CHAPTER 21
Daisy
The state of my underwear is nothing short of a human rights violation. And the worst part? I have to marinate in it for the entire journey back to London.
Thirty minutes of nodding along to Mum’s endless chatter, pretending to listen, and I finally make my escape to say goodbye to Sophia.
Straddling Edward Cavendish in a prayer alcove and grinding him to an unsolicited climax was not originally on my funeral itinerary. And yet—here we are.
Part of me—let’s call her Sensible Daisy—is fully aware that this was a wildly unhinged lapse in judgment. The other feral part of me is thriving . She’s popping champagne and doing a victory lap because, for once in my life, I have some kind of power over Edward Cavendish.
The man I’d carefully filed away in my brain under Completely Untouchable.
I was too busy making a fool of myself over his younger brother, Charlie, to even entertain the thought. Edward was the serious older brother who worked too much, smiled too little, spent his time discussing the economy in his clipped, measured tone.
So, what was that? A momentary lapse in sanity on Edward’s part? Some kind of grief-induced hysteria?
Or, worst of all—am I simply his version of a palate cleanser? A little common-girl sorbet before he returns to his usual Michelin-starred menu of duchesses, heiresses, and women who own racehorses?
Because let’s be brutally honest here—I am not his type.
Sure, Edward enjoys watching videos of me selling garden tools, but that’s a very different thing from actually wanting me in real life.
Edward Cavendish doesn’t end up with girls like me. Girls who say “cheers” instead of “thank you” and who think Fortnum & Mason is more of a tourist attraction than a legitimate place to buy jam.
Not someone who once demonstrated a vacuum cleaner’s suction power on her face during the three a.m. slot on a shopping channel. That’s my lane.
Then again, I’d bet good money that none of those posh birds have ever made him come in his pants in a church.
Which brings me to my current spiritual crisis. Time for a much-needed Chakra Check-In after desecrating a house of worship:
Root Chakra: Not grounded. In critical condition.
Sacral Chakra: Absolutely feral. Vibrating at a frequency that could power the whole of London.
Solar Plexus: Full of butterflies and inappropriate pride at making Edward cream his posh pants in a prayer alcove.
Throat Chakra: Making all sorts of suspicious noises.
Exhibit A: the pig snort during the eulogy.
Exhibit B: the not-church-appropriate whimpering.
Third Eye Chakra: Witnessed things it cannot unsee, including Edward’s “Oh god” face.
I’m so lost in thought that I slam straight into what feels like a brick wall.
I blink up into a too-familiar pair of blue eyes—Edward’s blue, but six inches closer to my height and significantly more irritating.
For fuck’s sake. Charlie.
He winces before smearing on his golden-boy grin. “Daisy. What a surprise. Good to see you.”
Lying bastard.
“You too,” I manage.
He shifts awkwardly, adjusting his perfectly straight tie. “It’s sweet of you to come to these things. For Sophia. But please don’t feel obligated.”
My smile freezes in place. I dig deep for restraint. “Sophia wanted me here.”
“Yeah, of course, but we don’t expect it,” he says smoothly. The subtext is loud: I don’t want to see you. Please fuck off.
“I’m going to say goodbye to Sophia,” I say coolly, no longer pretending to be civil. “Goodbye, Charlie.”
The fact that this man still has the power to make me feel like shit is infuriating.
Part of me wants to scream Guess what, Charlie, I just dryhumped your brother. He’d hate it, the smug prat. But let’s not kid ourselves—that wasn’t some grand romance to rub in his face. It was . . . whatever the hell that was.
I shove the thought away and wobble inside. I spot Sophia standing with Imogen and make a beeline for them.
“Hey,” I say. “Sophia, love, I’ve got to head back to London. I have work tonight—those garden shears won’t demonstrate themselves!” I add quickly, before Imogen can get a word in with whatever snotty comment she’s dying to make about my career.
To her credit, she just . . . smiles at me. Suspicious, but I’ll take it.
“Of course.” Sophia pulls me into a tight hug. “Thank you for coming. You’re always there for me.”
“It’s hard for you, sweetie.” Imogen swoops in. “You need your friends around you. You take all the time you need to get over this.”
Sophia sniffles. “Thanks.”
I nod along, making sympathetic noises, but internally, my thoughts are a little less supportive. It’s Great-Uncle Bernard, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like he was cruelly snatched away in his prime. We all saw this coming.
And yeah, maybe I’m a heartless cow, but out here in the real world, nobody gets a free pass to wallow. When Mum was sick, I still dragged my ass to work, flogged gadgets with a smile, paid the bloody gas bill. I couldn’t just pause everything to wallow in grief.
“I’m sorry you have to get the train,” Sophia says, squeezing my arm. “I would’ve driven you, but I’m staying with Mum for a few days to recover. I just hope Second Chance Paws understands.”
Her dog charity—matching lonely grans with even lonelier mutts—is genuinely adorable, and I support it with my whole heart. Even if, statistically speaking, at least two people and four Labradors have definitely died since she started it.
“Oh, don’t even worry about that,” Imogen chimes in, smoothing a perfectly manicured hand down Sophia’s arm. “I’m sure they’ll understand you need time to heal.”
And this is where I struggle.
Because it’s like Imogen is filling Sophia’s head with all this soft, fluffy, not-in-the-real-world nonsense.
Simon would laugh himself into a hernia if I asked for time off because my great uncle died. His exact words, barked in that gruff East End accent, would be: “Are you taking the fucking piss? Unless he left you enough money to buy the shopping channel, get your ass back to work and sell me some bleeding garden tools.”
And honestly, fair enough.
But before I can say anything, Imogen’s tone sharpens. “Sophia, darling . . . who’s that woman with Edward?”
I follow her hawk-like gaze, and my stomach plummets straight through the floor.
Oh. Oh god.
Some goddess in a perfectly tailored dress is standing next to Edward, her arm hooked through his like she’s done it a hundred times before. She’s closer to his age—mid-thirties, maybe—and she has that kind of grown-up sophistication I’ll never, ever master.
Not even if I live to 100.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she rests her hand on his chest.
Like it belongs there, like she knows every inch of him and doesn’t need permission to touch him.
Right where my hand was—just an hour ago.
Something inside me twists.
“Hmmm.” Sophia studies her. “Oh, wait! That’s Lucia. She works with Edward.” She leans in like she’s about to deliver some juicy gossip, and I hate that I want to hear it. “Giles told me about her. Edward’s taken her out a few times. Dr. Kelly.”
Of course she’s a doctor.
Imogen’s face contorts into something demonic.
“I really hope they become a proper couple.” Sophia sighs dreamily. “They’d be so good together. Edward deserves to find happiness again, you know? I worry about him sometimes.”
“Oh, for god’s sake, Sophia!” Imogen actually stamps her foot. “You’re supposed to be helping me get Edward, not . . . cheering on her .”
Sophia shrinks under Imogen’s glare, rubbing her arm apologetically. “I’m sorry , darling, it’s just . . . well, you know how he is. He doesn’t go for younger women. He thinks women in their twenties are far too young. Thinks we’re all a bit . . . silly. ”
Right.
Of course.
We’re all just silly little girls to him.
A spark of anger flares in my chest, and it has nothing to do with Imogen’s dramatics or Sophia’s gentle condescension.
In so many ways, Edward and Charlie couldn’t be more different. Edward, despite being a moody, awkward grump, has depth. Real depth. The kind you feel in your chest when he’s talking about something he cares about.
Edward has morals. He actually wants to help people, while Charlie studies medicine for the clout and the framed certificates for his wall. Edward is thoughtful. Introverted.
But in one very important way he is exactly like Charlie.
The kind of man who’ll do just fine with me in secret but marry the doctor, the one who fits neatly into the Cavendish world.
I got swept up again—classic Daisy, head in the clouds. Always fucking do.
Can’t even behave in a church . Practically melting because Edward Cavendish said some nice things about my “joy”.
But I’m not a fool this time.
Sure, Edward had lovely things to say about me—when no one else was around to hear them. And maybe he even meant them. He’s not cruel like that. But at the end of the day, he’s still Edward bloody Cavendish. He might enjoy my chaos in private, might even find it charming, but he’s not going to choose me. Not really. Not when it matters.
The lump in my throat is impossible to swallow.
I don’t know why I’m so affected after a five-minute rough and tumble.
My voice comes out clipped and sharp. “I’ve got to go.”
I step outside and dig my trainers out of my bag. The heels come off and get shoved unceremoniously into the depths of my bag. The trainers go on with a satisfying tug of the laces.
Behind me, there’s the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on gravel. The kind of stride that radiates purpose.
Only one man walks like that.
Great. Here comes the inevitable “let’s keep our prayer alcove shenanigans our dirty little secret” speech. I cannot wait to hear how he spins this.
“Daisy. Can I have a moment?”
I stop mid-stride, sigh, and turn to face him. “Yes?”
And there he is, standing all broody and tortured, his perfectly tailored suit now slightly rumpled, his hair a mess from all the hand-running.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his brow furrowing like he’s about to deliver bad news.
Here we fucking go.
“Are you?” I fold my arms tight across my chest. “Why’s that?”
“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
The guilt express, right-on schedule.
I keep my face blank, channeling every ounce of chill I don’t feel. “No need to apologize. We’re both adults. I thoroughly enjoyed our little church rendezvous. Very . . . spiritual.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“As you could see,” he says quietly, “so did I.” His gaze darkens, voice dipping lower. “A little too much.”
I wave him off, pretending the tiny knife twisting between my ribs isn’t cutting as deep as it is. “It’s fine. No need to dwell. I’ve got a train to catch, and you’ve got a doctor to get back to.”
Oops—bit more venom than planned. Slipped out like a burp there.
His jaw tightens. He steps closer, awkward and deliberate, as if he’s out of his element. “Wait. Look, I had something to ask—”
“It’s fine, Edward,” I cut in, steamrolling whatever’s coming before it guts me. “I’m not planning to tell anyone. Your secret descent into debauchery with the shopping channel girl is safe with me. I’ll be taking what happened to my grave. And Bernard’s grave. Though, knowing Bernard, he’s probably already regaling the angels with the sordid details.”
He huffs, dragging a hand through his hair again, looking less than thrilled with my quip. “Right. That’s not what I was going to ask.”
“Well?” I raise a brow. “I do have a train to catch, so . . . ?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders tensing. “Would you like to see me sometime?”
The words spill out, like they’ve been dragged out against their will.
My eyes flick down, catching the subtle shift in his stance, the way his fingers curl inside his pockets.
“Yes, I’ve changed my underwear,” he deadpans.
I press my lips together, suppressing the laugh bubbling up in my throat. “Good for you.”
“So?” he presses, a flicker of impatience in his tone now.
“So what?”
“Would you like to see me?”
I give him a slow, deliberate once-over. “See you how , exactly?”
Naked, dick out, me on my knees? I don’t say it, but it hangs there.
“See me for dinner and . . . uh . . .” He shifts, clears his throat.
“And?” I ask, head tilting in mock curiosity. “And what then ?”
So that’s what this is. He wants a bit of rough, and he’s trying to ask for it in that upper-class way where they pretend they’re not actually asking.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not exactly opposed. Edward might be stiffer than his shirt collar in public, but what I felt earlier suggests he’s got plenty to . . . work with.
But I’ve already done the secret Cavendish shag routine with one brother. I know this dance—the exhausting choreography of trying to be enough. Smart enough. Witty enough. Beautiful enough.
It didn’t end well then, and I’m not daft enough to think this time will be any different.
“Uhh.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, his jaw tightening like he already regrets opening his mouth. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”
Right.
I fold my arms, my tone flat. “So why exactly do you want to take me to dinner and . . . whatever it is you think comes after? Oh, and where’s this grand dinner happening, then?”
He blinks. “My house?”
Of course. His swanky house. Tucked away, no prying eyes. How bloody convenient.
I narrow my eyes. “Why, Edward? Why do you want to have me over for dinner at your place?”
“To spend time with you,” he snaps, the words clipped. He rubs the back of his neck, frowning. “This isn’t going at all how I planned. Not that I had some grand plan, but apparently, ten years out of the dating world is enough to turn it into . . . this. ”
Right. Time for the acid test.
“What about the opera?” I ask.
Because let’s be honest—his real plans involve a nice private dinner, followed by a quiet shag at his ridiculously expensive bachelor pad, where no one will see him associating with me.
But the opera?
Now that’s public. That’s Edward Cavendish willingly taking me somewhere full of people who actually know him.
And there it is. The flinch. He physically recoils, like I’ve just suggested we go dogging in Hyde Park.
“You enjoy the opera?” His tone’s all disbelief, eyebrows climbing.
What he’s really saying is: You? At the opera?
What he’s also really saying is: I don’t want to be seen with you in public, and also, you’re not as educated or cultured as me.
Never mind that I’d rather watch paint dry than sit through four hours of Italian warbling about some tragic bastard dying—it’s the principle of the thing.
I roll my eyes. “Let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?”
Or in this case, a shag a shag.
I’d respect him more if he just came out and said Want to be my dirty little secret? At least then we’d both know exactly where we stand.
“What?” His frown deepens, his voice irritated. “For god’s sake, Daisy, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about. Must you always turn everything into a bloody performance ? You could have just answered the damn question.”
“No thank you, Edward,” I fire back. “I think I’ll pass. Yes, I’m common as muck, I say ‘fuck’ too much, and quite frankly, sometimes I’m a bit of a cunt. But I’m not going to wet myself with excitement just because a Cavendish is offering to feed me dinner before he fucks me.”
Okay, that last bit might’ve been a tad much—landed like a brick through a window. I don’t fully regret it, though. His jaw clenches hard, that muscle twitching.
“Right,” he draws out. “Thank you for that . . . colorful interpretation of my intentions. Always refreshing to be told what I want by someone who clearly has me all figured out.”
“Don’t pull that high-horse nonsense with me, Edward.” I fold my arms. “Dinner? What on earth would we even talk about over dinner? You and your brother are cut from the same bloody cloth. Don’t pretend you want me over for a nice chat and a meal. Christ, I barely know who’s even in Parliament right now. They could replace half of them with mannequins in suits and I genuinely wouldn’t notice for months.” I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Might be an upgrade, actually.”
He steps closer, looming now, and I’ve got to crane my neck to keep glaring up at him.
“Daisy . . .” His voice carries a warning.
“I don’t even know what national insurance is supposed to insure me against. Floods? Disease? The possibility of another Cavendish trying to get in my knickers?”
His jaw ticks—oh, that one stung.
“So don’t stand there acting like you’re dying to debate the weather over a roast. We both know what this is about. You once told me that me and your brother weren’t compatible. I knew what you were fucking saying, Eddie.”
And that —that does it.
“I see. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” He nods once, curtly, as though wrapping up a business deal. “And while I don’t consider you a ‘cunt,’ as you so eloquently put it”, you can be an insufferable brat when you put your mind to it. Consider the invitation withdrawn.”
He pauses. “Goodbye, Daisy.”
“Enjoy your opera box, Eddie.”