CHAPTER 20
Edward
I head back to the church to settle accounts with the vicar. Rather steep fee for a few hours’ work, though I suppose crafting a sermon from Bernard’s rather inglorious departure warrants hazard pay.
I pause mid-stride, caught by a figure tucked into the side pews, haloed in the amber glow of the stained glass. For a fleeting moment, she looks almost angelic—until I clock the generous pour of wine in her glass.
Daisy.
I’d assumed she’d returned to London. Evidently not.
Irritatingly, I find myself relieved.
More irritatingly, I catch myself staring again. I don’t want to be the sort of man who watches women like Daisy from a distance, through a screen—some pathetic, removed fascination. Just like Bernard.
She’s still, shoulders slumped in what looks suspiciously like defeat. It’s . . . unsettling.
She’s always been a master at hiding her cracks, but alone, unwatched, they start to show.
Earlier, I’d watched as Sophia dragged her—practically hauled her—over to Charlie’s group in what was, frankly, a thoughtless bit of social engineering.
These events always sort themselves into the same tired divisions: family and friends on one side, household staff on the other. Daisy had positioned herself with the latter. Next to her mother. Standing with the staff.
Until Sophia—blissfully blind as ever—grabbed her hand and hauled her across that unspoken divide, straight into the clutch of women in pearls and heels, Charlie’s fiancée included.
The way Daisy’s spine stiffened, that brief, unreadable flicker across her face—it stuck with me. She’d played the part, of course. Smiled through it, soldiered on.
It’s remarkable how blind my sister remains to these dynamics.
Perhaps we all are. Perhaps we’ve all taken Daisy’s resilience for granted.
I clear my throat, announcing my presence, feeling vaguely guilty for having watched her.
She startles, her eyes snapping to mine.
“Hi,” she says, the syllable wavering somewhere between greeting and challenge.
“Hello again.” My gaze flicks to her glass, one brow lifting slightly. “What are you doing here?”
“Praying. Isn’t that the done thing in church? I’m just . . . reflecting. It’s quiet here. Peaceful.” She nudges the bottle toward me. “Want to join? Or are you here to turf me out?”
I hesitate. I should choose the latter.
“Just for a moment,” I say finally. “I need to settle up with the vicar, but a breather sounds nice. He’s not here anyway.”
I slide into the pew beside her. She shifts slightly, giving me just enough space to make it clear she hadn’t expected me to actually sit down.
“Let me guess,” she says, “the ladies outside are all plotting to marry you off to their daughters?”
I sigh. “They’re just offering condolences.”
“And those condolences just happen to come with eligible daughters? How generous of them.”
I ignore her smug expression and nod at her glass. “I’m fairly certain wine isn’t standard for reflecting in church.”
Her grin widens, unrepentant as she gives the glass a theatrical swirl. “Depends on what you’re reflecting on. Besides, I didn’t spot any ‘no booze’ signs. I thought your god was supposed to be all-forgiving.”
“My god?” I echo, amused.
She flaps a hand toward the altar. “You know—all this. You’re religious, aren’t you?”
“Not particularly. Medical training doesn’t leave much room for blind faith. I assume, given the way you’ve just handed him over to me, you’re not, either.”
“No,” she says, though there’s a hesitation. “But I believe in . . . spirituality. Something bigger than ourselves. Like energy in the trees. Nature. Us.”
“Sounds like you’d make an impressive Wiccan,” I say dryly. “Worshipping the moon and hugging trees.”
Her face tightens, lips pressing into that familiar line that tells me I’ve overstepped. “I’m not having this conversation with you just so you can make it sound stupid. Again.”
Perhaps I’m pushing too far on this one.
I soften my tone. “All right. What started all this, then? This . . . spiritual journey of yours.”
The defensiveness in her eyes dims, giving way to something unguarded. “When Mum was sick we both got into it. Reiki, mostly. And it doesn’t matter if it’s real or not—it made us feel better. And there’s something real in that, yeah?” She glances at me, eyes sharp, daring me to challenge her. “And I don’t need you coming along and tearing it to pieces.”
Her words land with unexpected force, and something twists in my chest—guilt, unwelcome but deserved.
Christ, you really can be an absolute bastard sometimes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the apology coming out stiff. “I didn’t mean to upset you—not at the glamping, not now.”
Her eyes narrow, and she studies me as though deciding whether to accept the apology. “Good,” she says, her voice clipped. “You deserve a scolding.”
I lift my hands in mock surrender. “Noted. And, deserved.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Look, I genuinely am sorry.”
“Fine,” she mutters.
“It’s fine,” I echo, catching the edge in her voice. “But I suspect you’ve got more to say. Would you like to continue your scolding?”
Her chin juts out, defiant. “Yes, actually.”
“Well then,” I say, unable to suppress a flicker of amusement. “By all means—proceed with your worst.”
She doesn’t even pause.
“You can be such a smug, know-it-all jerk sometimes. You look at me like I’m some sort of idiot. Sure, sometimes you swoop in and do something sweet, like saving me from my glamping catastrophe—but most of the time, I feel like I’m just Silly Daisy to you. A bloody joke .”
Though I can’t say her words are all that surprising, they still land with the weight of a well-aimed punch.
I shift in the pew, turning to face her fully. “Daisy. I don’t think that. I know I can be arrogant—more often than I’d like—but I’ve never looked down on you. Where the hell is this coming from?”
She turns too, squaring her shoulders, locking eyes with me. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend you don’t think I’m a bad influence on Sophia.”
“Sometimes, I do,” I admit, seeing no point sugarcoating it. “You lead her astray occasionally—”
Her eyes narrow.
“—and,” I add, “let’s not forget you stole my bloody car.”
She huffs sharply. “That was one time.”
“Shall I spare you the list of other stunts in the same vein?”
Her scowl could burn holes through me.
“But,” I say, softening a bit, “you’re also the one person who keeps her grounded more than anyone else.”
She blinks, caught off guard, surprise flashing across her face before she reins it in, setting her wineglass down like she’s gearing up for more.
“Fine,” she snaps. “What about Charlie, then? You don’t think I’m good enough for him.”
“That’s not true.” A knot tightens my chest.
“You said I wasn’t right for him,” she fires back. “I heard you. With my own ears. Don’t you dare deny it.”
I freeze, words stuck in my throat. I can’t tell her the truth—Charlie was messing around with other people while they were together. She doesn’t need that dumped on her.
As much as she might think otherwise, I never wanted to hurt her. Quite the opposite.
“It wasn’t about you,” I say finally. “I was interfering in my brother’s life. It’s what older brothers do.”
She lets out a short, sharp breath, shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter now anyway. Stupid thing is, I don’t even love Charlie anymore—haven’t for ages. But god, I’m so tired of being the afterthought, you know? Good enough for late-night telly, but only at two a.m. Hot enough to shag—sorry, probably shouldn’t say that in a church—but never quite good enough to take home to Mummy. And the worst bit?”
She exhales, giving a sharp, humorless laugh. “I can’t even blame anyone else. I was a joke to myself long before these showed up.”
She gestures vaguely at her chest, trying to make light of something that clearly isn’t light at all.
And for the first time, I realize: she actually believes it.
She’s looking anywhere but at me, as if revealing this vulnerability to me is somehow worse than the confession itself.
“Daisy. Look at me.”
She turns.
The light catches her eyes, and—Christ—it knocks the breath out of me.
“You’re wrong,” I say. “You might think I’m an arrogant ass—I won’t argue the point—and yes, you have . . .” I clear my throat. “You have rather lovely attributes.” Her lips twitch at that. “But if that’s all people see, then they’re the ones who should feel ashamed. You can’t dictate what other people choose to value, Daisy. But you can decide whose values are worth a damn.”
I gesture toward the church garden where the congregation mills about. “Do you want to know something? You terrify them. Because you refuse to play by their rules, and all their money can’t buy what comes to you naturally.”
Her brows knit, like she’s not sure if I’m serious. “What? Tits and a nice ass? A quick flight to Thailand can sort that out.”
“Joy,” I say simply. “There’s enough joy in you to light up every person in that congregation.”
She stills. Cheeks flushed. Breath catching. And for once, Daisy Wilson, the woman with a quip for every occasion, has nothing to say.
“Sophia is lucky to have you as a friend. And I don’t say that lightly.”
She swallows. “She is?”
“Undoubtedly. In fact, we’re all lucky.”
“We . . . Even you?”
“Especially me.”
Somewhere along this conversation, my legs have shifted, bracketing hers. I don’t recall making the conscious decision to close the space between us.
She doesn’t move away.
Just sits there, her gaze locked onto mine, the silence charged with something thick and unspoken.
Her lips part, breath uneven, chest rising and falling in a way that makes my blood burn hotter.
She’s not looking away.
Neither am I.
It’s been so long. And Daisy is all soft curves and parted lips and skin that begs to be touched. She radiates sensuality in a way that makes it impossible not to think about fucking. About how long it’s been since I’ve had a woman beneath me.
And worse—so much worse—she makes me remember what I did in that bloody tent, what I’ve done in too many stolen moments since. My secret, shameful surrender to the unbearable need. Stroking myself late at night, her name in my throat, eyes closed, imagining her.
The celibacy has left me feeling almost feral with want.
I am sick of watching. Sick of imagining.
I need to be inside a woman. Inside her.
My arm slides along the back of the pew behind her, my body moving of its own accord like it’s forgotten every lesson in self-control I’ve ever learned.
“Daisy,” I say, her name emerging as a low growl, rough with everything I absolutely shouldn’t be thinking.
Not with her.
Especially not in a church.
But at this point, blasphemy is the least of my concerns. The need pulses through me, throbbing with every heartbeat, primal and desperate.
Jesus fucking Christ, I am so starved for this.
She tilts her head, eyes dancing with mischief. “Are you having intrusive thoughts, Edward?”
I chuckle, dark and humorless. “Trust me, if you knew what I was thinking, you wouldn’t be sitting quite so close.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Try me.”
Fuck this.
Whatever thin veneer of propriety was holding me together shatters.
I take her chin in my hand, tilting her face up with a grip that is just shy of possessive. Her breath snags, those full lips parting, so fucking inviting—and before I can talk myself out of it, I lean in and kiss her.
Soft. Full. Warm. Perfect.
God help me.
I haven’t felt a woman’s mouth in so long that the simple contact nearly undoes me.
A groan rumbles in my chest as I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers, greedy. I drag her closer, the wood of the pew biting into my knee, my fingers tangling in her hair.
I can’t let her escape.
And Christ— Christ —every sensation is too much . Every soft moan, every tiny hitch in her breath, every curve of her body pressing against mine—amplified by years of agonizing celibacy.
She whimpers into my mouth, a desperate sound that shoots straight to my cock, and suddenly, any control remaining is hanging by a fucking thread.
I am already painfully hard just from kissing her .
And if I don’t stop now— right now —I’ll end up doing something monumentally stupid. Like taking her, right here in this pew.
With what feels like superhuman effort, I tear myself away, chest heaving, head spinning. “Daisy, I shouldn’t have. I apologize.”
“Don’t you dare,” she snaps.
Before I can even begin to process what’s happening—which is proving difficult given that all my blood has abandoned my brain in favor of more southern pursuits—she’s on her feet, gripping my wrist, dragging me toward the nearest prayer alcove.
I could stop her.
Easily.
She’s tiny. I could plant my feet, and it would be over.
But I don’t.
She shoves me onto the pew—the ancient wood groaning under my weight—and suddenly, impossibly, she’s hiking up her dress and straddling me.
Jesus fucking Christ.
My breath heaves out of my lungs.
Every sound is amplified in this sacred space: The whisper of fabric against skin. The sharp click of her heels against stone. The soft, barely-there catch in her breath as she settles against me.
And god almighty.
I feel her. Warm. Soft. Pressed exactly where she shouldn’t be.
“Absolutely not,” I groan, my hands already betraying me, settling on her hips like they have a will of their own.
The position puts her breasts directly at eye level. She smells like vanilla and temptation. And wine.
“Shut it,” she breathes. She looks possessed.
A beautiful demon come to ensure my damnation.
I need to stop this. The vicar could walk in with my damn mother at any second.
“This is not what these areas are intended for.” It’s supposed to be a reprimand. It comes out as a strangled groan. “They’re meant for private worship.”
I can’t form coherent thoughts with her weight in my lap, with her heat pressed against my cock. I feel drunk on her.
She leans in, lips brushing mine. “You can worship me , Dr. Cavendish.”
The way she says my name makes something primitive snap in my chest. Makes me want to show her exactly what kind of worship I’m capable of.
I’ve completely lost the plot.
And I do not care.
Her lips crash against mine again, urgent, and I meet her just as fiercely, swallowing the little gasps that escape her throat as her body presses tighter against me, perfectly aligned with my aching cock.
Two years of nothing but my own hand and now this—this maddening, wicked creature writhing in my lap, making me groan with every deliberate grind of her hips.
“ Edward ,” she whispers against my mouth.
And then she moves.
Oh fuck.
“Christ, Daisy,” I growl, my fingers digging into her hips as she rocks against me. “You need to stop that.”
“Make me.” Her breath is warm against my lips, and then she moves against me again, making the ancient wood beneath us creak in tandem with my ragged breathing.
My head falls back against the wood with a hollow thunk , my grip tightening in a way that is neither gentlemanly nor appropriate nor remotely civilized.
“This is how you choose to break me?” My voice is hoarse, barely a breath. “In a bloody church?”
Her fingers slide into my hair, nails scraping against my scalp as she whispers against my mouth, “Worth it.”
I can’t come here. Even through this fog of desperate want, even with her soft skin enveloping me, even with her scent making me lightheaded—I know that much.
And it’ll bloody well happen if I don’t stop this. My control is paper-thin. The taste of her on my tongue, the soft sounds she’s making in her throat, the way her dress is riding up her thighs—a woman like her can’t do this to a man in my state without inevitable consequences.
My cock groans for release. The wood of the pew creaks beneath us.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her body shuddering, her breath hot against my skin as she rolls her hips again, rubbing my cock over the damp heat of her panties.
I want to feel her. Want to slide my hand between her thighs, want to push past the soaked lace and sink my fingers into her. Because I know she’s fucking soaked for me.
“Daisy, don’t—god, stop, I haven’t—”
I can’t finish the thought. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but feel her rocking against my steel-hard cock.
“Edward.” Her breath ghosts against my mouth, and it breaks something inside me.
Oh fuck.
God, this feels . . . Everything.
I can’t.
Not here.
Not like this.
But I’m not strong enough to stop.
Not when she’s making those little, breathless sounds in her throat. Not when I can feel her trembling against me, clutching at my shoulders like she needs me.
I’m too far gone.
Too desperate.
I’m going to come in my trousers like a teenage boy, with Daisy Wilson writhing in my lap.
The realization slams into me like a freight train, and I try—fucking try—to hold on, to fight the oncoming devastation, to keep from completely humiliating myself, but I’m already past the point of no return.
My hands clamp down on her hips, fingers digging in, and I press my forehead against her shoulder as my release rips through me.
The creak of the door at the back of the church cuts through the air like a knife.
We both freeze, eyes locking in shared panic.
My jaw is still slack, my breath still coming in rough pants, my body still shuddering with aftershocks—
And now someone’s about to find me with cum-soaked underwear and my little sister’s best friend in my lap.
In a prayer alcove.
At my great uncle’s funeral.
Daisy
I launch myself off Edward’s lap like I’ve been shot from a cannon, yanking my dress down. It’s a crumpled mess, clinging to my sweaty skin, and—oh god—did I really just do that? Straddle Edward Cavendish and grind him into next week like some baboon in heat? This is not what they meant by “getting closer to god” in Sunday school.
I nearly tipped over the edge myself, just from rubbing up against him.
I’m still so turned on I can barely string thoughts together. My thighs are trembling. My skin is flushed with the aftermath. I’m caught somewhere between wanting to die of shame and wanting to climb back on for round two.
At the back of the church, the vicar is having a very calm, very normal conversation with a sweet-looking elderly woman, gesturing with the patience of a man who has no idea that the sanctity of his sacred space has just been utterly defiled.
Did he see anything?
My eyes dart to the arched window above the cross.
Did Jesus see anything?
Of course he did.
He sees everything.
At this point, I imagine him sighing heavily from his celestial couch, pouring himself a stiff drink. Oh, it’s her again.
Though actually, that means he also saw Edward wanking to my bidet demonstrations, so maybe he’s used to it by now.
I glance at Edward.
The man looks like he’s just been struck by lightning, and frankly, the damage appears permanent. He’s desperately adjusting his trousers in a way that won’t draw attention to his . . . sticky situation. His eyes are wild when they meet mine. His underwear must look like a crime scene.
But damn. This might have been the hottest moment of my life.
Right up there with The Edward Show in the tent.
The vicar and the lady start making their way over.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
The lady’s face lights up when she sees him—like she’s just spotted Paul McCartney in Tesco. If only she knew what those expensive trousers are hiding.
If I wasn’t trying to remember how basic motor functions work, I’d be crying with laughter at how rattled Edward looks.
She puts a sympathetic hand on Edward’s bicep—the same bicep I was gripping for very different reasons mere moments ago.
“Oh, Edward, dear,” she coos, all grandmotherly concern. “You look quite flushed. Oh, poor boy, you must be so upset about your uncle.”
Edward makes a strangled sound.
“Hi, Vicar!” I chirp , and it comes out so bright and unnatural that I immediately regret speaking. I sound deranged.
I perform an involuntary hand flap in the air, which is supposed to be a wave but instead looks like I’m signaling for emergency help. Simultaneously, I try to smooth my hair as inconspicuously as possible.
My heart is pounding loud enough to count as its own hymn.
Edward clears his throat and starts rambling—words tumbling out in a posh, malfunctioning loop. “Wonderful service, Vicar. Bernard would have loved it . . . yes . . . very moving . . . very fitting . . . yes.”
Oh my god, he’s glitching.
He’s running a hand through his hair, further mussing it, like he’s trying to physically scrub his thoughts clean . Each pass is more frantic than the last.
It’s weirdly endearing.
Finally, he gets a grip. Sort of.
“This is Daisy, umm . . . Sophia’s friend,” he manages.
The vicar’s gaze shifts to me. “Hello, Miss Daisy,” he says reverently. “I believe I saw you earlier at the sermon.”
I panic.
And—dear god—out of nowhere, a posh accent I didn’t even know I possessed tumbles out of my mouth. “Yes, you very well might have.”
What the actual hell. Why am I suddenly cosplaying as Duchess Daisy of Fucksborough?
My spine straightens. My chin lifts. For absolutely no reason, I clasp my hands neatly in front of me.
Edward side-eyes me then clears his throat for the millionth time.
He digs in his pocket awkwardly. He shoves a handful of notes at the vicar like he’s trying to pay off god himself. Big notes, from what I can see.
I can’t take this.
“Better go say goodbye to Sophia!” I announce to no one in particular before practically sprinting out of the church like my knickers are on fire.
I lock eyes with Uncle Bernard’s massive funeral portrait.
And freeze.
The old perv had a front-row seat to the whole damn show.