously, but before he could comment, she was off and moving toward the nearest of the tenant farms. Since he’d demanded her company, he would simply have to accept her “my lords” as well.
    A light breeze set the new elm leaves dancing in the treetops. Clouds tumbled slowly toward the rising sun, and she wondered whether they were in for another bout of rain. She certainly hoped not, for that would prolong the marquis’s stay at Langley.
    “You sit well, Miss Willits.” The bay cantered upbeside her, and again Warefield’s eyes ran over her appraisingly.
    Maddie flushed. He didn’t need to sound so surprised, or to take so long gawking at her again. Once was quite enough to put her out of sorts. “You are far too kind, my lord,” she returned, wanting to roll her eyes at his stuffiness. “I daresay I ride adequately for Somerset, but my goodness, I’ve never seen such a splendid mount as yours.”
    Predictably, his expression warmed at the faux praise. “Old Aristotle’s a fine beast, indeed. I won him in a wager with my younger brother last year. If I don’t take him everywhere with me, Rafe’s been known to drop in at Warefield and attempt to make off with him.”
    “Only imagine, stealing a horse for amusement.” Maddie chuckled and snapped the end of her reins against her thigh, harder than she intended. She flinched at the sting and blamed Warefield for that as well. “And to think that if common folk did such a thing, they could be hanged for it!”
    He swung around to look at her, surprise and anger in his eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t as obtuse as she’d thought—this time he’d actually noticed the insult. Before he could comment, though, a fortunate disaster caught her attention. She sat up straighter and pointed ahead of them.
    “Oh, look, it’s Miss Marguerite! Headed straight for Mrs. Whitmore’s cabbage patch again, no doubt. We’d better head her off, or Langley will find itself in the middle of a tenant war.”
    The marquis regarded the pig trotting across the field in front of them. “She nearly sent my coach into a hedge yesterday. Several angry persons flailing farm implements were also involved.”
    Maddie grinned as she set Blossom into a canter behind the fleeing sow. “Yesterday? Miss Marguerite’s being quite industrious. It’s usually a week or more between escapes.”
    The marquis and Aristotle kept pace beside her. “Ah. This Miss Marguerite is a hardened criminal, then, I assume?”
    “Most definitely.” Abruptly, she remembered that she detested Warefield. “Though I daresay, my lord, that compared to the fascinating amusements of London, a marauding pig must be rather stale.”
    He laughed in response, an unexpectedly warm, infectious sound. “Not at all, Miss Willits. I don’t spend all my time in London, you know. And we do have pigs at Warefield.”
    “Not like this one, my lord.”
    Granting him a smug glance, she took off across the field in pursuit. As she’d predicted, Miss Marguerite had angled along the stream bank, making straight for the Whitmores’ small tenant farm. In a moment Warefield and Aristotle had flashed by her. He was a splendid rider, rust-colored coattails flying out behind him as he leaned low over the bay’s back. However numerous his other faults, she had to admit that he looked magnificent. Maddie held Blossom back, curious to see how his lordship would handle this little adventure.
    The marquis swept along the bank, swiftly closing the distance between himself and the pig. Miss Marguerite dodged sideways, and in response the marquis sent Aristotle forward in a sprint of speed, obviously trying to trap the pig between the horse and the stream. The maneuver would have been a sterling one, if not for the notorious mud at the edge of the water.
    “Your lordship, be careful of….” Maddie trailed off, grinning delightedly. This should be