Scandal in Spring (11 page)

"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.

Chapter 6

Staring in the looking glass poised atop
the cherrywood dresser, Matthew carefully knotted his formal starched white evening cravat with deft twists and pulls. He was hungry, but the thought of going down to the long formal supper in the dining hall filled him with unease. He felt as if he were walking on a narrow plank suspended high in the air, and a misstep would send him hurtling to his doom.

He should never have allowed himself to accept Daisy's challenge, should never have stayed and played that bloody game for hours.

It was just that Daisy had been so adorable, and while they played her attention had been focused entirely on him, and that had been too much temptation to withstand. She was the most provoking, beguiling woman he had ever met. Thunderstorms and rainbows wrapped together in a convenient pocket-sized parcel.

Bloody hell, how he wanted to bed her. Matthew was amazed Llandrindon or any other man there had been able to function rationally in her presence.

It was time to take control of the situation. He was going to do whatever was necessary to shove her together with Llandrindon. Compared to the other bachelors present, the Scottish lord was the pick of the lot. Llandrindon and Daisy would have a calm, well-ordered life, and although Llandrindon might stray occasionally, as most men of leisure did, Daisy would be too busy with her family and her books to notice. Or if she did, she would learn to turn a blind eye to his indiscretions and take refuge in her daydreams.

And Llandrindon would never appreciate the unimaginable gift of having Daisy in his life.

Moodily Matthew went downstairs and joined the elegant throng that had gathered in anticipation of the dining hall procession. The women were dressed in colorful gowns that had been embroidered and beaded and trimmed with lace. The men were clad in sober black and brilliant white, the plainness of their attire meant to serve as a suitable backdrop for the display of the women.

"Swift," came Thomas Bowman's hearty welcome. "Come here— I want you to quote the latest production estimates to these fellows." In Bowman's view there was never an inappropriate time to discuss business. Obediently Matthew joined the group of a half-dozen men who stood in the corner, and recited the numbers his employer wanted.

One of Matthew's more convenient skills was the ability to store long lists of figures in his head. He loved numbers, their patterns and secrets, the way something complex could be reduced to something simple. In mathematics, unlike life, there was always a solution, a definite answer.