Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(26)

“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.