Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(27)

“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.