“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.
Swift began to pick up the wooden bowls.
“Leave them,” Westcliff said. “The servants will put things in order. Your time is better spent preparing yourself for supper, which will commence in approximately one hour.”
Obligingly Matthew dropped the bowls and went toward the house with Westcliff. He watched Daisy’s small, sylphlike form until she disappeared from sight.
Westcliff did not miss Matthew’s fascinated gaze. “You have a unique approach to courtship,” he commented. “I wouldn’t have thought beating Daisy at lawn games would catch her interest, but it seems to have done the trick.”
Matthew contemplated the ground before his feet, schooling his tone into calm unconcern. “I’m not courting Miss Bowman.”
“Then it seems I misinterpreted your apparent passion for bowls.”
Matthew shot him a defensive glance. “I’ll admit, I find her entertaining. But that doesn’t mean I want to marry her.”
“The Bowman sisters are rather dangerous that way. When one of them first attracts your interest, all you know is she’s the most provoking creature you’ve ever encountered. But then you discover that as maddening as she is, you can scarcely wait until the next time you see her. Like the progression of an incurable disease, it spreads from one organ to the next. The craving begins. All other women begin to seem colorless and dull in comparison. You want her until you think you’ll go mad from it. You can’t stop thinking—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Matthew interrupted, turning pale. He was not about to succumb to an incurable disease. A man had choices in life. And no matter what Westcliff believed, this was nothing more than a physical urge. An unholy powerful, gut-wrenching, insanity-producing physical urge…but it could be conquered by sheer force of will.
“If you say so,” Westcliff said, sounding unconvinced.
Chapter 6
Staring in the looking glass poised atop the cherrywood dresser, Matthew carefully knotted his formal starched white evening cravat with deft twists and pulls. He was hungry, but the thought of going down to the long formal supper in the dining hall filled him with unease. He felt as if he were walking on a narrow plank suspended high in the air, and a misstep would send him hurtling to his doom.
He should never have allowed himself to accept Daisy’s challenge, should never have stayed and played that bloody game for hours.
It was just that Daisy had been so adorable, and while they played her attention had been focused entirely on him, and that had been too much temptation to withstand. She was the most provoking, beguiling woman he had ever met. Thunderstorms and rainbows wrapped together in a convenient pocket-sized parcel.
Bloody hell, how he wanted to bed her. Matthew was amazed Llandrindon or any other man there had been able to function rationally in her presence.
It was time to take control of the situation. He was going to do whatever was necessary to shove her together with Llandrindon. Compared to the other bachelors present, the Scottish lord was the pick of the lot. Llandrindon and
Daisy would have a calm, well-ordered life, and although Llandrindon might stray occasionally, as most men of leisure did, Daisy would be too busy with her family and her books to notice. Or if she did, she would learn to turn a blind eye to his indiscretions and take refuge in her daydreams.
And Llandrindon would never appreciate the unimaginable gift of having Daisy in his life.
Moodily Matthew went downstairs and joined the elegant throng that had gathered in anticipation of the dining hall procession. The women were dressed in colorful gowns that had been embroidered and beaded and trimmed with lace. The men were clad in sober black and brilliant white, the plainness of their attire meant to serve as a suitable backdrop for the display of the women.
“Swift,” came Thomas Bowman’s hearty welcome. “Come here—I want you to quote the latest production estimates to these fellows.” In Bowman’s view there was never an inappropriate time to discuss business. Obediently Matthew joined the group of a half-dozen men who stood in the corner, and recited the numbers his employer wanted.
One of Matthew’s more convenient skills was the ability to store long lists of figures in his head. He loved numbers, their patterns and secrets, the way something complex could be reduced to something simple. In mathematics, unlike life, there was always a solution, a definite answer.
But as Matthew was speaking he caught sight of Daisy and her friends standing with Lillian, and half his brain promptly shut down.
Daisy was wearing a butter-yellow gown that wrapped tightly around her slender waist and pushed the small, pretty shapes of her breasts upward into a low-cut bodice of gleaming, ruched satin. Yellow satin ribbons had been braided into artful ropes that held the bodice in place. Her black hair had been pulled to the top of her head with a few spiraling curls falling to her neck and shoulders. She looked delicate and perfect, like one of the artful sugared garnishes on the dessert tray that one was never supposed to eat.
Matthew wanted to tug her bodice down until her arms were confined by those satin ropes. He wanted to drag his mouth across her tender pale skin, finding the tips of her breasts, making her writhe—
“But do you really think,” came Mr. Mardling’s voice, “there is any room for the market to expand? After all, we are discussing the lower classes. No matter what their nationality, it is a known fact that they do not prefer to bathe often.”
Matthew dragged his attention to the tall, well-groomed gentleman, whose blond hair shone brightly beneath the light of the chandeliers. Before he replied, he reminded himself that there was probably no malice intended behind the question. Those of the privileged classes often had genuine misconceptions about the poor, if they bothered to consider them at all.
“Actually,” Matthew said mildly, “the available figures indicate that as soon as soap is mass-produced at an affordable price, the market will increase approximately ten percent a year. People of all classes want to be clean, Mr. Mardling. The problem is that good quality soap has always been a luxury item and therefore difficult to obtain.”
“Mass production,” Mardling mulled aloud, his lean face furrowed with thought. “There is something objectionable about the phrase…it seems to be a way of enabling the lower classes to imitate their betters.”
Matthew glanced at the circle of men, noting that the top of Bowman’s head was turning red—never a good sign—and that Westcliff was holding his silence, his black eyes unreadable.
“That’s exactly what it is, Mr. Mardling,” Matthew said gravely. “Mass production of items such as clothing and soap will give the poor a chance to live with the same standards of health and dignity as the rest of us.”
“But how will one sort out who is who?” Mardling protested.
Matthew shot him a questioning glance. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Llandrindon joined in the discussion. “I believe what Mardling is asking,” he said, “is how one will be able to tell the difference between a shopgirl and a well-to-do woman if they are both clean and similarly dressed. And if a gentleman is not able to tell what they are by their appearance, how is he to know how to treat them?”
Stunned by the snobbery of the question, Matthew considered his reply carefully. “I’ve always thought all women should be treated with respect no matter what their station.”
“Well said,” Westcliff said gruffly, as Llandrindon opened his mouth to argue.
No one wished to contradict the earl, but Mardling pressed, “Westcliff, do you see nothing harmful in encouraging the poor to rise above their stations? In allowing them to pretend there is no difference between them and ourselves?”
“The only harm I see,” Westcliff said quietly, “is in discouraging people who want to better themselves, out of fear that we will lose our perceived superiority.”
The statement caused Matthew to like the earl even more than he had previously.
Preoccupied with the question of the hypothetical shopgirl, Llandrindon spoke to Mr. Mardling. “Never fear, Mardling—no matter how a woman is attired, a gentleman can always detect the clues that betray her true status. A lady always has a soft, well-modulated voice, whereas a shopgirl speaks with a strident tone and a vulgar accent.”
“Of course,” Mardling said with relief. He affected a slight shiver as he added, “A shopgirl dressed in finery, speaking in cockney…it’s like fingernails on slate.”
“Yes,” Llandrindon said with a laugh. “Or like seeing a common daisy stuck in a bouquet of roses.”
The comment was unthinking, of course. There was a sudden silence as Llandrindon realized he had just inadvertently insulted Bowman’s daughter, or rather the name of his daughter.
“A versatile flower, the daisy,” Matthew commented, breaking the silence. “Lovely in its freshness and simplicity. I’ve always thought it went well in any kind of arrangment.”
The entire group rumbled in immediate agreement—“Indeed,” and “Quite so”.
Lord Westcliff gave Matthew an approving glance.
A short time later, whether by previous planning or a last-minute shuffling of places, Matthew discovered he had been seated at Westcliff’s left at the main dining table. There was patent surprise on the faces of many guests as they registered that a place of honor had been given to a young man of undistinguished position.
Covering up his own surprise, Matthew saw that Thomas Bowman was beaming at him with fatherly pride…and Lillian was giving her husband a discreet glare that would have struck terror in the hearts of lesser men.
After an uneventful supper the guests dispersed in various groups. Some men desired port and cigars on the back terrace, some women wanted tea, while others headed to the parlor for games and conversation.
As Matthew went toward the terrace, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked down into Cassandra Leighton’s mischievous eyes. She was a high-spirited creature whose primary skill seemed to be the ability to draw attention to herself.
“Mr. Swift,” she said, “I insist that you join us in the parlor. I will not allow you to refuse. Lady Miranda and I have planned some games that I think you will find quite entertaining.” She lowered one eyelid in a sly wink. “We’ve been scheming, you see.”
“Scheming,” Matthew repeated warily.
“Oh yes.” She giggled. “We’ve decided to be a bit wicked this evening.”
Matthew had never liked parlor games, which required a personal frivolity he had never been able to muster. Moreover it was generally known that in the permissive atmosphere of British society, the forfeits of these games often consisted of tricks and potentially scandalous behavior. Matthew had an innate and very sensible aversion to scandal. And if he was ever entangled in one, it would have to be for a very good reason. Not as the result of some imbecilic parlor game.
Before he replied, however, Matthew noticed something on the periphery of his vision…a flash of yellow. It was Daisy, her hand lightly resting on Lord Llandrindon’s arm as they proceeded to the hallway that led to the parlor.
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The logical part of Matthew’s brain pointed out that if Daisy was going to indulge in scandalous behavior with Llandrindon, it was her own affair. But a deeper, more primitive part of his mind reacted with a possessiveness that caused his feet to start moving.
“Oh, lovely,” Cassandra Leighton trilled, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. “We’ll have such fun.”
This was a new and unwelcome discovery, that a primal urge could abruptly seize control of the rest of Matthew’s body. Frowning, he went along with Miss Leighton, while she spouted a stream of nonsense.
A group of young men and women had assembled in the parlor, laughing and chattering. Anticipation was thick in the air. And there was a sense of roguery, as if a few of the participants had been warned they were about to take part in something naughty.
Matthew stood near the threshold, his gaze instantly finding Daisy. She was seated near the hearth with Llandrindon half-leaning on the arm of her chair.
“The first game,” Lady Miranda said with a grin, “will be a round of ‘Animals.’” She waited for a ripple of chuckles to die down before continuing. “For those of you unfamiliar with the rules, they are quite simple. Each lady will select a male partner for herself, and each gentleman will be assigned a particular animal to imitate—dog, pig, donkey and so forth. The ladies will be sent from the room and blindfolded, and when they return, they will attempt to locate their partners. The gentlemen will assist the ladies by making the correct animal sound. The last lady to find her partner will have to pay a forfeit.”
Matthew groaned inwardly. He hated games that served no purpose other than to make fools out of the participants. As a man who did not enjoy being embarrassed, voluntarily or otherwise, this was the kind of situation he would have done anything to avoid.
Glancing at Daisy, he saw that she was not giggling as the other women were. Instead she looked resolute. This was her attempt to be one of the crowd, to behave like the empty-headed women around her. Bloody hell. No wonder she had been a wallflower, if this was what was expected of marriage-minded young women.