CHAPTER 9
Daisy
I draw in a deep, unsteady breath. The Cavendish lawn stretches out before me, vast and pristine.
I can’t believe I just flounced out of Sophia’s engagement bash like some rejected contestant from Love Island .
What now? Do I slink back in like nothing happened?
Or lean hard into a lie—perhaps an episode of explosive diarrhea? That might be less mortifying than admitting I fled because I couldn’t stomach seeing Charlie flaunt his new fiancée.
Sophia swore they wouldn’t be here. So why no warning?
Is this her twisted version of tough love? Deep down, I know she never took what Charlie and I had seriously. To her, it was just a fling—some fleeting, foolish thing.
My eyes drift across the lawn, catching on the old groundskeeper’s shed lurking in the twilight. That shed. The very place where I lost my virginity—and, in hindsight, every ounce of common sense I ever had.
Looking back, the rosy glow’s peeled off, and Charlie’s slick little lines hit me for what they really were. “Let’s keep it quiet for now,” he’d say. “You know how Mother can be . . .”
Translation: I’m ashamed of you, but I’d like to keep fucking you in secret, cheers.
That shed should’ve been my first red flag. What kind of man takes someone he loves to a musty shed that smells like fertilizer?
A man who’s ashamed of you, that’s who.
I was so naive it hurts to think about.
Even now, just a glimpse of him—or some old photo—yanks me straight back to that night in the grand ballroom. The night he gutted me in front of his whole clan, right where we stood tonight. Sure, it was years ago, but no one’s ever cut me that deep before.
He’d rolled in from uni, new girlfriend on his arm, no heads-up that we were done. There we all were—family, staff, the whole lot—lined up outside for a big surprise welcome. And he just struts up with her , like I was invisible. The worst part? It wasn’t even the humiliation that stung deepest—it was how nobody noticed how much it broke me. Like my hurt didn’t register. Like I didn’t.
I let out a sigh, staring at the absurdity of the Cavendish menagerie sprawled out before me. Three peacocks strut by the fountain like they’re auditioning for a nature documentary, while an honest-to-god ostrich prances around.
Like I’ve told Lizzie, posh people might as well be from another planet.
I lean against the cool stone balustrade (a fancy term I only picked up from growing up here), trying to steady my racing pulse.
Sophia despises drama, and me bolting from her engagement party is pretty much the definition of it.
Well done, Daisy. Bravo.
A throat clears behind me.
My shoulders tense. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.
With a resigned exhale, I spin on my heel. “If you’re here to lecture me for storming out of Sophia’s engagement party, don’t bother. Trust me, I already feel like shit about it.”
“I wasn’t planning on lecturing you,” he says with that familiar coolness. “Actually, I came to return something of yours.”
I blink, thrown, as he pulls a thin silver chain from his wallet. My silver chain. The one I thought had disappeared into the black hole that is my bedroom.
“This was in my bedroom. I assume it’s yours.”
My mouth, as usual, leaps ahead of my brain. “What, you get so little action that you assume any random jewelry must be mine? That’s not exactly a glowing endorsement of your love life, Edward. Especially considering we didn’t even sleep together.”
He grimaces, his tall frame casting a shadow I have to tilt my head back to meet. “It’s either yours or my nephew’s. Unless, of course, some other random couple used my bed without permission. Perhaps I should install CCTV.”
I bite my lip, smothering a snort. “Trust me, you don’t want that recorded.”
After what Spencer pulled, I’ve no problem throwing him under the bus.
Edward groans, dragging a hand down his face. “For god’s sake.”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
The silence that settles between us is heavy and awkward, punctuated only by a far-off owl hoot and the rustling leaves in the breeze.
I clear my throat and reach for the chain, desperate to end this train wreck of a moment. My fingers graze his, and—oh hell—a jolt zips through me, all the way down my spine.
“Thanks,” I squeak, snatching the necklace back like it’s on fire. “It’s just some cheap thing from Claire’s Accessories anyway.”
My mind spins. Why isn’t Edward Cavendish having sex in his own bedroom?
A man like him—tall, commanding, gorgeous—should be having plenty of sex. He could have anyone, anywhere he pleases. Maybe he’s the type who only hooks up at their place, keeping his sheets pristine. Or maybe—
Oh, crap.
Of course I know why he’s not having sex.
“Sorry,” I blurt, mentally kicking myself. “That comment about you not having sex was probably . . . um, insensitive, with . . .” I wave a hand toward the peacocks, as though they might finish my sentence. “Not that I know if you’re having any. I mean, it’s none of my business . You could be having loads ! Just, you know, with . . . uh . . .”
Shut up, Daisy.
“It’s fine,” Edward says brusquely. For a fleeting second, something—grief, maybe—flashes in his eyes before his usual stone-cold mask snaps back into place.
I fidget with the chain, twisting it around my finger. “Thanks for not ratting me out about the other night,” I mumble. “If there’s a worse way to get caught with your pants down, I’d rather die than find out.”
“Yes, well, I apologize for my nephew bringing you back under false pretenses. That’s not acceptable.”
“It’s not about him not being a doctor,” I feel the need to explain. “I mean, I don’t care that he’s not a doctor. I wasn’t expecting Grey’s Anatomy . It was just . . . misleading, you know? And then there was the whole borrowing-your-bed thing, which obviously you know about because it’s your bed, and oh my god, I’m still talking. Anyway, it’s not your fault so no need to apologize.”
My soul shrivels.
“Maybe not.” He frowns. “But that’s not how Cavendishes are raised. We were raised to treat women with respect.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, Charlie’s smug grin flickering in my head before I can stop it.
Edward’s jaw tightens. “Meaning?”
“Nothing,” I backpedal, brushing it off with a weak shrug. “Anyway, it’s not like things were going anywhere with Doctor Spencer.” I force a laugh. “I was using him as much as he was using me.”
“I don’t want to know,” he cuts in sharply, like I’m about to launch into a detailed report of my sexual escapades with his nephew.
Fair enough. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to know either.
He rolls his shoulders back, a casual move that draws my eye to the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest. The fabric shifts, hinting at muscle underneath, and—oh no. I am not doing this. I snap my focus away, but it’s too late; I’ve noticed, and now I can’t un-notice it.
“Can we just . . . can you delete that from your memory? I know you’ve got one of those elite Cambridge brains that remembers everything—but please just erase that particular image from your mental hard drive.”
He doesn’t answer.
A peacock screeches in the distance, its cry slicing through the tension.
“You know, the image of me in your—”
“For god’s sake, Daisy, I know precisely which image you’re referring to,” he snaps, finally turning to look at me. His eyes are blazing with a mixture of frustration and something else I can’t quite place. “As a gentleman, I assure you it will never be mentioned again. I’ll take it to my bloody grave.”
I exhale relief. “Thank you—”
“But as a man,” he interrupts, his voice strained, “I suggest we change the subject.”
As a man? What’s that supposed to mean? Because that distinction between gentleman and man feels far more loaded than it should.
The words hang in the air, and suddenly I can’t remember who I am or why I’m even standing on this balustrade.
I clear my throat, grasping for normalcy. “Right. Brilliant idea. Let’s change the subject.”
Right on cue, another peacock lets out a wail.
“Richard can’t stand those things,” I say, latching onto the distraction.
“None of us can,” Edward mutters.
I bite back a grin. “Except your mum.”
“My mother is convinced they add ‘sophistication’ to the grounds.”
“Dogs would’ve been easier,” I point out, as one particularly combative peacock challenges its own reflection in the fountain. “You can’t cuddle a peacock. Trust me, I tried.”
That earns me a raised brow. Not a full smile—god forbid—but the corners of his mouth twitch, as though he’s fighting it. “You tried? ”
“When I was little,” I say with a shrug. “They’re all colorful and prancy, so you think, ‘Oh, they must be sweet!’ Turns out they’re just unnecessarily aggressive and wildly entitled.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “Unnecessarily aggressive, entitled, and impossible to cuddle? You’ve just described half my family.”
I blink. Did Edward Cavendish just crack a joke?
“Does that include you?” The question slips out before I can rein it in.
He pauses. “I’d like to think I’m not beyond the possibility of being . . . cuddled.”
Oh. Now I’m imagining cuddling Edward, thoughts I really should not be having.
I drop my gaze to the necklace clasp, suddenly fascinated by its tiny, meaningless details.
“I assume my brother’s appearance had something to do with your hasty exit,” he says.
I consider leaning into the explosive diarrhea excuse. But no—too undignified, even for me.
“It might have played a role,” I reply.
He makes a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a growl, like my emotional fragility offends him. “I thought you were made of sterner stuff than that.”
I stiffen. “Sorry for being human. My bad for having actual feelings. I did date him for a while, you know.”
“You have plenty of admirers chasing after you,” he says, his tone clipped. “You don’t need to pine over my brother.”
“Chasing after me?” I echo, incredulous. “As if I want men chasing after me. And contrary to appearances, it’s not a desperate quest to date my way through your living relatives.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Although I’m not sure why you needed to clarify living relatives.”
“Your great uncle Bernard is pushing one hundred. I thought I should clarify, just in case.”
That earns me a small smirk, a hint of amusement breaking through his stern facade. But it’s short-lived. “All right, Daisy. If you’re not interested in my brother or any other Cavendish, for that matter, then what is it that you want?”
I stare at him. What an intense question.
My god, he’s actually waiting for a coherent answer to that.
“I just . . . I don’t know. I guess I want someone who accepts me for who I am. I don’t have everything sorted like you or Sophia, okay? I don’t know what my career is. Or where I’m supposed to live. Or who I’m supposed to be with. But I know one thing—I’m not like Sophia. I say the wrong things, am messy when I shouldn’t be, and I make way too many mistakes.”
There’s a pause. A long pause. Long enough for me to realize I’ve just projectile-vomited my existential crisis all over his expensive shoes.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
I glare at him. “You’re not supposed to agree with me so readily. When someone self-deprecates, you’re meant to disagree politely. That’s the rule.”
“You’re the one who said it. I’m just acknowledging your self-assessment.”
“Lie to me like a normal person. Tell me I’m delightful or witty or some bollocks you don’t mean.”
“Lying doesn’t suit me. But for the record, I find your particular brand of chaos far more compelling than someone being charming and polite all the time. Even if you do have a complete disregard for consequences most of the time.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Is he . . . mocking me? Flirting with me?
“And if you think my life’s all sorted out,” he adds, quieter now, “you’re not looking close enough.”
I stare at him, trying to decode that. His jaw’s tight, his eyes guarded, and I realize just how close we’re standing.
As if he’s just noticed it too, he takes a sharp step back.
“I should go,” he says, his voice snapping back to its usual coolness.
I nod, my throat dry, desperate to sound unaffected. “Right. Good night.”
“Good night, Daisy. Take care of yourself.”
He turns and walks away. And oh, I am definitely looking.
Sure, he’s handsome in that brooding, storm-cloud way, but who needs the constant disapproval? He’s not exactly fun . He’s just . . . Edward .
But seriously. What would it have been like if Spencer hadn’t been there that night? If Edward had just walked in and found me sprawled out on his bed, my—well, mum would want me to say “delicate bits,” but let’s be real—pussy wide open.
Dr. Cavendish is a fucking handsome man. I know I can have sex with people I’m physically attracted to, even if it’s going nowhere. If I spotted him in a bar, I’d be a puddle.
But that’s all it’d be—sex. He’s still woven from the same privileged thread as his brother.
He would never—and I mean never—consider something more with someone like me.
His type is painfully obvious: educated, career-driven, perfectly bred, beautiful.
I know men like my looks. But I also know I don’t have the rest. The polish. The refinement. Whatever the fuck makes someone “acceptable” in his world.
The power of potentially bringing someone like Edward Cavendish to his knees? The thought is dangerous.
I highly doubt he gets on his knees for anyone.
I need to stop looking at him. Right now.