Perplexed and annoyed, Daisy strode away from the artificial lake.
She wasn’t going to tell anyone about what had just happened, even though she would have loved to amuse Lillian with the story of the goose encounter. But she did not want to reveal that she had seen a different side of Matthew Swift, and that she had briefly allowed herself to flirt with a dangerous attraction to him. It had meant nothing, really.
Although Daisy was still an innocent, she understood enough of sexual matters to be aware that one’s body could respond to a man without any involvement of the heart. As she had once responded to Cam Rohan. It disconcerted her to realize she was drawn to Matthew Swift in that same way. Such different men, one romantic, one reserved. One a handsome young gypsy who had stirred her imagination with exotic possibilities…one a man of business, hard-eyed and ambitious and pragmatic.
Daisy had seen an endless parade of power-seeking men during the Fifth Avenue years. They wanted perfection, a wife who could be the best hostess and give the best suppers and soirees, and wear the best gowns, and produce the best children who would play quietly upstairs in the nursery while their fathers were negotiating business deals downstairs in the study.
And Matthew Swift, with his enormous drive, the one her father had singled out for his talent and brilliant mind, would be the most exacting husband imaginable. He would want a wife who formed her entire life around his goals, and he would judge her severely when she failed to please him. There could be no future with a man like that.
But there was one thing in Matthew Swift’s favor: He had helped the goose.
By the time Daisy had stolen into the manor, washed and dressed in a fresh day-gown, her friends and sister had gathered in the morning room for tea and toast. They sat at one of the round tables by a window, looking up as Daisy entered the room.
Annabelle held Isabelle against her shoulder, rubbing her tiny back in soothing circles. A few of the other tables were occupied, mostly by women, although there were about a half-dozen men present, including Lord St. Vincent.
“Good morning,” Daisy said brightly, going to her sister. “How was your sleep, dear?”
“Splendid.” Lillian looked lovely, her eyes clear, her black hair pulled back from her face and caught in a pink silk net at the nape of her neck. “I slept with the windows open, and the breeze coming from the lake was so refreshing. Did you go fishing this morning?”
“No.” Daisy tried to sound offhand. “I just walked.”
Evie leaned toward Annabelle to take the baby. “Let me hold her,” she said. The baby was chewing frantically on a small fist and drooling copiously. Taking the restless child, Evie explained to Daisy, “She’s teething, poor thing.”
“She’s been fretful all morning,” Annabelle said. Daisy saw that her luminous blue eyes looked a little tired, the eyes of a young mother. The touch of weariness only enhanced Annabelle’s beauty, softening the goddess-like perfection of her features.
“Isn’t it rather soon for the baby to be teething?” Daisy asked.
“She’s a Hunt,” Annabelle said dryly. “And Hunts are an unusually hardy lot. According to my husband, everyone in his family is practically born with teeth.” She regarded the baby with concern. “I think I should take her from the room.”
A score of disapproving glances were cast in their direction. It was not the done thing for children, especially infants, to be brought into adult company. Unless it was strictly for show, with the child dressed in white ruffles and ribbons and briefly exhibited for general approval, and then carted quickly back up to the nursery.
“Nonsense,” Lillian said at once, not bothering to lower her voice. “Isabelle is hardly screaming or carrying on. She’s just a bit agitated. I think everyone can manage to have a little tolerance.”
“Let’s try the spoon again,” Annabelle murmured, her cultured voice touched with anxiety. She pulled a chilled silver spoon from a little bowl of crushed ice, and told Daisy, “My mother suggested giving her this—she said it always worked with my brother Jeremy.”
Daisy sat beside Evie, watching as the baby bit down on the bowl of the spoon. Isabelle’s round little face was flushed and a few tears had tracked from her eyes. As she whimpered, the tender, inflamed part of her gums was visible, and Daisy winced in sympathy.
“She needs a nap,” Annabelle said. “But she’s in too much pain to sleep.”
“Poor darling.”
As Evie tried to soothe the baby there was a minor stir at the other side of the room. Someone’s entrance had caused a ripple of interest. Turning in her chair, Daisy saw the tall, striking form of Matthew Swift.
So he hadn’t gone back to the river. He must have waited until Daisy had gone sufficiently far ahead, then walked to the manor without having to escort her.
Like her father, Swift found little in her that was worthy of interest. Daisy told herself that she shouldn’t care, but the knowledge stung.
He had changed into a perfectly pressed suit of clothes, dark gray with a dove-colored vest, his black necktie crisp and conservatively knotted. Although it had become fashionable in Europe for men to grow their side whiskers longer and wear their hair in loose waves, it appeared the style had not yet reached America. Matthew Swift was completely clean-shaven, and his gleaming brown hair had been shaped close to the sides of his head and neck, giving him an appealing touch of boyishness.
Daisy watched covertly as introductions were made. She saw the pleasure on the faces of the older gentlemen as they spoke to him, and the jealousy of the younger gentlemen. And the flirtatious interest of the women.
“Good heavens,” Annabelle murmured, “who is that?”
Lillian replied grumpily. “That is Mr. Swift.”
Both Annabelle’s and Evie’s eyes widened.
“The same Mr. Swift you described as a bag of b-bones?” Evie asked.
“The one you said was about as exciting as a dish of wilted spinach?” Annabelle added.
Lillian’s frown deepened into an outright scowl. Ripping her attention from Swift, she dropped a lump of sugar in her tea. “I suppose he may not be quite as hideous as I described,” she allowed. “But don’t let his appearance deceive you. Once you are acquainted with the inner man, it will change your impression of the outer one.”
“I th-think there are quite a few ladies who would like to become acquainted with any part of him,” Evie observed, causing Annabelle to snicker into her teacup.
Daisy threw a quick glance over her shoulder and saw it was true. Ladies were fluttering, giggling, extending soft white hands to be taken and pressed.
“All this fuss just because he’s American and therefore a novelty,” Lillian muttered. “If any of my brothers were here, those ladies would forget all about Mr. Swift.”
Although Daisy would have liked to agree, she was fairly certain that their brothers would not have the same effect as Mr. Swift. For all that they were heirs to a great fortune, the Bowman brothers did not have Swift’s carefully cultivated social finesse.
“He’s looking over here,” Annabelle reported. Anxiety lent subtle tension to her posture. “He’s frowning, along with everyone else. The baby is making too much of a fuss. I’ll take her outside and—”
“Do not take her anywhere,” Lillian commanded. “This is my home, and you’re my friend, and anyone who doesn’t care for the baby’s noise is welcome to leave at once.”
“He’s coming this way,” Evie whispered. “Hush.”
Daisy stared steadily into her tea, tension coiling in her muscles.
Swift came to the table and bowed politely. “My lady,” he said to Lillian, “what a pleasure it is to see you again. May I offer my renewed congratulations on your marriage to Lord Westcliff, and…” He hesitated, for although Lillian was obviously pregnant, it would be impolite to refer to her condition. “…you are looking quite well,” he finished.
“I’m the size of a barn,” Lillian said flatly, puncturing his attempt at diplomacy.
Swift’s mouth firmed as if he was fighting to suppress a grin. “Not at all,” he said mildly, and glanced at Annabelle and Evie. They all waited for Lillian to make the introductions.
Lillian complied grudgingly. “This is Mr. Swift,” she muttered, waving her hand in his direction. “Mrs. Simon Hunt and Lady St. Vincent.”
Swift bent deftly over Annabelle’s hand. He would have done the same for Evie except she was holding the baby. Isabelle’s grunts and whimpers were escalating and would soon become a full-out wail unless something was done about it.
“That is my daughter Isabelle,” Annabelle said apologetically. “She’s teething.”
That should get rid of him quickly, Daisy thought. Men were terrified of crying babies.
“Ah.” Swift reached into his coat and rummaged through a rattling collection of articles. What on earth did he have in there? She watched as he pulled out his pen-knife, a bit of fishing line and a clean white handkerchief.
“Mr. Swift, what are you doing?” Evie asked with a quizzical smile.
“Improvising something.” He spooned some crushed ice into the center of the handkerchief, gathered the fabric tightly around it, and tied it off with fishing line. After replacing the knife in his pocket, he reached for the baby without one trace of self-consciusness.
Wide-eyed, Evie surrendered the infant. The four women watched in astonishment as Swift took Isabelle against his shoulder with practiced ease. He gave the baby the ice-filled handkerchief, which she proceeded to gnaw madly even as she continued to cry.
Seeming oblivious to the fascinated stares of everyone in the room, Swift wandered to the window and murmured softly to the baby. It appeared he was telling her a story of some kind. After a minute or two the child quieted.
When Swift returned to the table Isabelle was half-drowsing and sighing, her mouth clamped firmly on the makeshift ice pouch.
“Oh, Mr. Swift,” Annabelle said gratefully, taking the baby back in her arms, “how clever of you! Thank you.”
“What were you saying to her?” Lillian demanded.
He glanced at her and replied blandly, “I thought I would distract her long enough for the ice to numb her gums. So I gave her a detailed explanation of the Buttonwood agreement of 1792.”
Daisy spoke to him for the first time. “What was that?”
Swift glanced at her then, his face smooth and polite, and for a second Daisy half-believed that she had dreamed the events of that morning. But her skin and nerves still retained the sensation of him, the hard imprint of his body.
“The Buttonwood agreement led to the formation of the New York Stock and Exchange Board,” Swift said. “I thought I was quite informative, but it seemed Miss Isabelle lost interest when I started on the fee-structuring compromise.”
“I see,” Daisy said. “You bored the poor baby to sleep.”
“You should hear my account of the imbalance of market forces leading to the crash of ’37,” Swift said. “I’ve been told it’s better than laudanum.”
Staring into his glinting blue eyes, Daisy chuckled reluctantly, and he gave her another one of those brief, dazzling smiles. Her face turned unaccountably warm.
Swift’s attention remained on her for a moment too long, as if he were fascinated by something he saw in her eyes. Abruptly he tore his gaze from hers and bowed to the table again. “I will leave your to enjoy your tea. A pleasure, ladies.” Glancing at Annabelle, he added gravely, “You have a lovely daughter, madam. I will overlook her lack of appreciation for my business lecture.”
“That is very kind of you, sir,” Annabelle replied, her eyes dancing.
Swift returned to the other side of the room while the young women all busied themselves, stirring unnecessary spoonfuls of sugar into their tea, smoothing their napkins on their laps.
Evie was the first to speak. “You were right,” she said to Lillian. “He’s absolutely horrid.”
“Yes,” Annabelle agreed emphatically. “When one looks at him, the first words that come to mind are ‘wilted spinach.’”
“Shut up, the both of you,” Lillian said in response to their sarcasm, and sank her teeth into a piece of toast.
Lillian insisted on dragging Daisy out to the east lawn in the afternoon, where most of the young people were playing bowls. Ordinarily Daisy wouldn’t have minded, but she had just reached a riveting part in a new novel about a governess named Honoria who had just encountered a ghost in the attic. “Who are you?” Honoria had quavered, staring at the ghost who looked remarkably like her old love, Lord Clayworth. The ghost had been about to answer when Lillian had decisively torn the book from Daisy’s hands and pulled her from the library.
“Blast,” Daisy complained. “Blast, blast…Lillian, I had just gotten to the best part!”
“As we speak there are at least a half-dozen eligible men who are lawn-bowling outside,” her sister said crisply. “And playing games with them is far more productive than reading by yourself.”
“I don’t know anything about bowls.”
“Good. Ask them to teach you. If there’s one thing every man loves to do, it’s telling a woman how to do something.”
They approached the bowling lawn, where chairs and tables had been set out for onlookers. A group of players were busy rolling large round wooden balls along the green, laughing as one player’s ball, or bowl, dropped into the narrow ditch dug at the side of the green.
“Hmm,” Lillian said, observing the gathering. “We have competition.” Daisy recognized the three women her sister was referring to: Miss Cassandra Leighton, Lady Miranda Dowden, and Elspeth Higginson. “I would have preferred not to invite any unmarried women to Hampshire,” Lillian said, “but Westcliff said that would be too obvious. Fortunately you’re prettier than all of them. Even if you are short.”
“I’m not short,” Daisy protested.
“Petite, then.”
“I don’t like that word any better. It makes me sound trivial.”
“It’s better than stunted,” Lillian said, “which is the only other word I can come up with to describe your lack of stature.” She grinned at Daisy’s scowl. “Don’t make faces, dear. I’m taking you to a buffet of bachelors and you can pick any—oh, hell.”
“What? What?”
“He’s playing.”
There was no need to ask who he was…the annoyance in Lillian’s voice made his identity perfectly clear.
Surveying the group, Daisy saw Matthew Swift standing at the end of the lane with a few other young men, watching as the distances between the bowls were being measured. Like the others he was dressed in light-colored trousers, a white shirt, and a sleeveless waistcoat. He was lean and fit, his relaxed posture imbued with physical confidence.
His gaze caught everything. He appeared to be taking the game seriously. Matthew Swift was a man who could never do less than his best, even in a casual lawn game.
Daisy was fairly certain that he competed for something every day of his life. And that didn’t quite fit with her experience of the privileged young men of Old Boston, or Old New York, the pampered scions who were always aware that they didn’t have to work if they didn’t wish to. She wondered if Swift ever did something just for the enjoyment of it.
“They’re trying to determine who’s lying the shot,” Lillian said. “That means who managed to roll their bowls closest to the white ball at the end.”
“How do you know so much about the game?” Daisy asked.
Lillian smiled wryly. “Westcliff taught me to play. He’s so good at bowls that he usually sits out because no one else ever wins when he plays.”
They approached the group of chairs, where Westcliff was sitting with Evie and Lord St. Vincent, and the Craddocks, a retired major general and his wife. Daisy headed toward an extra chair, but Lillian pushed her toward the bowling green.
“Go,” Lillian commanded in the same tone one would have used to send a dog to fetch a stick.
Sighing, Daisy cast a longing thought to her unfinished novel and trudged forward. She had met at least three of the gentlemen on previous occasions. Not bad prospects, actually. There was Mr. Hollingberry, a pleasant-looking man in his thirties, round-cheeked and a bit pudgy but attractive nonetheless. And Mr. Mardling, with his athletic build and thick blond curls and green eyes.
There were two men she had not seen at Stony Cross before, Mr. Alan Rickett, who was rather scholarly looking with his spectacles and slightly rumpled coat…and Lord Llandrindon, a handsome dark-haired gentleman of medium height.
Llandrindon approached Daisy immediately, volunteering to explain the rules of the game. Daisy tried not to look over his shoulder at Mr. Swift, who was surrounded by the other women. They were giggling and flirting, asking his advice on how to hold the bowl properly and how many steps one should take before releasing the bowl onto the green.
Swift appeared to take no notice of Daisy. But as she turned to pick up a wooden bowl from a pile on the ground, she felt a tingling at the back of her neck. She knew he was looking at her.
Daisy sorely regretted having asked him to help her with the trapped goose. The episode had set off something that was beyond her control, some troubling awareness she couldn’t seem to banish. Stop being ridiculous, Daisy told herself. Start bowling. And she forced herself to listen attentively to Lord Llandrindon’s advice on bowls strategy.
Observing the action on the green, Westcliff commented softly, “She’s getting on well with Llandrindon, from the looks of it. And he’s one of the most promising possibilities. He’s the right age, well-educated, and possessed of a pleasant disposition.”
Lillian regarded Llandrindon’s distant form speculatively. He was even the right height, not too tall for Daisy, who disliked it when people towered over her. “He has an odd name,” Lillian mused aloud. “I wonder where he’s from?”
“Thurso,” replied Lord St. Vincent, who was sitting on the other side of Evie.
An uneasy truce had come to exist between Lillian and St. Vincent after a great deal of past conflict. Although she would never truly like him, Lillian had prosaically decided that St. Vincent would have to be tolerated, since he had been friends with Westcliff for years.
Lillian knew if she asked her husband to end the friendship he would do so for her sake, but she loved him too much to make such a demand. And St. Vincent was good for Marcus. With his wit and perceptiveness, he helped to bring a measure of balance to Marcus’s overburdened life. Marcus, as one of the most powerful men in England, was in dire need of people who didn’t take him too seriously.
The other point in St. Vincent’s favor was that he appeared to be a good husband to Evie. He seemed to worship her, actually. One would never have thought of putting them together—Evie the shy wallflower, St. Vincent the heartless rake—and yet they had developed a singular attachment to each other.
St. Vincent was self-assured and sophisticated, possessing a male beauty so dazzling that people sometimes caught their breath when they glanced at him. But all it took was one word from Evie to make him come running. Even though their relationship was quieter, less outwardly demonstrative than those of the Hunts or Westcliffs, a mysterious and passionate intensity existed between the two.
And as long as Evie was happy, Lillian would be cordial to St. Vincent.
“Thurso,” Lillian repeated suspiciously, glancing from St. Vincent to her husband. “That doesn’t sound English to me.”
The two men exchanged a glance, and Marcus replied evenly. “It’s located in Scotland, actually.”
Lillian’s eyes narrowed. “Llandrindon is Scottish? But he doesn’t have an accent.”
“He spent most of his formative years at English boarding schools and then Oxford,” St. Vincent said.
“Hmm.” Lillian’s knowledge of Scottish geography was scant, but she had never even heard of Thurso. “And where is Thurso precisely? Is it just past the border?”
Westcliff didn’t quite meet her gaze. “Somewhat more north than that. Near the Orkney islands.”
“The northern edge of the continent?” Lillian couldn’t believe her ears. It took a great deal of effort to keep her voice to a furious whisper. “Why don’t we just save ourselves some time and banish Daisy to Siberia? It would probably be warmer! Good God, how can the two of you have agreed on Llandrindon as a candidate?”
“I had to throw him in,” St. Vincent protested. “He owns three estates and an entire string of thoroughbreds. And every time he comes to the club my nightly profits go up at least five thousand pounds.”
“He’s a spendthrift, then,” Lillian said darkly.
“That makes him even more eligible for Daisy,” St. Vincent said. “Someday he’ll need your family’s money.”
“I don’t care how eligible he is, the object is to keep my sister in this country. How often will I get to see Daisy if she’s in bloody Scotland?”
“It’s still closer than North America,” Westcliff pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone.
Lillian turned to Evie in hopes of enlisting her as an ally. “Evie, say something!”
“It doesn’t matter where Lord Llandrindon is from.” Evie reached over to gently untangle a strand of dark hair that had caught in Lillian’s earbob. “Daisy’s not going to marry him.”
“Why do you think so?” Lillian asked warily.
Evie smiled at her. “Oh…just a feeling.”
In her desire to finish the game and return to her novel, Daisy had picked up the knack of lawn-bowling rather quickly. The first player rolled the white ball, called the jack, to the end of the lane of grass without going over the edge. The object was to roll three wooden balls, called bowls, until they ended up as close as possible to the jack.
The only difficult part was that the wooden bowls were deliberately less rounded on one side, so they never quite rolled in a straight line. Daisy soon learned to compensate for the bowls’ asymmetry by casting a little to the right or left, as needed. It was a fast green with short grass and hard-packed soil, which was a good thing since Daisy was in a hurry to be done and return to Honoria and the ghost.
Since there was an equal number of women and men, the players were divided into teams of two. Daisy was paired with Llandrindon, who was a proficient player.
“You’re quite good, Miss Bowman,” Lord Llandrindon exclaimed. “Are you sure you’ve never played before?”
“Never,” Daisy replied cheerfully. Picking up a wooden sphere, she turned the flat side to the right. “It must be your able instructions, my lord.” Taking two steps forward to the edge of the delivery line, she drew back and released the bowl in a deftly spun roll. It knocked one of the opposing players’ bowls smartly out of the way and ended up exactly two inches from the jack. They had won the round.
“Well done,” said Mr. Rickett, pausing to polish his spectacles. Replacing them, he smiled at Daisy and added, “You move with such grace, Miss Bowman. It is a delight to witness your skill.”
“It has nothing to do with skill,” Daisy said modestly. “Beginner’s luck, I’m afraid.”
Lady Miranda, a slender blond girl with a porcelain complexion, was examining her delicate hands with concern. “I believe I’ve broken a fingernail,” she announced.
“Let me help you to a chair,” Rickett said in instant concern, as if she had broken an arm rather than a fingernail, and the two made their way off the green.
Daisy reflected ruefully that she should have deliberately lost the game, and then she wouldn’t have to play another round. But it was unfair to one’s teammate to lose a game on purpose. And Lord Llandrindon seemed positively delighted by their success.
“Now,” Llandrindon said, “let’s see who we are to face in the final round.”
They watched the two remaining teams compete, Mr. Swift and Miss Leighton against Mr. Mardling and Miss Higginson. Mr. Mardling was an uneven player, following brilliant shots with awkward ones, whereas Miss Higginson was far more consistent. Cassandra Leighton was hopelessly bad and highly amused by the fact, giggling and tittering uncontrollably during the entire match. It was profoundly annoying, that continuous laughter, but it didn’t seem to bother Matthew Swift.
Swift was an aggressive and tactical player, considering each shot carefully, displaying an easy economy of motion as he bowled. Daisy noticed that he showed no compunction about knocking the other players’ bowls out of the way, or moving the jack to their disadvantage.
“A formidable player,” Lord Llandrindon commented softly to Daisy, his eyes twinkling. “Do you think we can best him?”
Suddenly Daisy forgot all about the novel that awaited her inside the manor. The prospect of playing against Matthew Swift filled her with anticipation. “Doubtful. But we can give it a good try, can’t we?”
Llandrindon laughed appreciatively. “We certainly can.”
Swift and Miss Leighton won the game, and the others left the green with good-natured exclamations.
The four remaining players gathered up the bowls and the jack, and returned to the delivery line. Each team would get four bowls total, two shots for each player.
As Daisy turned to face Matthew Swift, he looked at her for the first time since she had arrived. His gaze, direct and challenging, caused her heart to thump hard in her chest, sending blood hurtling through her veins. His tousled hair fell over his forehead, and his sun-warmed complexion glowed with a subtle sheen of perspiration.
“We’ll toss a coin to see who goes first,” Lord Llandrindon suggested.
Swift nodded, his gaze dropping away from Daisy.
Cassandra Leighton squealed with delight as she and Swift won the coin toss. Skillfully Swift rolled the jack out to the head of the green in a perfect position.
Miss Leighton picked up a bowl, holding it close to her bosom in what Daisy suspected was a deliberate ploy to call attention to her generous endowments. “You must advise me, Mr. Swift,” she said, sliding him a helpless glance from beneath curly lashes. “Should I throw it with the flat side of the ball on the right or the left?”
Swift moved closer to her, repositioning the ball in her hands. Miss Leighton radiated delight at the attention he paid her. He murmured some advice, pointing out the best path for the bowl while Miss Leighton leaned closer until their heads were nearly touching. Annoyance spiraled upward from Daisy’s chest, tightening her throat muscles like a corkscrew.
Finally Swift stepped back. Miss Leighton moved forward with a few graceful steps, letting the bowl fly. But the drive was weak, and the bowl wobbled and rolled to a halt right in the middle of the grass lane. The rest of the game would be far more difficult with that bowl in the way unless someone cared to waste one of their shots to knock it aside.
“Hang it all,” Daisy muttered beneath her breath.
Miss Leighton nearly collapsed with more loud giggles. “Dear me, I’ve fouled things up awfully, haven’t I?”
“Not at all,” Swift said easily. “It’s no fun if it’s not a challenge.”
Irritably Daisy wondered why he was being so nice to Miss Leighton. She wouldn’t have thought he was the kind of man who was attracted to silly women.
“Your turn,” Lord Llandrindon urged, handing a bowl to Daisy.
She curved her fingers around the scarred wooden surface of the sphere and turned it until it felt right in her hands. Staring at the distant white shape of the jack, she envisioned the path she wanted her bowl to go in. Three steps, a back swing of her arm and a fast forward drive. The bowl shot down the side of the green, neatly avoiding Miss Leighton’s, then curving at the last second to land precisely in front of the jack.
“Brilliant!” Llandrindon exclaimed, while the onlookers cheered and applauded.
Daisy stole a quick glance at Matthew Swift. He was watching with a faint smile, subjecting her to a survey that seemed to penetrate to her bones. Time stopped as if it had been tacked down with diamond pins. It was seldom, if ever, that a man ever looked at Daisy this way.
“Did you do that on purpose?” Swift asked softly. “Or was it a stroke of luck?”
“On purpose,” Daisy replied.
“I doubt that.”
Daisy bristled. “Why?”
“Because no rank novice could plan and carry out a shot like that.”
“Are you questioning my honesty, Mr. Swift?” Without waiting for his reply, Daisy called to her sister, who was watching them from the cluster of chairs. “Lillian, to your knowledge have I ever played bowls before?”
“Certainly not,” came Lillian’s emphatic reply.
Turning back to Swift, Daisy gave him a challenging stare.
“To make that shot,” Swift said, “you would have to calculate the green speed, the required angle to offset the bowl bias, and the point of deceleration at which the bowl’s path would turn. While also taking into consideration the possibility of a cross wind. And you’d have to have the experience to pull it off.”
“Is that how you play?” Daisy asked breezily. “I just envision how I want the bowl to go, and then I roll it.”
“Luck and intuition?” He gave her a superior glance. “You can’t win a game that way.”
For answer Daisy stood back and folded her arms. “Your turn,” she said.
Swift reached down and picked up a bowl in one hand. As he adjusted his fingers around the object, he walked to the delivery line and contemplated the green. Even vexed as she was, Daisy felt a tug of pleasure inside her abdomen as she watched him. Examining the sensation, she wondered how it was that he had acquired such a mortifying physical influence on her. The sight of him, the way he moved, filled her with an embarrassing thrill of awareness.
Swift released the bowl in a strong drive. It sped obediently down the green, perfectly reproducing Daisy’s shot, though with more calculated momentum. Hitting Daisy’s bowl cleanly off the grass, it took her place right in front of the jack.
“He knocked my bowl into the ditch,” Daisy protested. “Is that legal?”
“Oh, yes,” Lord Llandrindon said. “A bit ruthless, but perfectly legal. Now it is properly referred to as a ‘dead bowl.’”
“My bowl is dead?” Daisy asked indignantly.
Swift returned her scowl with an implacable glance. “Never do an enemy a small injury.”
“Only you would quote Machiavelli during lawn bowling,” Daisy said through gritted teeth.
“Pardon,” Lord Llandrindon said politely, “but I believe it’s my turn.” Seeing that neither of them were paying attention, he shrugged and went to the delivery line. His bowl careened down the green and ended just beyond the jack.
“I always play to win,” Swift said to Daisy.
“Good God,” Daisy said in exasperation, “you sound exactly like my father. Have you ever considered the possibility that some people play just for the fun of it? As a pleasant activity to pass the time? Or must everything be brought down to life-and-death conflict?”
“If you’re not out to win, the game is pointless.”
Seeing that she had completely slipped from Swift’s notice, Cassandra Leighton sought to intervene. “I fancy it’s my shot now, Mr. Swift. Would you please be so kind as to retrieve a bowl for me?”
Swift complied with barely a glance at her, his attention riveted on Daisy’s small, tense face. “Here,” he said brusquely, thrusting the bowl into Miss Leighton’s hands.
“Perhaps you could advise me…” Miss Leighton began, but her voice faded as Swift and Daisy continued to bicker.
“All right, Mr. Swift,” Daisy said coolly. “If you can’t enjoy a simple game of bowls without making it into a war, you’ll have a war. We’ll play for points.” She wasn’t quite certain if she had moved forward or if he had, but suddenly they were standing very close, his head bent over hers.
“You can’t beat me,” Swift said in a low voice. “You’re a novice, and a woman besides. It wouldn’t be fair unless I was assigned a handicap.”
“Your teammate is Miss Leighton,” she whispered sharply. “In my opinion, that’s enough of a handicap. And are you implying that women can’t bowl as well as men?”
“No. I’m saying straight out they can’t.”
Daisy felt a rush of outrage, augmented by a fiery desire to pound him into the ground. “War,” she repeated, stalking back to her side of the green.
Years later it would still be called the most bloodthirsty game of lawn bowling ever witnessed in Stony Cross. The game was extended to thirty points, and then fifty, and then Daisy lost count. They fought over every inch of ground and every rule of play. They mulled over each shot as if fates of nations depended on it. And most of all they devoted themselves to knocking each other’s bowls into the ditch.
“Dead bowl!” Daisy crowed after executing a perfect shot that sent Swift’s tumbling off the green.
“Perhaps you should be reminded, Miss Bowman,” Swift said, “the object of the game is not to keep me off the field. You’re supposed to land your bowl as close as possible to the jack.”
“That’s not bloody likely when you keep whacking them out of the way!” Daisy heard Miss Leighton gasp at her language. This really wasn’t like her—she never swore—it was just that current circumstances made it impossible to keep a cool head.
“I’ll stop whacking your bowls,” Swift offered, “if you’ll stop whacking mine.”
Daisy considered the proposition for a half-second. But the unfortunate fact was, it was much, much too enjoyable to send his bowls into the ditch. “Not for all the hemp in China, Mr. Swift.”
“Very well.” Picking up a battered bowl, Swift rolled it in a mighty drive, which made such violent contact with her bowl that an earsplitting crack shot through the air.
Daisy’s mouth fell open as she saw the separate halves of her bowl wobbling into the ditch. “You broke it!” she exclaimed, rounding on him with clenched fists. “And you bowled out of turn! Miss Leighton was supposed to go next, you ruthless fiend!”
“Oh no,” Miss Leighton said uneasily, “I am perfectly content to let Mr. Swift bowl in my stead…his skill being so much greater than…” Her voice faded as she realized no one was listening to her.
“Your turn,” Swift said to Lord Llandrindon, who looked taken aback by the game’s new level of ferocity.
“Oh, no it isn’t!” Daisy plucked the ball from Llandrindon’s hands. “He’s too much of a gentleman to whack your bowl. But I’m not.”
“No,” Swift agreed, “you are definitely not a gentleman.”
Striding to the delivery line, Daisy drew back and released the bowl with all her might. It sped down the green and knocked Swift’s bowl to the edge of the green, where it teetered uncertainly before plonking into the ditch. She shot Swift a vengeful glance, and he responded with a mocking congratulatory nod.
“I say,” Llandrindon remarked, “your performance at bowls is exceptional, Miss Bowman. I’ve never seen a beginner do so well. How do you manage to deliver it perfectly every time?”
“Where the willingness is great, the difficulties cannot be,” she replied, and saw the line of Swift’s cheek tighten with a sudden grin as he recognized the Machiavelli quote.
The game went on. And on. Afternoon ripened into early evening. Daisy gradually became aware that they had lost Lord Llandrindon, Miss Leighton and most of the onlookers. It was clear that Lord Westcliff would have liked to go inside as well, but Daisy and Swift kept summoning him to arbitrate or to take a measurement as his judgement was the only one they both trusted.
An hour passed, and another, the game too absorbing for either player to give a thought to hunger, thirst, or weariness. At some point, Daisy wasn’t exactly certain when, their competitiveness changed to grudging appreciation of each other’s skill. When Swift complimented her on a particularly masterful shot or when she found herself enjoying the sight of his silent calculations, the way his eyes narrowed and his head tilted a little to the side…she was enthralled. There had been few occasions when Daisy’s real life had been infinitely more entertaining than her fantasy life. But this was one of them.
“Children.” Westcliff’s sardonic voice caused them both to look at him blankly. He was standing from his chair and stretching underused muscles. “I’m afraid this has gone on long enough for me. You are welcome to continue playing, but I beg to take leave.”
“But who will arbitrate?” Daisy protested.
“Since no one has been keeping score for at least a half hour,” the earl said dryly, “there is no further need for my judgement.”
“Yes we have,” Daisy argued, and turned to Swift. “What is the score?”
“I don’t know.”
As their gazes held, Daisy could hardly restrain a snicker of sudden embarrassment.
Amusement glittered in Swift’s eyes. “I think you won,” he said.
“Oh, don’t condescend to me,” Daisy said. “You’re ahead. I can take a loss. It’s part of the game.”
“I’m not being condescending. It’s been point-for-point for at least…” Swift fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a watch. “…two hours.”
“Which means that in all likelihood you preserved your early lead.”
“But you chipped away at it after the third round—”
“Oh, hell’s bells!” came Lillian’s voice from the sidelines. She sounded thoroughly aggravated, having gone into the manor for a nap and come out to find them still at the bowling green. “You’ve quarreled all afternoon like a pair of ferrets, and now you’re fighting over who won. If someone doesn’t put a stop to it, you’ll be squabbling out here ’til midnight. Daisy, you’re covered with dust and your hair is a bird’s nest. Come inside and put yourself to rights. Now.”
“There’s no need to shout,” Daisy replied mildly, following her sister’s retreating figure. She glanced over her shoulder at Matthew Swift…a friendlier glance than she had ever given him before, then turned and quickened her pace.
Swift began to pick up the wooden bowls.
“Leave them,” Westcliff said. “The servants will put things in order. Your time is better spent preparing yourself for supper, which will commence in approximately one hour.”
Obligingly Matthew dropped the bowls and went toward the house with Westcliff. He watched Daisy’s small, sylphlike form until she disappeared from sight.
Westcliff did not miss Matthew’s fascinated gaze. “You have a unique approach to courtship,” he commented. “I wouldn’t have thought beating Daisy at lawn games would catch her interest, but it seems to have done the trick.”
Matthew contemplated the ground before his feet, schooling his tone into calm unconcern. “I’m not courting Miss Bowman.”
“Then it seems I misinterpreted your apparent passion for bowls.”
Matthew shot him a defensive glance. “I’ll admit, I find her entertaining. But that doesn’t mean I want to marry her.”
“The Bowman sisters are rather dangerous that way. When one of them first attracts your interest, all you know is she’s the most provoking creature you’ve ever encountered. But then you discover that as maddening as she is, you can scarcely wait until the next time you see her. Like the progression of an incurable disease, it spreads from one organ to the next. The craving begins. All other women begin to seem colorless and dull in comparison. You want her until you think you’ll go mad from it. You can’t stop thinking—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Matthew interrupted, turning pale. He was not about to succumb to an incurable disease. A man had choices in life. And no matter what Westcliff believed, this was nothing more than a physical urge. An unholy powerful, gut-wrenching, insanity-producing physical urge…but it could be conquered by sheer force of will.
“If you say so,” Westcliff said, sounding unconvinced.