Scandal in Spring by Lisa Kleypas Page A

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,