CHAPTER 18
Daisy
The church could’ve been ripped straight from a BBC period drama—crumbling stone walls, ivy sprawling everywhere, plonked in the middle of one of those quaint English villages I grew up near.
A perfect setting for a Cavendish family funeral.
I totter up the gravel path in heels that are inappropriate for the occasion—or any occasion that doesn’t involve standing still while holding a martini. They’re the only black dressy heels that I own, so here I am, risking a sprained ankle in the name of respecting dead perverts.
My stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with the train sandwich I inhaled earlier. All I want is to get this over with and hop back on a train to London, far away from Charlie, Mrs. C, and the rest of the Cavendish clan.
I spot Mum’s beacon of blonde hair among the sea of tasteful mourning hats.
We hug, and for a moment, the knot in my chest loosens.
Then I pull back, and it slams into me all over again.
“I have to see Charlie.” I groan. “He saw me running out of Sophia’s engagement party. How am I supposed to face him?”
Mum tuts—that sharp little sound that instantly drops me back to fifteen. “With your head held high, love.”
She fusses with my dress sleeve like I’m about to perform at the Royal Albert Hall instead of slumping into a pew, trying desperately not to make eye contact with my ex.
“You’re too good for him anyway,” she adds primly. “All charm and not much else, that one.”
The church bells kick in—slow, heavy dong, dong, dong —and the crowd starts shuffling forward. Black hats, stiff upper lips, the full funeral package.
I scan the crowd frantically, my heart thudding faster with every passing second.
Where is he?
And more importantly, which “he” am I actually looking for?
“Do you think all of Bernard’s ‘cleaners’ will show?” I mutter, throwing sarcastic air quotes around cleaners that Mum studiously ignores.
“Shoosh!” she hisses as we pass a woman dabbing her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. She nods politely at the woman, then leans in conspiratorially.
“Actually,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking toward the front, “there’s one.”
I follow her gaze to a twenty-something stunner with legs that don’t quit and a Rolex gleaming on her wrist. “Her?” I whisper, eyebrows shooting up. “You’re telling me she earned that sorting his socks?”
“Yes,” she says through gritted teeth, which is Mum-code for obviously fucking not, but we don’t talk about that in public.
“Mum, if you’d just batted your lashes at Bernard a bit, you’d already be sunning yourself in Spain. Your Marbella beachfront villa could be a reality by now. Think of all the sangria you’ve thrown away.”
She elbows me. Which is frankly unnecessary.
I bite back a laugh. “No, but seriously, why does nobody ever acknowledge the giant, scandalous elephant in the room?” I keep my voice low, though apparently not low enough, because Mum stiffens. “We’re always on about his brilliant medical career, but somehow forget he spent his golden years auditioning for Hugh Hefner of the village.”
“Daisy.” Mum’s expression tightens into that horrifying grimace-smile she does when she’s trying to look composed but mostly looks like she’s desperately holding in a fart. “You cannot speak ill of the dead.”
“Why not? Surely that’s the best time to speak ill of someone. What’s Uncle Bernard going to do—spring out of the coffin shouting ‘How dare you’?”
“It’s disrespectful,” she hisses. “And someone in the family might hear you.”
“You know what was disrespectful? A medical genius not knowing a back from a bum cheek.”
That gets me an elbow so sharp I nearly tumble into a hedge. I should stop—really, I should—but winding Mum up is second nature by now.
My eyes drift over the crowd. Too many women in their twenties and thirties, way too glam for a funeral. No veils, no sensible flats—just blow-dries and heels. Then it hits me: they’re not here for Bernard. Of course not. The Cavendish brothers are the draw.
It’s like a memo went out: Rich uncle dead. Hot doctor nephew single. Late wife tragically gone. Dress code: seductive sorrow.
Glossy lips, smoky eyes, demure necklines that somehow scream sex—I’d bet half of them googled “hot funeral looks.” Not that I’m one to judge; Mary Poppins, I am not.
My gaze lands on the church doors, and my stomach lurches.
Charlie and Edward, side by side. The Receiving Line from Hell. No slipping into a dark, anonymous pew now—they’re perfectly positioned to block any escape.
My throat tightens. I need water. Or whiskey. Maybe both.
The contrast is brutal. Charlie’s the easy pick—boyish charm, effortless grins. Even now, he’s the golden boy in mourning, playing it flawlessly. No wonder younger me fell for him.
But Edward?
Oh god. He’s something else entirely. Towering over Charlie, it’s like he stepped out of a Gothic novel—dark, brooding, no trace of sunshine. That frown’s chiseled into his face, permanent and unforgiving. The lines around his eyes aren’t from laughing; they’re from hard choices that stick with you. And those gray flecks at his temples? They don’t age him—they make him sharper, more dangerous.
If Charlie is the sun—bright, uncomplicated—Edward is midnight. The kind of midnight that has you checking your locks three times, then lying there anyway with your heart hammering for reasons you can’t quite explain.
Our last encounter flashes through my mind.
Me, mid–downward dog, ass in the air, winking at him.
Flattered you think so highly of my . . . technique.
I only did it because I thought I wouldn’t see him for ages. It’s easy to play the sexy tease with a buffer of time and distance. Not so much when you’re ten feet away, days later, with those steel-blue eyes boring into you.
I swallow hard and force my feet to keep moving, even though every fiber of my being wants to execute a swift U-turn and sprint down the gravel path.
I’m going to have to shake both their hands and pretend I haven’t seen either of them naked.
And then I see her. The future Mrs. Charles Cavendish.
I skid to a halt, my heels catching slightly on the gravel. Mum nearly barrels into my back.
“Mum, I can’t do this.”
“You can, and you will.”
“Fuck.”
“Daisy,” she hisses, grabbing my elbow, and I know she’s debating wrestling me into submission. “Language.”
“I hate shaking hands. What am I even supposed to say?”
“Say something nice about Bernard and offer your condolences,” she replies curtly, already steering me forward.
“To twenty people? I have to say nice things about Bernard to twenty separate people?” I wave my hand at the receiving line, which looks like someone’s raided the entire cast of Bridgerton . “Why can’t I just announce general condolences to the group? Save everyone the hassle?”
“Behave.”
“I am behaving! I’m just trying to streamline the mourning process.”
Mum ignores me in favor of attacking my blouse. “Button up that top button. You’re looking a bit tarty. Far too much cleavage.”
“The old pervert would’ve loved that.”
Mum shoots me the kind of look that could turn wine back into water.
“Oh god ,” I whisper, eyes widening. “Edward’s first in line. And he looks proper murderous. ”
“Stop being silly! Edward’s a lovely man.”
“Yeah, a lovely man who’s currently looking like he’s about to sentence someone to death. Look at that scowl.”
“If you had any sense,” Mum hisses, “you’d see that man’s got more integrity in his little finger than most people here have in their whole bodies. He’s done loads for all of us.”
“Like what?”
She flounders, mouth opening and closing. “Well . . . he’s generous with the staff. Goes above and beyond.”
“Easy to be generous when you’re loaded.”
“Daisy.” Her nails dig into my arm as she frogmarches me toward the church, muttering through a plastered-on smile. “Into the queue, now.”
Oh, here we fucking go.
This is worse than picking a serial killer out of a lineup. One brother, I saw jerking off in a tent. The other humiliated me in front of his whole family.
Edward’s first. My heart’s pounding so hard it’s probably a medical emergency.
He looms over me. “Daisy. Thank you for coming.”
I nod, too stiffly, and reach for his hand.
His handshake is firm and warm and—oh god—that’s the same hand I saw doing . . . things. Hot things.
I stare at him. The only thought ping-ponging around my empty skull is: I’ve seen your penis. It’s enormous. Magnificent. I’d very much like to see if I can fit it in my mouth.
Say words, Daisy. WORDS.
But the words aren’t coming, and the handshake is drifting dangerous into too-long territory.
His hand hasn’t let go.
Neither has mine.
His eyebrow twitches.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I blurt finally. Okay, something nice. “Such a . . . terrible loss. He was . . . a great man. Left his mark on everyone he met.”
I stop breathing. “Not physically!” I squeak, panicking. “I mean professionally. With his . . . medical . . . stuff.”
Someone please push me into an open grave.
Edward’s mother—who I’d forgotten was standing right there because her eldest son is basically a black hole of intimidating energy—is staring at me like I’ve just suggested we taxidermy Bernard and mount him above the fireplace in a provocative pose.
Edward’s jaw tightens. “Thank you,” he says smoothly, “Yes, his . . . medical legacy will certainly be remembered.”
I nod way too hard and then realize I’m still clutching his hand. I drop it so fast you’d think it burned me.
Before I can make it worse, Mum swoops in with a perfectly timed hand on my back, steering me forward.
My legs are moving, sure, but my brain? Offline. No-one’s home.
Mrs. C barely registers me as I mumble something incoherent her way. Honestly, it’s a relief—I’d rather not exist to her right now.
When I reach Sophia, I’m simultaneously comforted to see my friend and absolutely gutted at the sight of her wobbling lip. Her mascara is staging a brave yet doomed defense as she dabs at her eyes with what used to be a tissue.
I pull her into a hug. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
Her head hits my shoulder, and she explodes. “It’s just . . . it’s just . . . devastating!” she wails, muffled against me.
“I know,” I murmur, stroking her back. “I know, sweetie. It’s awful.”
I hate seeing her like this.
I finally manage to step away, only to find myself face-to-face with . . .
Charlie.
Okay, keep it together. This is your moment. Be elegant. Channel your inner duchess. What would Kate Middleton do?
What comes out of my mouth is . . . not that. Not even close.
“Oh my gosh, hi!” I chirp, with the manic energy of someone hosting a children’s party rather than attending a funeral.
My brain screams in horror, and I overcorrect instantly. “I mean,” I say, dropping my voice to a somber, funeral-worthy growl, “so very sorry for your loss.”
“Nice to see you, Daisy,” he says in a tone that suggests it’s not nice at all. “Thanks for coming.”
Without missing a beat, he glances at Julia—Future Mrs. Cavendish—and adds quickly, “For Sophia. I’m sure she’s delighted to have you.”
His eyes flick over me, that subtle once-over he thinks goes unnoticed. It doesn’t. I clock it—the look that says Not girlfriend material, but I’d still bang you in the shed. Yeah, drink it in, asshole. My tits look killer in this dress, and we both know it. May they haunt you like the Ghost of Christmas Tits Past.
“And you must be Julia,” I chirp, still stuck in my horrifying children’s TV presenter mode. All I’m missing is a set of puppets. “So nice to meet you!”
“Hello,” she says, stiffly polite, clearly weirded out by me. “Lovely to meet you.”
Her face stays blank, not a flicker of recognition.
He hasn’t even mentioned me.
I swallow hard. I’m not even a blip on her radar. I’m nothing to her.
All those years. All that heartache. And for what?
To not even matter.
I feel a prickle at the back of my neck and glance up, only to find Edward frowning at me, even though he’s talking to someone.
“Move along, love,” Mum whispers to me.
I let her guide me into the church, face flaming. Bernard’s probably up there grinning down, thinking, That’s my girl.
A hush settles over the church as Edward rises from the front pew and strides to the podium. I shift on my rock-hard seat, suddenly more alert than I was during the vicar’s endless Bible verse remix.
Truth is, I’ve spent most of the service replaying the tent incident in my head. How could I not? Some twisted part of me wishes I’d snapped a photo—something to ogle before bed for the rest of my life. I mean, I’m a girl who loves sex, and damn, the things I could do with that dick of his.
And now, here he is. In that gorgeous funeral suit. Black, sleek, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders.
I shift again. Yep, there’s a throb starting. In a church. At a funeral.
Sweet lord.
Did I just . . . address Him directly? In here?
The last thing I need is for god to think I’m trying to start a conversation.
At the podium, Edward arranges his notes. Against the backdrop of the altar, he looks even more intimidating than usual. Like he was handpicked by the holy ghost’s personal PR team to stand in churches.
The silence stretches as he adjusts the microphone.
My breath catches, and it feels like the whole congregation’s holding theirs too. Probably because they’re all noticing how stupidly good he looks. Even Jesus up on the cross looks a little envious.
Then he speaks. His voice rolls out, low and smooth, all about Bernard. I’m trying not to stare at the giant portrait of the old guy looming over the altar. Is he watching me from the afterlife?
I mean, he would , wouldn’t he?
The man spent his entire life watching women. Death is unlikely to have improved his voyeuristic tendencies.
I glance up at the ceiling, just in case, half expecting to see his ghost’s face squished up against the stained glass, winking at me.
What if he can travel now? Like his soul can just zip around wherever it wants? What if he shows up at my house and watches me when I’m using my vibrator?
These are the real theological questions no one’s addressing.
I swallow hard and force my gaze back to Edward.
His deep, commanding voice rolls through the church. Something about Bernard revolutionizing surgical techniques.
The sunlight streaming through the stained glass catches the sharp angles of his face, casting dramatic shadows that only enhance his jawline.
No one should look this attractive while talking about death.
“. . . his charm and dedication to his patients . . .” Edward’s voice fills the church, steady and somber.
Pervert who watched BritShop at 3 a.m. , my brain helpfully translates.
“His unwavering commitment . . .”
Pervert who may have passed watching me demonstrate bidets.
I press my lips together to keep the laugh bubbling in my throat from escaping.
Stop it. You shouldn’t be having these thoughts in church.
And I definitely shouldn’t be having these other thoughts—the far less appropriate ones about Edward.
I shift uncomfortably, my dress catching on the pew as I glance around at the congregation.
“Above all,” Edward continues, “Bernard believed in maintaining the highest standards of personal dignity. He emphasized the importance of hard work, self-control, and discipline—qualities he took great care to instill in each of us.”
A snort rips out of me before I can stop it. Not a cute, dainty one either—oh no, this is a full-on, demon-pig-at-the-trough explosion. David Attenborough would narrate it in hushed awe.
Self-control? Bernard?
Edward’s head snaps up like he heard a gunshot. His eyes lock on me. Mum jabs me hard in the ribs. Heads swivel, Exorcist -style, as the congregation hunts for the loose farm animal. The old lady in front of me might’ve just given herself whiplash.
Shit.
Edward’s death glare bores into me like I just resurrected Bernard for the sole purpose of disrespecting him to his face.
My face erupts into flames.
He clears his throat. Looks down at his notes.
Looks back up at me.
Then down again, like he’s bracing himself for me to start making barnyard noises at any moment.
I want to die.
I sit up straighter, pasting on the most solemn, apologetic expression I can muster. Definitely not a woman who just oinked at a funeral.
“Uncle Bernard was . . . ah . . .”
Edward, who probably hasn’t stumbled over a single word since he learned to talk, trips over his own tongue.
He tugs at his tie.
“Poor Edward,” a lady whispers behind me. “He’s so overcome with emotion.”
Sure, Margaret. That’s exactly it.