s reclining on the long sofa as Westcliff spooned lemon sorbet into her mouth. Lillian closed her eyes as she swallowed, her dark lashes striking a pale contrast to her

week to hunt deer." Westcliff tried to remember the names Thomas Bowman had asked him to include on the guest list for the spring hunt. "The American?" he asked. "Mr. Swift?" "Yes." Confused, Lillian looked at her sister. Then she turned away and squealed into her husband's shoulder. At first Daisy feared she was crying, but it soon became clear that she was laughing uncontrollably. "No, that's not possible... How absurd! You could never..." "You wouldn't find it so funny if you were in my shoes," Daisy said grimly. Westcliff looked from one sister to the other. "What's wrong with Mr. Swift? From what your father says, he seems like a very respectable man." "He's got everything wrong with him," Lillian said, laughing again. "But your father likes him," Westcliff said. "Oh!" Lillian scoffed. "Mr. Swift fawns over my father, trying to imitate him and doing everything he says." The earl considered his wife's words as he brought more lemon sherbet to her lips. She moaned with pleasure as the cold liquid ran down her throat. "Is your father wrong in saying that Mr. Swift is clever?" Westcliff asked Daisy. "He is clever," Daisy admitted, "but he is a complicated fellow. Mr. Swift asks a thousand questions and takes in what is said, but says nothing." "Perhaps he is shy," Westcliff observed. Daisy could not help laughing. "I assure you, my lord, that Mr. Swift is not shy. He is..." She stopped, finding it difficult to put her thoughts into words. Matthew Swift's great coldness was accompanied by an unbearable air of superiority. No one could ever tell him anything, because he knew absolutely everything. Having grown up in a family full of uncompromising personalities, Daisy had no interest in having another rigid person in her life. It didn't do her any favors that Swift was such a good fit for the Bowmans. Perhaps Swift might have been more tolerable if he had some charm or appeal. But he had been blessed with none. No sense of humor, no discernible amiability. He was awkward, tall, out of proportion, and so thin that his arms and legs looked like vine branches. Daisy remembered the way Matthew's coat seemed to hang off his broad shoulders as if there were nothing inside. "Instead of telling