Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(24)

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.