“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.”