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.”