CHAPTER 23
Daisy
I burst through the doors of the Cavendish estate drawing room, breathless and disheveled. Inside, Sophia and the dressmaker are fussing over Imogen and Bernice, who are mid-twirl in their bridesmaid dresses.
“Sorry!” I gasp, clinging to the doorframe like I’ve just completed a triathlon.
Four sets of eyes whip my way, each set radiating a different flavor of judgment.
“Train trouble!” I blurt, still panting. “Apparently, a leaf touched the track, and the entire British rail system has collapsed. You know how it is.”
Sophia lets out this sharp little huff through her nose. “It’s fine,” she says, but her tone’s got an edge—way snippier than usual. “Just . . . Daisy, please, get into your dress.”
Ouch. Twenty minutes late, and you’d think I’d personally sabotaged her big day.
“It’s over there on the sofa,” the dressmaker says, gesturing toward a frothy heap of pastel pink chiffon, and I lunge for it.
Imogen freezes mid-twirl.
“What is that smell ?” she shrieks, nostrils flaring theatrically as she stares at me.
Everyone freezes. Even me, hand hovering over the chiffon like it’s about to bite.
Imogen takes a delicate step forward.
“Daisy,” she starts. “Have you been smoking marijuana ?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Jamie.
He hotboxed our flat last night with his new “premium” weed, which he graciously decided to smoke directly under where my coat was hanging.
And fine, maybe I’d taken one—ONE—tiny puff, just to shut him up.
It wasn’t premium.
“It’s not what it smells like,” I say, my cheeks blazing. “My flatmate—he, um, he had some last night, and my coat was, you know, nearby.”
“You live with someone who smokes weed?”
“Don’t touch the dress!” Sophia screeches, smacking my hand away from it. “We don’t have time for this, Daisy. Please, for the love of god, take off your coat and put it outside before you contaminate the fabric.”
Contaminate. As though I’m a walking biohazard, leaking skunk fumes from my pores.
But fine.
I bare my teeth in a smile. “Of course. Be right back.”
I slink out.
Outside, she says. And by outside , she obviously means outside the fucking building —because apparently, my coat now requires immediate removal from the premises.
I stomp down the corridor hauling my disgraced coat, feeling a tiny ember of rage glowing merrily in my chest.
Oh, sure, Sophia’s pissed, but you know what? So am I.
The coat barely smells. A whisper of weed at most. If you didn’t have a nose like a bloodhound—or, you know, Imogen—you’d miss it.
I once told Edward you can tell a lot about a person by their nostrils.
And hers? Absolute assholes.
This is the fifth fitting in as many weeks. Fifth. For a dress that already fits.
What exactly are we doing here? Squinting at seams for secret flaws? Stress-testing the zip to see if it’ll survive a sneeze?
Or is this some elaborate psychological experiment to see how long it takes before I start mainlining Chardonnay in the corner?
Unless Sophia’s banking on all of us spontaneously morphing into different body shapes before the wedding, this level of scrutiny feels unnecessary.
And does she have any idea how much this is costing me in train fares?
Oh, sure, she’s got the big things covered—dresses, shoes, bouquets—but it’s the little things that get you. Things like peak-hour train tickets, overpriced station coffees, and explaining to my boss yet again why I need another day off to confirm that a dress that fit last week still fits this week .
Sophia only works at her charity three days a week. She’s got time to spare. Meanwhile, I’m trying to convince Simon that “urgent bridesmaid duties” is a valid excuse for missing the big pressure-washer demonstration.
Spoiler: Simon does not think this is a valid excuse.
Lizzie agrees this is madness. At her cousin’s wedding, the bridesmaids wore ASOS dresses. One fitting. In a living room. Fueled by Prosecco. Zip, zip, done .
I dump my coat in the outhouse, resisting the urge to slam the door.
On the rage-marinated march back to the drawing room, every step is a battle not to scream the one thought pulsing through my brain: THE DRESSES ALREADY FUCKING FIT.
We are not starring in Bridesmaids: The Musical .
I shove the door open, slapping on my best oh-my-god-I-love-being-here smile.
In a blur of pastel chiffon, I wriggle into the dress at world-record speed.
And—shockingly—I look exactly the same as in the last fitting.
The confusion tumbles out before I can stop it. “So . . . what’s this fitting for?”
“The jewelry !” Imogen chirps.
The fitter swoops in, draping us in necklaces, bracelets, and rings like she’s decorating a Christmas tree.
“Oh, this one catches the light perfectly,” Sophia murmurs, tilting her head to admire the necklace she’s just placed on Bernice.
Meanwhile, every muscle in my ass is clenched in barely-contained rage. Surely— surely —this jewelry circus could have been tacked onto the last fitting? Or a WhatsApp photo exchange ?
There’s a knock at the door.
Sophia spins around, eyes wide with suspicion. “Who is it? We’re doing bridesmaid fittings. Only certain people are allowed in.”
A pause.
Then, a low, deadpan reply: “It’s Edward.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Sophia’s tone does a complete 180. “Oh, okay. You can come in, but only if you promise not to tell Giles anything you see.”
The door creaks open.
And in walks Edward Cavendish.
Those deep blue eyes rake over everything, cutting through the pastel haze.
They land on me, lingering just long enough for me to feel the weight of his judgment as he does a quick up-and-down.
Naturally, he frowns.
Probably thinks this is too ladylike for me. Probably thinks I should be in fishnets and stripper heels, carrying a pint instead of a bouquet.
Heat creeps up my neck. My pulse thunders. There are too many secrets between us now. If the girls knew —if they even suspected —
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He adjusts his cuffs. “You all look . . . beautiful.”
“Hi,” we all chorus back.
He shifts his weight, his discomfort crackling. His eyes flick anywhere but me.
Probably because the last time he saw me, I was giving him a lap dance.
“Sophia,” he says, speaking directly to her with the laser focus of a man avoiding a very specific problem, “just wanted to say goodbye before heading back to London.”
“Come in.” Sophia waves him forward like we’re at a goddamn tea party. “Look at the ladies. Do you think Giles will approve of the dresses?”
Her smile is so genuinely eager that it temporarily quells my earlier homicidal urges toward her.
“Yes, of course he will,” Edward says, his gaze flickering toward me for approximately half a second before yanking itself away like it touched something scalding.
“Doesn’t the color really suit Imogen?” Sophia asks.
Imogen blushes.
“Indeed,” he says tersely.
Sophia claps her hands together. “Twirl, girls. Show Edward the detail on the back.”
And because we are, apparently, nothing more than life-sized Victorian dolls, we twirl. Satin and lace swish dramatically through the air.
Edward dutifully watches us spin, his posture growing more rigid by the second.
“Beautiful,” he repeats mechanically, like he’s forgotten every other adjective in his considerable vocabulary.
“Hmm,” the fitter hums, stepping toward me, tilting her head. “I think I’ll take another inch off Tracey’s.”
A ripple of confusion moves through the room.
“You mean me?” I ask. “I’m Daisy, not Tracey.”
The fitter’s face flushes. “Oh! So sorry. Excuse me, I must have misheard.”
“Not a problem,” I say easily.
“Daisy’s such a cute name.” Bernice smiles. “My name sounds like it belongs to an eighty-year-old woman. Why are you called Daisy?”
I smirk. “Guess my mum thought it would help me grow up sweet and innocent. That worked out well, didn’t it? Though what’s in a name, anyway?”
The girls laugh, because yes, clearly , that plan went straight to hell.
“Quite a lot, actually,” Edward says curtly. “I have to disagree with Shakespeare on that one. Names create expectations—rightly or wrongly. I doubt anyone’s rushing to name their child Judas or, for that matter, Adolf.”
Leave it to Edward to drop a Hitler reference into a lighthearted chat.
“I suppose so,” I muse, tilting my head, meeting his stare with a crooked smile. “No one’s shagging the Dereks of the world anymore, are they? But Christians and Tristans? They’re doing just fine.”
“Daisy!” Sophia gasps, half scandalized, half laughing. “You have a one-track mind.”
I shrug, unapologetic. If the track’s sturdy, no point changing.
“And the Fabios,” Bernice chimes in, giggling.
I snort. “No chance. Fabio disappeared with his hair. The older ladies might still be holding out for a Fabio, but let’s be real—he’s a dying breed.”
Edward coughs. “I see this conversation has no further use for me,” he mutters, probably mentally filing it under Inappropriate Things Daisy Has Said in Public, Vol. 3.
He strides over to Sophia, leans down, and presses a formal kiss on her forehead. “Goodbye,” he says, already halfway out the door.
“Do we all get forehead kisses, or is that a Sophia-exclusive perk?” Imogen teases, batting her lashes.
Edward goes still.
His spine straightens so fast it’s like someone replaced it with a steel rod.
He clears his throat and without another word, he walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room erupts into giggles.
My heart, meanwhile, is still attempting to remember how to function like a normal organ.
“I think we broke him,” Sophia says.
“All right, ladies, that’s us done for today,” the fitter announces with a brisk clap of her hands. “Sophia, are you happy with the jewelry?”
Sophia beams. “Absolutely.”
Thank fuck. Freedom at la—
“Fabulous. The headpieces should be in next week, so we’ll do that fitting in the next few weeks.”
Hold the fucking phone.
“We’re not done?” I blurt, eyes widening as all heads turn toward me.
Sophia blinks, her smile faltering. “No, we still need to try the headpieces with the dresses to make sure they work together.”
“Okay,” I say, carefully, trying to channel my inner shopping channel presenter calm, “but hear me out. Can’t we just . . . do that over Zoom?”
Silence.
I press on, gesturing at our collectively pink-clad forms. “Like, we’re not getting our hair done, right? We’re just checking if the color of the headpieces matches the color of the dresses? And, if so, do we really need people—as in, us—to physically be there for that?”
At this rate, I’ll have spent more time in fittings than I have actually working.
“It’s part of the process,” she says slowly. “Is that . . . okay?”
“Of course!” I plaster on my smile again. “Totally fine. Just wanted to confirm.”
“You just tell us when,” Imogen simpers.
Lick-arse.
I storm off to “freshen up,” which is code for calm the fuck down before I commit a crime . I head for the nearest kitchen. There are three in this house, and none of them are called a kitchen. We’ve got the butler’s pantry, the scullery, and whatever nonsense rich people invent to justify owning multiple kitchens.
Another trip from London to Oxfordshire to check if something sparkly matches something pink?
Really? What’s next? A fitting to ensure our chakras are aligned? A séance to make sure our ancestors approve of the color scheme ?
God, I cannot wait for this wedding to be over.
Once the commotion dies down, I can slip back into my normal life, where the only Cavendish I have to deal with is Sophia in her London townhouse. No more forced smiles, no more suffocating expectations, and—most importantly—no more Edward making me feel all . . . weird.
Muttering death threats under my breath, I stalk toward the scullery, round the corner, and—
Stop dead.
Because, of course , Edward is there.
Standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense, a half-eaten peach in his hand—staring at it like it has personally ruined his day.
Something hot and inconvenient flares in my stomach.
“Thought you’d gone back to London,” I say.
“I am. Shortly. And you?”
I shake my head, grabbing a glass from the counter. “I’m stopping by my mum’s first. Although she’s probably sick of me by now—I’ve been popping in so much lately.”
I brush past him to the sink, pour my water, and then turn to make my escape. “Okay, well . . . bye, then.”
But before I can bolt, his hand catches my arm. Gently, but firmly. A bolt of electricity snaps through my skin.
“Why did you lie in there?” he asks abruptly.
That muscle in his jaw does its signature angry little dance , and my stomach does something very annoying in response.
“Lie about what?” I blink, genuinely lost.
“Your name. That story about your mother thinking it would make you sweet and innocent.”
I freeze, glass halfway to my lips.
“Your mother told me the real story once. She said she saw daisies growing through concrete and thought, ‘That’s the kind of resilience my daughter will need.’ I find it rather a sweet story.”
The water in my glass becomes endlessly fascinating. “Is there anything you don’t forget?” I mutter.
“I’m just curious why you said something more . . . superficial.”
“Maybe because I don’t feel all that resilient right now,” I snap. “I don’t feel like some badass flower.”
I feel his eyes on me, heavy and searching, and it’s too much.
I set the glass down and turn to leave before he can respond, because apparently, I can face furious customers on live TV—grown adults yelling about faulty bidets—but I can’t handle Edward Cavendish knowing my mother once believed I was strong enough to bloom through concrete.
Downward dog might not be the ideal pose for a full-blown rant, but here I am—palms pressing into Mum’s yoga mat, hips in the air, vibrating with frustration.
“I swear to god, if I have to go to one more bridesmaid fitting, I’m going to set the dresses on fire.”
“Deep breaths, love,” Mum says, shifting effortlessly into Tree Pose. “Sophia means well. Sweet girl, but let’s be honest—she was raised to expect . . . certain things. Reality isn’t her strong suit.”
I roll my eyes, stretching into Warrior Two. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t raised to spend my weekends twirling in satin. Some of us have limits.”
Mum mirrors my pose— not even a wobble —and leans toward me conspiratorially, whispering. “I blame Mrs. C.”
“She can’t hear you from the main house, Mum. Unless she’s bugged the yoga mats.”
“She hears everything.”
“Just like Edward,” I mutter.
Mum straightens up, her eyes glinting with interest. “Edward?”
“Mm-hmm,” I mumble, fixing my gaze on my front hand, instantly regretting saying his name out loud.
She’s like a bloodhound with a fresh scent now. “I saw you two talking at the funeral last week. It looked quite . . . intense.”
I snap upright. “Not in the church, right? Dear god, Mum, did you see?”
She arches a brow, her arms lowering slightly. “No, in the church hall,” she says slowly, giving me a what is wrong with you look. “See what?”
Oh, thank god.
“Nothing,” I say, diving into a Forward Bend so aggressively that I nearly headbutt my own knees.
“Daisy Wilson, is there something you’re not telling me?” There’s a pause. “You know, I’ve always thought he had a soft spot for you.”
I scoff, snapping back up.
She plants her hands on her hips. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I sigh, realizing there’s no escaping this. Might as well give her the PG version. “He . . . might have tried to ask me out.”
Her whole face lights up. “Really? Oh, Daisy!”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Can you believe it?”
“Well, that’s wonderful!”
“As if, Mum. I’m not about to be another Cavendish plaything. He spent half the funeral glued to that gorgeous woman from the hospital. You saw her, right?”
Mum hums, her enthusiasm dimming slightly. “I did see her. I thought . . . well, I thought they might be together.”
“Exactly.”
She frowns. “Edward is a good man, Daisy. I hope you didn’t cut him off too harshly. You can be quite blunt sometimes.”
I wave her off. “He’ll survive. Besides, I’ve learned my lesson from Charlie. Fool me once, and all that bollocks.”
Her expression softens, but there’s something sharp in her eyes now.
“Listen to me—Edward is nothing like Charlie. He’s twice the man his brother will ever be. If he asked you out, he meant it.”
“Come on, Mum.”
“I’m serious.” She straightens, steel creeping into her voice. “I won’t hear you speak ill of that man.”
“Whatever.”
Hands on hips. Uh-oh. Full Mum Mode activated. “Daisy, you listen to me and behave , please. Be nice to that man.”
“I am!”
“I mean it. Look . . . I wasn’t totally honest with you before.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I mentioned Edward being generous with the staff.” She pauses, as if choosing her words. “It’s more than that. The truth is . . . Edward might very well have saved my life.”
I freeze.
“What?” My heart stalls. “How?”
Mum exhales. “How d’you think I managed to skip the NHS queue and get all those private treatments?”
“I thought it was your health insurance . . . or the family pulled strings.”
She laughs, but it’s not her usual warm one. “The family ? Please. No, love, it was all Edward . And he didn’t just pull strings—he paid for the whole lot.”
She gives me a pointed look. “Even those Reiki treatments you suggested.”
I just stare at her. Blink. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He didn’t want people to know.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, love. I hate keeping secrets from you.”
My chest tightens, my thoughts swirling. “But why? Why wouldn’t he want people to know? That’s . . . it’s a big deal.”
Her smile tilts, a little sad around the edges. “Because that’s Edward. He doesn’t like throwing his wealth around, even when it’s for something good. He’s always been like that. A gentleman through and through.”
She looks at me, serious now. “I’ve watched him agonize over every decision he makes, Daisy. He’s not superficially charming like Charlie, no. But when Edward says something—when he does something—he means it. And honestly? That’s worth so much more.”
“But . . . he thinks reiki is nonsense.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. But he still paid for it. Because he knew how much it meant to me. And to you.”
I stare at her, my heart doing this weird, uncomfortable squeeze.
Edward didn’t just cover the proper medical stuff—he paid for the hippy-dippy nonsense he probably thinks is about as scientific as rubbing a magic lamp.
My throat tightens.
Regardless of his intentions with me, I had no right to treat him the way I did.
I treated him like . . . well, like Charlie.
Edward asked me to dinner, and I went full defensive psycho.
But what if I got it wrong?
What if he genuinely just wanted to have dinner with me?
Not some grand, clandestine affair—just a normal, straightforward date?
Stupid. Stupid, stupid Daisy.
My stomach twists itself into guilty knots as the realization sinks in.
Charlie would have made sure the whole bloody world knew he was paying for Mum’s treatment. Would have reminded me every chance he got.
Edward? He didn’t even want me to know.
And instead of throwing my angry words at the brother who actually deserved them, I’d hurled them at the man who told me I was the human embodiment of joy.
I’ve been an idiot. A complete, thoughtless idiot.