CHAPTER 5
Daisy
Edward’s face is a portrait of a man staring down a crime against decency. To be fair, he kind of is. Spencer’s oral skills are a fucking war crime.
The worst part? Spencer’s blissfully unaware we have company. He’s chugging away at my right labia like it’s a bloody resuscitation dummy.
I can’t move. Can’t even string together a coherent thought that isn’t just static.
The room fills with the grotesque soundtrack of Spencer’s relentless slurping.
And me. Squeaking.
What the fuck is Edward Cavendish doing here?
His glacier-blue eyes pin me in place. His dark brows furrow over that chiseled face, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles ripple under the shadow of stubble, like he’s one second from shattering his own teeth.
In agonizing slow motion, his suit jacket slides from his fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
The expression on his face? Oh, it’s a masterpiece.
Outrage. Confusion.
Pure, unfiltered revulsion.
Then—
Oh.
His gaze flicks downward.
To where Spencer is suctioned to me.
For one hot, messy second, something flickers in those icy blue eyes. Heat.
His chest heaves under that crisp white shirt, Adam’s apple bobbing like he’s choking down something feral and downright filthy.
Then—bam—it’s gone. His eyes wrench away from me like I’m a skid mark he can’t bear to look at, darting to the row of leather-bound books across the room.
“Spencer,” I hiss, shoving his head away with enough force to qualify as assault.
Spencer yelps, tumbling off the bed in an undignified heap.
I scramble upright, lunging for the duvet, but the king-sized monstrosity refuses to cooperate, stubbornly tangling around my legs.
“Give me your doctor coat,” I snap at Spencer, who is blinking up at me from the floor, dazed, possibly concussed.
Oh god, oh fuck, it’s Edward bloody Cavendish—the most terrifying man I’ve ever met—standing in the doorway, witnessing this .
“What the hell are you doing here?” I screech.
Edward’s face is a slab of granite. “Me? I should be asking you that.”
I huff, yanking the fabric higher up my chest. “Don’t you know it’s rude to barge into people’s bedrooms like some kind of pervert?”
He tugs at his tie, grimacing like he’s swallowing razor blades, the motion pulling his shirt tight across those sculpted shoulders. “ I’m the pervert in this scenario?”
There’s too much happening here.
Too fucking much. I’m in hell, and it’s got mahogany furniture.
Spencer, the useless sack of limbs, hauls himself off the floor. He turns to face our uninvited guest, his face glistening with the evidence of his doomed muff-diving mission, and lobs a bombshell so massive my soul tries to eject itself through my tits.
“Shit, I’m so sorry, Uncle Edward.”
. . . Wait.
Wait.
I freeze mid-duvet-wrestle. My eyes ping-pong between them in horror.
“UNCLE?” Surely, I’ve misheard. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
Edward’s icy stare shifts between us, taking in every humiliating detail.
Normally, I can barely manage a coherent sentence around this man, even when I’m dressed and not flashing my bits. But this? This is beyond redemption.
Spencer, the moron, just stands there, his dick swinging under that ridiculous oversized doctor coat, while I flail against the duvet, desperately trying to twist it into something resembling a toga.
Edward clears his throat—not a subtle “excuse me” kind of sound.
No. This is the sound of a man trying to dislodge an entire chunk of disgust from his windpipe.
He bends down, pinches my discarded dress between his thumb and forefinger, and holds it up like a used condom some degenerate left on his pristine floor. “I assume this is what you’re looking for?”
I lunge forward—or as far as this duvet cocoon will let me—and snatch the dress from him.
His signet ring glints in the bedroom light, that family crest practically smirking at me, as if it knows I’m a complete disgrace.
“Sorry, Uncle E,” Spencer mumbles, his smooth-talking Casanova vibe collapsing into a pathetic, whimpering mess.
“Why the fuck is your uncle here?” I shriek, wrestling with the duvet to keep it in place while simultaneously trying to squirm into my dress—a logistical nightmare. “And since when is he your uncle? How does that even work?” I thrust an accusing finger at Edward.
Edward cuts in before Spencer can muster a reply, his tone suggesting he is actively restraining himself from committing murder. “Which question would you like me to tackle first? Why I’m in my own house?”
My stomach doesn’t just sink—it plummets through the floor, tumbling three stories down, blasting through the earth’s core, and landing somewhere in the middle of the Australian outback.
Edward fucking Cavendish’s house.
“One might also inquire,” Edward continues, every syllable dripping with disdain, “why my nephew is playing dress-up doctor in my bedroom—wearing my work coat.” He pauses, letting the ridiculousness of it all settle in the air. “But maybe I’m just old-fashioned about these things.”
Spencer looks like he’s praying the floor will swallow him whole. “I’m . . . really sorry,” he mumbles.
Edward’s fucking bedroom.
The bed where I just—oh my god.
I yank my dress over my head with the kind of frantic determination that would make a firefighter proud. Somewhere, a seam rips, and the whole thing is absolutely on backward—the tag is scraping my chest— but I couldn’t care less. I’d wear it inside out, ass-up, and tied in knots if it meant putting even an inch more distance between me and Edward’s icy glare.
“You said you lived here with your brother,” I hiss at Spencer through clenched teeth. “You lying little shit.”
He opens his mouth, but all that escapes is a pitiful wheeze.
“Not exactly. My nephew is staying here while he waits for student housing,” Edward answers for him.
“Student . . .” The word barely makes it out before choking on itself.
Spencer turns to Edward. “Please don’t tell Mum.”
Mum?
I blink. Hard. “How old is this man-child? Someone better start explaining.”
“He’s Cressida’s son—Millie’s sister,” Edward states coolly. Millie, his wife that passed away—her nephew. Shit. “My twenty-year-old nephew. And godson. I assume you didn’t waste time on trivial details like age before you decided to defile my bedroom.”
A horrified squeak slips out of me despite the hand I slap over my mouth. “Twenty?”
I’m a cougar.
“Indeed.” Edward skewers Spencer with a look.
“He said he was twenty-nine! A gastroenterologist at Waterloo East!”
Edward exhales sharply, like it physically pains him to be a part of this conversation. “He’s an aspiring gastroenterologist. Currently an undergrad at King’s College, working toward his medical degree.”
He shifts his attention to Spencer, voice dropping to a lethal calm. “Take off my coat and glasses. And put some damn clothes on. Now. ”
It hits me—the glasses, the coat, all just pilfered props in Spencer’s pathetic doctor dress-up game.
“You asshole,” I hiss at him, my eyes narrowing into slits.
He scrambles to follow Edward’s orders, tearing off the coat in a frantic rush and fumbling for his jeans, his naked dick flopping around and somehow making this trainwreck even worse.
“You stole your uncle’s identity just to get laid?”
“Uncle Edward’s a senior gastrosurgeon, not a gastroenterologist,” Spencer mutters, as if this tiny correction might somehow redeem him.
“Oh, thanks for clearing that up,” I fire back.
There’s no fixing this. What am I even supposed to say? Oopsie, our bad, just popped in for a quick oral pick-me-up on your Egyptian cotton sheets ?
I mean, really.
“Look,” I start, scraping together what little dignity I’ve got left, “there’s clearly been a massive cock-up here—pardon the pun—and if I’d known this was your house, I’d never have—”
“What?” Edward cuts in. “You wouldn’t have engaged in activities with my nephew in my bed?” His glacier-blue eyes flash. “How terribly considerate of you.”
Heat roars up my face so fierce I’m half convinced I’ll spontaneously combust right here on his hardwood floors and leave a Daisy-shaped scorch mark.
I’m no stranger to his disdain—it’s our factory setting—but this is Edward angry .
And it’s a whole new level of terrifying.
I grab my shoes and bag, painfully aware of his towering presence blocking my only escape route.
“I’ll walk you out,” Spencer mumbles, fumbling with his jeans.
Next to Edward, he looks exactly like what he is: a dumb kid playing pretend in his uncle’s clothes, all his earlier swagger gone the second Edward walked in.
“You will not,” I snap, jabbing a finger at him. “I should call the fucking police on you. Impersonating a doctor? That has to be illegal. Or at the very least, wildly unethical.”
Spencer’s eyes balloon with panic. “I’m sorry, okay? You’re just so beautiful, and I thought you wouldn’t be interested if I—”
“As riveting as this love story is,” Edward cuts in, his deep, clipped voice slicing through the room. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow—some of us have actual patients to attend to.”
He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose like he physically cannot believe he is dealing with this. “I’ll call Daisy a cab.”
“No need,” I mutter, barely able to look at him. “I’ll handle it. Sorry for . . . everything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find a quiet corner to die of shame.” I thought sobbing over a bidet was my low point. Turns out that was just the opening act.
And then I see my knickers.
Dangling from the fucking bedpost like a flag of defeat.
Union Jack knickers, no less.
Lizzie’s idea of a joke gift. Of all the days to be patriotic.
I snatch them down and shove them into my bag, pretending not to notice Edward’s slow blink as he registers this fresh layer of humiliation. He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair, looking like a man desperately trying to erase the last ten minutes from his brain.
“Would you like to . . . freshen up before you go?” he asks, his tone polite but strained.
“I’m fine.” I tug at my dress with whatever pride I can muster—which isn’t much, considering I’m panty-free and my self-respect’s halfway to Australia.
Chin high, I march past him, willing my legs to move down his marble spiral staircase.
Spencer’s voice floats down from the top of the stairs. “The convict brother thing was a joke, right?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. Though I do consider turning around and showing him exactly what GBH looks like.
Before I can make the most undignified exit of my life, Edward appears behind me.
“I’ve called you a cab.”
I press my lips into a tight line. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it.”
“It’s already on its way. You’re not leaving until I see you safely in it.”
God, that fucking tone.
It drags me straight back to a memory I’ve tried to bury.
Years ago, Edward picked Charlie and me up from some party where I’d made the brilliant choice to mix cheap prosecco with top-shelf gin—trust me, don’t. I was a giggling, sloppy mess, sprawled across Charlie’s lap in the back of Edward’s spotless Land Rover.
“Remove yourself from my brother’s lap,” he’d said, each word laced with cold disapproval.
Even now, years later, every encounter with Edward feels like I’m back in that car, shrinking under his judgment.
But not this time.
This time, I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and adopt a breezy, unbothered tone. “I’m sure you’ve seen worse things in the operating theater. No need to look so scandalized.”
“Seriously?” His voice drips with incredulity. “You never cease to amaze me with what comes out of your mouth. I handle intricate surgeries weekly, but somehow this ridiculous scene tops the list of things I’d rather unsee.”
Rude.
I huff, turning to grab my coat, which has somehow gotten tangled in his fancy coat rack.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say indignantly, tugging harder. “He’s the one who catfished me.”
Shut up, Daisy. Just focus on yanking your cheap coat out of this cashmere nightmare and get out of here.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” I grumble as it snags again, this time dragging half the coat rack down with a clatter. Perfect. Not only am I a cradle-robbing deviant, I’m also a furniture vandal.
“Allow me,” Edward says, stepping in before I can stop him. His broad chest brushes my back as he leans over to untangle the mess, and I go still. I’m trying—really trying—not to notice how good he smells, or how solid his chest feels pressed against my shoulders.
He stiffens too, like being this close to me triggers some full-body recoil.
With a heavy, pained sigh, he finally frees my coat and hands it over. “I never said you did anything wrong,” he says, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. “I’ll deal with my nephew.”
There’s a beat of silence, thick with that familiar judgment I’ve come to expect from him. “Maybe this can be a lesson for your next dating adventure.”
Oh, no, he did not.
I hug my coat to my chest, bristling. “What, so now I’m supposed to assume every guy I meet is a liar? Or is that advice reserved just for the posh ones with fancy postcodes?”
“At the very least, you might consider vetting your dates a bit more thoroughly—and maybe double-checking whose bedroom you’re stumbling into. Just a thought.”
I open my mouth, fully prepared to launch a scathing rebuttal, but he beats me to it.
“I’m serious, Daisy. You need to consider your personal safety more carefully.”
“I did take precautions,” I argue, even though I already know how pathetic I sound. “I got his ID and sent it to my friend.”
Edward arches a disbelieving brow. “That’s hardly sufficient. And clearly, you didn’t even glance at his birth year.”
“I didn’t think—”
“ Precisely the problem ,” he cuts in, his voice crisp with disapproval.
Defiance flares in my chest.
Who does this man think he is, lecturing me like I’m some naughty schoolgirl?
I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman who, yes, has a knack for poor judgment when it comes to men—but that’s beside the point.
“Whatever you say, Daddy ,” I snap, letting the sarcasm ooze out.
His forehead vein pulses. Oh. He hates that.
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” he grits out.
“Do you ever not?” I shoot back.
The way he looks at me suggests the answer is never.
“I’ve had women near death on my operating table because they trusted the wrong man. So forgive me if I don’t find your cavalier approach to safety amusing.”
The intensity in his voice makes my skin prickle. Damn him for using that commanding surgeon tone.
And double damn him for being right.
“Message received,” I mutter. “I’m officially scolded.”
“Are you?” His tone says he remains unconvinced.
I narrow my eyes. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“Oh, I do. You think I’m some desperate ho-bag who throws herself at anything with a pulse and a Cavendish surname.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “A . . . ho-bag ? I said nothing of the sort. It’s certainly not in my vocabulary. Or, for that matter, the Oxford English Dictionary.”
“It doesn’t need to be,” I huff. “Your face says it. Your nostrils. Your eyebrows. Your jaw . . .” I gesture vaguely at his entire head. “They’re very judgmental features. They’re all judging me. Every single one of them.”
“Don’t be absurd. One cannot read judgement from . . . nostrils.”
“Oh, I can read yours loud and clear. They’re blaring ‘Daisy, you’re an idiot.’”
He lets out a measured breath. “This conversation is bordering on idiocy. But no, Daisy, I do not think you’re an idiot. Impulsive? Yes. Reckless? Certainly. Questionable judgment on background checks? Without a doubt. But not an idiot.”
“Wow, thanks for the glowing psychological evaluation, Dr. Cavendish.”
He sighs again, clearly exasperated by my antics.
“What?” I huff. “If you’re going to judge me, at least do it out loud. Your nostrils are working overtime.”
His jaw tightens. “My nephew.”
“Yes, Edward, your nephew,” I bite back, my defensiveness kicking into overdrive. “Is there a point buried in there, or are we just playing a game where you randomly shout out family members? Yes , I went on a few dates with your nephew. The same nephew I didn’t realize was your nephew until it was too late. What’s your point?”
“He’s young.”
My chest clenches tight, that old, familiar sting of letting someone down slicing through me.
I throw my hands up. “Oh, for god’s sake, stop acting like I kidnapped him from daycare. We’re both in our twenties! You’re the one who’s practically prehistoric.”
“I’m thirty-nine.”
“Exactly. One foot in the grave.”
His nostrils flare, which is deeply satisfying.
I smirk, just to get under his skin. “Besides, your nephew can actually be quite charming. You know, when he’s impersonating you. Not that you’re charming. But he’s fun. He took me to jazz in Soho and an adorable wine bar near here.”
“Students have time for such frivolities. When they’re not busy committing identity fraud.”
“Oh, excuse me—would you rather he showed me a good time by inviting me to observe colonoscopies?”
“I’d prefer,” he bites out, “that he didn’t take you anywhere while impersonating me.” His jaw tightens further. “And unless you’re planning to wait a few years for Spencer to finish med school, I don’t see colonoscopy observations in your immediate future.”
Apparently, my superpower is finding fresh, inventive ways to disappoint Edward Cavendish.
“Let’s just pretend this never happened,” I say, trying to sound like the kind of person who has control over this situation. It’s hard to project authority when he’s standing there in a perfectly tailored suit, looking like a damn Ralph Lauren ad, while I’m wearing a backward bodycon dress. “This is one of those moments where you never want to see the other person again. Ever. ”
Edward’s lips twitch. Not into a smile. “Unfortunately for you, that won’t be possible.”
Right. Sophia’s bridal party.
Like I needed the reminder.
We’re both in it, which means I’ll be seeing him repeatedly. Engagement party. Rehearsal dinner. The wedding itself.
How am I going to survive this?
“Your car’s here.” His sharp gaze flicks over me, and even though I’m fully clothed now, I still feel naked. “Have you collected all your . . . belongings?”
The pause does not go unnoticed. Belongings, in this context, are clearly my Union Jack knickers. A national disgrace, really.
I nod, swallowing hard.
I have never felt more out of place than I do right now—like a silly little girl playing make-believe in a world that’s too sophisticated for me.
For the first time, I glance up at him and notice the exhaustion etched into the sharp angles of his handsome face, those piercing eyes dimmed with a quiet fatigue. The shadow darkening his jaw. The kind of weariness that comes from working a job that matters.
“You probably have important surgeon things tomorrow,” I mumble. “Sorry for derailing your evening.”
His jaw flexes. “I have a laparoscopic anterior resection scheduled.”
Of course he does. Excellent work, Daisy.
“I don’t even know what that means, but it sounds important.” I blow out a breath. “Some poor person’s going to wake up with their organs in the wrong order because their surgeon spent his evening dealing with the walking embodiment of a Mercury retrograde.”
He frowns. “Mercury what?”
“Never mind,” I mutter, waving it off. “It’s very niche stuff.”
I grit my teeth as he walks me to the door, his presence looming over me like a deeply judgmental storm cloud.
The short trip across the room feels endless.
A literal walk of shame.
“Please just pretend I don’t exist,” I mutter.
“You tend to make that impossible.”
I shoot him a glare. “I know that’s an insult. I’m not stupid.”
Which, frankly, feels debatable right now.
“Daisy.” His voice is edged with that authoritative tone that makes my spine bristle.
“No, I get it,” I cut in, throwing a hand up. “I’m a trainwreck. Believe me, it’s not news.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t have the mental bandwidth to do this with you right now. Will you be okay getting home?”
“Yes,” I say stiffly, forcing my chin up. “I’ll be fine.”
I step toward the door, managing to fumble the handle like it’s a goddamn Rubik’s Cube before turning back to face him. “Good evening, Edward. Sorry for the disturbance. And the . . . unauthorized use of your very nice sheets.”
Without waiting for his reply, I step out into the night, the cool air rushing against my overheated skin, leaving him and his judgment behind.
Except . . .
I can still feel his eyes on me.
Even long after I’m gone.