CHAPTER 8

Daisy

The Cavendish estate looms ahead, all towering grandeur, like England’s middle finger to the working class.

I climb out of Richard’s beat-up work truck, tugging at the hem of my black dress as if adding an extra inch of fabric might miraculously transform me into the Duchess of Cambridge.

Richard grabs my arm to steady me, his hands calloused from years of keeping the Cavendish grounds picture-perfect. “You look great,” he says with that easy grin of his. “Prettiest one in there, hands down.”

“Thanks,” I say, smirking. “Just don’t let Mum hear you say that—she’s in there too.”

“Oh, right.” He laughs, the sound so relaxed it almost makes me jealous.

He’s been the estate gardener forever, practically a fixture—like the trees, but if you asked Lady Cavendish, she’d probably rate him somewhere below the Italian marble statues she imported.

He and Mum have been together five years now, the world’s most patient slow-burn romance. I’m glad she’s got someone solid—her first real thing since Dad died when I was eight.

These days, I do everything in my power to avoid the main house. Richard picks me up from the station and ferries me straight to the staff cottages—the ones hidden away so effectively that the Cavendishes can conveniently forget the human lives keeping their estate running.

When I catch up with Sophia, it’s always at her “little place” in Hampstead—a £4 million townhouse her parents casually handed her for her twentieth birthday. Yes, twentieth.

While the rest of us were splitting rent with flatmates who stole our milk, our shampoo, and occasionally our boyfriends (looking at you, Anna from Plymouth, you backstabbing cow), Sophia was agonizing over whether marble or granite better complemented a kitchen she had no intention of ever using.

I take a shaky breath, my heels wobbling as they sink into the gravel.

Somewhere behind me, a peacock shrieks.

Yes, they have fucking peacocks.

I near the massive front doors and Gerry, the butler, steps out and pulls me into a warm hug. “Look at you,” he says, giving me a quick once-over with a grin.

“Thanks, Gerry. Mum working tonight?” I ask, already knowing the answer. The priceless antiques don’t dust themselves.

“She is, love. You enjoy yourself in there.”

Fat chance, but I flash him a smile anyway.

A maid I don’t recognize darts in, snagging my coat before I can blink. From down the hall, the sound of posh laughter floats toward me, low and muffled, twisting my stomach into knots.

The Cavendish estate isn’t a home. It’s a shrine to excess. A sprawling maze of rooms no one actually needs.

There’s the drawing room, where ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about who’s shagging who and which cousin is about to get cut from which will. The library, packed with leather-bound books that haven’t been cracked open since the 1800s—except maybe for Edward.

There’s the morning room, exclusively for sun-drenched breakfasts in silk robes; the smoking room, where Cavendish men puff cigars and stroke their, ahem, egos ; the billiard room, which has definitely seen at least one murder; and the crown jewel—the grand bloody ballroom, because god forbid they go without a proper spot for their fancy parties.

I stick out here like a Primark tote in a sea of Chanel clutches.

But tonight’s not about me—it’s for Sophia.

I head toward the ballroom. It’s absurdly opulent, as expected—chandeliers sparkling, a champagne fountain bubbling away in the center, and a string quartet filling the air with something classy and refined.

Everywhere I look, guests are swanning about in designer gowns and bespoke suits, sipping from dainty glasses with the kind of smug satisfaction that comes from genuinely enjoying the taste—not just the side effects.

I fidget with the neckline of my dress. Back home in my bedroom mirror, it felt chic. Under these unforgiving downlights, it’s screaming hen-party-in-Magaluf.

“There’s my Daisy. Fresh as a daisy.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I turn to find Sophia’s great uncle Bernard staring at me like I’m the last prawn cocktail at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The guy stinks of whiskey, cigars, and something vaguely medicinal, and his scruffy white beard has officially ruined Christmas for me.

Bernard owns a crumbling estate about twenty miles away and has a revolving door of suspiciously young, suspiciously attractive cleaners. Mum swears the place must be a biohazard, considering it apparently takes an army of them to keep it from collapsing into filth.

“Got those hedge trimmers you suggested last week,” he says, his eyes gleaming like we’re in on some dirty little conspiracy.

Fun fact about Uncle Bernard: he’s obsessed with my BritShop TV segments. Watches them religiously. Sweet, right? Except not so sweet when he’s looking at me like I’m the hedge that needs trimming.

“Glad they’re doing the trick,” I say, taking a step back. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

But Bernard’s not letting go that easy. “Come and visit me sometime. With little Sophia.”

God help me. Sophia thinks he’s a darling old gent. The Cavendishes all coo over their “loveable rogue.” I think he’s a total pervert.

I’m rarely this right about anything, but on this? I am bloody certain.

Before his clammy hand can find my back, I sidestep and snag a champagne flute from a passing waiter—the first of what will likely be seventeen, judging by the current state of my nerves.

I weave through the crowd, eyes peeled for Sophia, when I catch a loud, horsey whisper behind me: “Darling, look—he’s here. Edward Cavendish is here.”

Oh, fantastic. My stomach does that stupid flip thing it’s been doing lately. Which is ridiculous , because of course he’s here. It’s his sister’s engagement party.

I take a long, steadying gulp from my glass, lingering near the edge of the room in a desperate attempt to look casual.

“He’s a widower.” The voice quivers with barely-contained horniness.

Here’s the thing about these upper-crust types: nothing gets them going like a tragic hero—especially one with a “Dr.” in front of his name, a sprawling estate, and a very handsome face.

Edward’s wife, Millie, was the real deal—warm, kind, the sort who’d make you feel comfortable without even trying. It just goes to show—ovarian cancer doesn’t give a flying shit about pedigree.

They’d met at university, been mates for ages before it turned into something more. The big wedding followed. And then life, as it so often does, took a sledgehammer to it.

I only saw Edward a handful of times after she died—usually by chance, in passing, at the estate. And Christ , the exhaustion was carved into every line of his face. The kind of tired that a good night’s sleep can’t fix.

I never knew what to say to him. So I’d just sort of nod, and he’d nod back, and we’d go on pretending grief wasn’t hanging over him like a dark cloud.

Now, according to Sophia, every socialite from here to Scotland is lining up for the chance to become Mrs. Edward Cavendish 2.0. To be the one to bring the light back into his life.

I sneak a glance over my shoulder and spot them: two women gripping their champagne flutes, staring across the ballroom. I flash a tight smile before following their line of sight.

Oh.

My breath catches.

Because there he is.

Edward Cavendish towers over the crowd, looking like he walked straight out of a classic Hollywood film—something in black and white, where the leading man leans against a grand piano with a whiskey glass in one hand.

Stop staring at his mouth. Knock it off. Now.

“It’s so sad, him being a widower,” one of them sighs. “A handsome surgeon like that . . . such a shame.” She sounds like she’s about to faint—probably hoping he’d swoop in and perform CPR.

“He’s so intense, isn’t he?” Horsey Voice muses. “Like he’s bored of everyone here.”

“Give me ten minutes with him in the east wing library, and I’ll fix that,” her friend purrs.

“You absolute minx!”

I’m about to roll my eyes when the vibe shifts. “Excuse me,” Horsey Voice snaps, followed by a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me,” she says again, sharper this time. “Are you bringing out more duck truffle canapés soon?”

I blink at her. “I don’t work here.”

“Oh!” She squints at me, like she’s sure I’m pulling a fast one. “So sorry, it’s just . . . I could’ve sworn I saw you carrying a serving platter just ten minutes ago.”

“No,” I say curtly. Not that there’s anything wrong with serving food—except when people assume you’re the help at a party you’re desperately trying to blend into.

“You look just like her.” She points, and there’s Mum, weaving through the crowd with a tray of canapés, tossing me a quick wink and a silent later as she sails past.

I knock back a big gulp of bubbly, hoping it’ll take the edge off—or at least get me buzzed enough to make it through this night.

Then I feel it—a slow, prickling sensation creeping up my spine. I look up, and Edward’s eyes snag mine from across the room.

Heat claws up my neck, scorching my face.

He’s thinking about The Incident.

I know he is.

No doubt in my mind—he’s replaying it, frame by filthy frame.

My fingers tighten around crystal as I drag my gaze away. Just act normal. One sip. Two. Keep it together.

I apparently have zero self-control because I glance back.

Oh, hell. He’s still staring.

This isn’t some casual glance-around-the-room vibe. This is a man who remembers—every last bit of it. Down to the Brazilian wax I got, and maybe even the exact spot of my right labia Spencer found so fascinating.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I chug more champagne.

The bubbles burn all the way down, but it’s fine. Everything is fine .

I need to— I need—

What do I even need? A fire exit? A defibrillator?

Before I can figure it out, a waiter pops up beside me with a silver tray of what looks like bird poop. “Madam, care to try our quail egg and beluga caviar?”

“No, thanks,” I mutter. Definitely not what I need right now.

I spot Sophia beside Edward, radiant in a flowing blue gown that looks like it was stitched onto her. Meanwhile, I’m over here looking like I’m about to top off someone’s duck canapé or hand out extra napkins.

Get it together, Daisy .

I force one foot in front of the other, embarking on the treacherous trek toward Sophia. My stomach flips in ways that have absolutely nothing to do with the champagne and everything to do with the fact that Edward’s eyes are tracking me like I’m a fox in his bloody hunt.

Sophia spots me and lights up, letting out a squeal that turns heads. “Darling!” she says. “Does everyone know Daisy?”

I flash a smile and scan the group—some polite nods, a couple of half-interested grins.

Then there’s Edward. Our eyes meet, and his jaw tightens like he’s swallowing something bitter.

Without breaking eye contact, he lifts his champagne flute and takes a slow, deliberate sip, like he needs the alcohol just to tolerate my presence.

“Hello, Daisy,” he says, his voice low and rough.

“Hello, Edward,” I shoot back, keeping my tone just as cool.

Sophia, oblivious to the tension, grins and hooks her arm through mine. “Daisy and I grew up together—inseparable, right, darling? Having you around was the best.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, forcing another smile while Edward’s stare drills into me.

He’s staring like I’m something the peacocks shat out after a bad day. His nostrils flare—those judgy bastards—while he takes another sip.

“Daisy! So nice to see you again!” a chipper voice cuts in, and suddenly Imogen’s all over me—arms flapping, air kisses flying: right cheek, left, right again.

“Hi, Imogen,” I manage, trying not to flinch as she pulls back. We’ve met maybe a handful of times, but her energy’s always dialed up to eleven. Still, she’s Sophia’s close friend and a fellow bridesmaid, so I slap on a glad to see you grin.

“You look stunning,” she gushes. “Is that from the new Christopher Kane line?”

“Um . . . no.” Christopher Kane could be a fashion god or the bloke who fixes the estate’s plumbing—I haven’t a clue. What I do know is this dress came from a frantic high-street dash, not his hands.

“Oh, well, it’s super demure,” she says, tilting her head with a smile. “Very his vibe. Though, it might be more a few seasons back.”

“Maybe,” I mumble.

“Refresh my memory—where did you and Sophia meet? St. Catherine Academy, right?”

And there it is. Imogen’s classic move: the sneaky class check, all wrapped up in a sweet little question. She knows damn well I didn’t go to St. Catherine’s. I’m the girl who used to nick biscuits from the kitchen while my mum polished their heirlooms.

And that’s exactly why Imogen gets under my skin.

I tilt my chin up, channeling the air of someone who owns a legit Birkin, not the “limited edition” fake I snagged from Deano at the Sunday market.

“We didn’t meet at school,” I say, voice light. “My mum’s the housekeeper here. One time, I grabbed Mrs. C’s cashmere robe, tied it like a cape, and slid down the banister shouting, ‘I’m Santa, suckers, I’ve got your gifts!’—then crashed right into their massive Fortnum & Mason Christmas tree. Sophia saw it, jumped in, and that was that.”

Suck on that, Imogen.

Sophia cackles like it’s the first time she’s heard it. “Oh my god, we got in so much trouble with Mother!”

Imogen’s eyes pop, just a flicker. “That’s . . . cute.”

Sophia squeezes my arm, and despite everything, I can’t help but grin. Say what you will about the Cavendishes—Sophia never cared that my mum cleaned their loos. “She was more like a sister than a friend,” she says, all warm and mushy.

“More like a terrible influence,” I tease, nudging her. “Always dragging her into mischief.”

Sophia laughs, but the sound is quickly overshadowed by a deliberate throat-clearing. Edward.

I glance over—only to find him staring at me yet again.

“Yes,” he says, his voice crisp. “You were quite the handful back then.”

I bat my lashes and flash a smile. “You know what they say—well-behaved women don’t make history.”

“Yes,” he says, dry as the champagne I’m clutching. “History tends to remember the bold. And the brazen.”

“You say brazen like it’s a bad thing. Personally, I think it’s my best quality.”

His lips twitch—barely. “It’s definitely your most . . . memorable trait.”

A sudden, vivid memory of that night in his bedroom with “Uncle” Edward slams into me. My cheeks are now in flames.

Thank god Sophia jumps in. “Daisy, this is Bernice—I don’t think you’ve met,” she says, beaming as she nods toward a quiet girl with a mess of brown curls. “Bernice is my other bridesmaid. We met during my charity work in Cambodia, building orphanages.”

Oh, here we go. The Charity Work.

I choke back an eye-roll, guilt nipping right behind it. I adore Sophia, but if I hear about that damn year one more time . . . It’s never just “we met in Cambodia.” No, it’s always “my charity work in Cambodia building orphanages,” like it’s some sort of suffix she’s legally required to tack on.

“And Daisy here works in TV,” Sophia announces proudly.

Bernice’s eyes widen. “Wow! Like a TV presenter? Anything I might’ve seen?”

“Uh . . . not exactly,” I mutter, staring hard at the bubbles in my glass. “BritShop TV. It’s a home shopping channel. You’ve probably . . . yeah, you wouldn’t know it.”

Bernice frowns, clearly trying to place it. “Is that on the BBC?”

Oh yes, Bernice. Right after the evening news , they cut to me dazzling the nation with deals on hedge trimmers and juicers. Breaking news: Juicer sales are up 300% in the Greater Manchester area.

I shift uncomfortably, the pleather strap cutting into my ankle. “No, not the BBC. It’s more . . . niche.”

“She’s amazing at it,” Sophia jumps in, her voice warm with pride. “I have no idea how she does it—turns the most boring stuff into something you can’t look away from.”

I shoot her a gritted-teeth grin— please, shut up .

“You wear those little Union Jack skirts, don’t you?” Imogen smiles at me. “So brave of you. I could never pull something like that off myself. One has to have such . . . confidence. ”

Translation: One has to have no shame.

I stiffen. “Yep, that’s us at BritShop—patriotic to a fault.” I tilt my head, matching her sweet tone. “You sound like you’ve caught the show, Imogen. Don’t tell me you’re one of our most loyal viewers?”

Her smile doesn’t budge—Imogen’s kind doesn’t crack under social pressure. “Oh, I’d love to see you but those middle-of-the-night slots . . .” She lets the sentence dangle like a noose. “And, well, what you’re selling really isn’t my style. ”

I don’t know why but now I feel like a hooker.

Heat crawls up my neck. I’m scrambling for a comeback—anything—when Imogen’s hand flies to her mouth in mock surprise, her eyes widening theatrically. “Oh!”

“What?” I bite out, bracing for impact.

“Nothing, just . . .” She drags it out, hooking everyone’s attention. “I saw—”

Here it comes.

“The memes,” I cut in, deciding it’s better to own it. “Yep, that’s me—Bidet Girl.”

Edward lets out a huff—barely a breath, but I feel it.

I don’t dare glance his way.

“Just a plumbing hiccup,” I say, brushing it off with a shrug that’s more casual than I feel. “At least I gave the bidet its moment to shine—full spray, maximum chaos. A public service, really. Here’s hoping I’m yesterday’s gossip by tomorrow.”

A wave of laughter rolls through—half real, half pity.

“Like it or not, you’re not fading into the background that fast,” a deep voice rumbles, slicing through the chatter.

My head snaps up before I can stop it.

Is he mocking me? He’s got to be, right?

His expression, carved from stone, doesn’t give me much to work with.

But those deep blue eyes? It’s like he’s got me stretched out on his operating table, every flaw magnified under the surgical lights, every insecurity laid bare for his inspection.

My heart kicks into overdrive. Edward Cavendish unnerves me more than anyone alive. But if he thinks he can out-mock me, he’s in for a rude awakening. Nobody mocks me better than I mock myself.

“Oh, absolutely,” I say brightly. “Hard to forget the girl who had a televised showdown with a bidet while rocking a Union Jack skirt. A moment of British pride, really.”

The group chuckles—soft, polite, with that faint whiff of “poor Daisy.”

Edward’s eyes narrow, his expression sharpening into something even more disapproving, if that’s possible.

I ignore him.

Or at least, I try to.

I lift my champagne glass, taking a sip that does absolutely nothing to calm my nerves.

And then I see Charlie. Striding into the room, his hand resting lightly, possessively, on the small of his new fiancée’s back.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be halfway across the Atlantic, sipping overpriced cocktails garnished with decorative umbrellas. I’m nowhere near ready for this.

Imogen—who I’m now convinced was put on this earth to torture me—lets out a shrill “Coo- ee ! Over here!” as she waves them over.

My fingers tighten around the flute.

Just smile. Like you’re having the time of your life.

His eyes meet mine.

For a split second, something flickers across his face—a grimace, as if the very sight of me is an inconvenience. Then it’s gone, smoothed over with a tight smile as he leans in to murmur something to her , his hand still welded to her back. Like I’m not even worth a second look.

Someone says my name—probably Imogen. She’s likely gearing up to introduce me to Charlie’s fiancée, acting like she doesn’t know the entire fucking story.

I can’t. I can’t stand here, grinning like some pathetic extra in their perfect story, my clearance-rack dress screaming I don’t belong.

I spin—too fast—and crash straight into Giles, Sophia’s fiancé. My glass slips, and I watch, horrified, as champagne arcs through the air, splattering across his crisp white shirt in a golden explosion.

“Giles. Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I stammer.

He glances at the stain, then back at me, his expression soft but startled. “It’s fine, Daisy, honestly. Are you okay? How—”

“I’m fine!” I practically shout, cutting him off.

Charlie’s closing in now, fiancée in tow.

“Fuck,” I hiss. “I need to . . . leave.”

I don’t wait for a response. I’m already moving, mumbling sorry s as I shove through the crowd, brushing silk sleeves and nearly sending a gleaming tray of hors d’oeuvres flying.

I burst out the patio doors into the cool night air, gulping it down like I’ve been holding my breath all night.

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.