CHAPTER 44
Edward
It seems I am now the latest Cavendish scandal. Not that we do scandals the way other people do. Ours are refined, whispered in corridors, exchanged behind the rims of crystal glasses at dinner parties. Nothing so gauche as anyone actually talking about it to my face.
Edward Cavendish’s midlife crisis. Edward Cavendish having a fling with a girl in her twenties. Edward Cavendish losing his composure over said girl. Edward Cavendish making a fool of himself.
The whispers vary depending on the source. Some frame it as a tragic lapse in judgment, an unfortunate side effect of stress and long nights at the hospital. Others suggest it’s a desperate midlife crisis; that I’m a walking cliché.
As has become the routine, I step into the Regency room—the estate’s grandest so-called “area for entertaining”—and conversation halts. Every pair of eyes swivels toward me, some wide with curiosity, others carefully blank. The entire wedding party is present, along with the usual extended family members.
“Edward, darling!” My mother rises from her seat.
“Mother.” I lean in to kiss her cheek. “By all means, don’t let me interrupt,” I say, letting a hint of sarcasm seep in.
She smiles, trying to look unbothered when I happen to know she is very, very bothered by what happened between me and Daisy.
“We were just discussing the order of service,” she replies smoothly. “Sit down, darling. Relax. You’ve had a long week.”
I settle into a chair. The moment I do, every pair of eyes dutifully swivels away, their owners feigning disinterest. But I catch the quick glances, the pink creeping up necks, the barely concealed intrigue.
By Cavendish standards, my altercation with Daisy has been embarrassingly public. There are pictures circulating—not just within our contained circles but beyond, slipping into social media.
But we are Cavendishes. We do not acknowledge such things in polite company. We simply pretend they do not exist.
Daisy isn’t here, and for her sake, I’m relieved. I can only hope my family extends her the respect she deserves at the wedding. If anyone dares act otherwise, they will answer to me.
I trust Sophia will ensure decorum, though she’s still not speaking to me. I can feel the weight of her displeasure every time we share a room. She’s taken mine and Daisy’s implosion personally. But she and Daisy have always had a way of fixing things. It may take longer this time, but they will sort it out.
I reach for the decanter, pouring myself a measure of scotch.
Around me, the incessant buzz of voices drones on, dissecting every minuscule detail of this godforsaken wedding with an intensity that borders on the obsessive. Florals, seating arrangements, catering decisions—each topic is debated ad nauseum.
My mother, Sophia, and what feels like every female relative we possess seem invested in these details, their faces pinched with a seriousness that would be comical if it wasn’t so bloody irritating. Details that mean absolutely nothing to me.
“Edward.” Sophia’s voice snaps through the hum of conversation.
I blink, shifting in the leather chair. Right. I was supposed to be listening.
“What?” It comes out lacking the enthusiasm she’s clearly seeking.
She exhales. “Do you even know what you’re supposed to do? Walking me down the aisle, giving me away—ringing any bells?”
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face, the rough scrape of stubble reminding me I’ve been meaning to shave since this morning. “Yes, Sophia, I’m vaguely aware of how weddings work.”
She uncrosses her legs, fixing me with a look so sharp it could strip paint. Like she cannot believe I’m not taking this as seriously as she is.
And I am. Or at least, I’m trying.
I’ve written the checks. Agreed to every extravagant request without hesitation. Nodded along to conversations about hors d’oeuvres and seating plans. I haven’t said no to a single damn thing. I’ve given her everything she’s wanted.
But these past few weeks, I’ve found it increasingly difficult to keep my exasperation in check.
I understand her frustration. I do. I’m the eldest Cavendish, the one who’s supposed to have everything under control. The one who fixes things and always knows what to do.
But for the first time in my life, I don’t.
And it has nothing to do with this wedding.
I take a slow sip of scotch. “Sophia.” I sigh. “I know exactly what I need to do and when to do it. Relax.”
“You just don’t seem that interested.” Her voice has that wobble that’s always been my undoing.
I drain the rest of my drink, the glass hitting the table with more force than necessary. “I’m sorry, love. I’ve had a hell of a week at the hospital.”
It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either.
Being a surgeon grants me an automatic out from conversations I’d rather avoid. Usually, it works like a charm.
But that’s not why I feel like this. So damn off-kilter.
And no amount of work or whiskey or distraction or mind-numbing discussions about cake flavors will change that.
Sophia isn’t buying it. Her eyes narrow—a look so reminiscent of Mother it nearly makes me wince. Christ, when did my baby sister master that expression?
“There is too much stress right now. I feel like I’m going to throw up,” she mutters. “I should have just eloped.”
Yes, you bloody should have.
“Nonsense,” my mother interjects. “This is your wedding, darling. Everything will be perfect.”
It ironically sounds like a threat.
Sophia’s shoulders bunch with tension.
Against my better judgment, I lean in to press a quick kiss to her forehead. A peace offering. “You’ll be fine, freckles.”
She jerks away, her glower icy.
Ah. Still not forgiven, then. I can’t use her childhood nickname.
“Don’t mind Edward.” Charlie’s voice drifts over from his perch by the fireplace, his smirk audible in his tone. “He’s just going through his mid-life crisis. That’s why he’s grumpy as hell.”
Sophia shoots him a glare. “Charlie, shut up.”
Charlie only smirks deeper, tipping his glass in my direction.
I exhale slowly. Then, without another word, I stand. “Excuse me.” I don’t have the patience for his games.
I barely make it two steps before my mother reaches out, her fingers curling around my wrist.
“Edward,” she murmurs, her voice quieter now. “You haven’t been yourself.”
I stiffen.
“Is it the wedding?” she presses. “Stirring up memories of your own?”
That would be the easy answer. The grieving widower, haunted by memories of his own wedding day. They’d understand that, leave me in peace with my supposed ghosts.
“Yes,” I say smoothly. “Perhaps that’s it.”
She squeezes my hand briefly before letting go, satisfied. That’s what she wanted me to say.
I stride outside, moving with purpose despite having nowhere in particular to go.
I just need to get out. To breathe.
I cut across the lawn, inhaling deeply, forcing the air into my lungs.
Millie would want me to move on. She would want me to be happy.
But she’d be furious at how spectacularly I’ve managed to fuck everything up.
Footsteps crunch behind me.
“Charlie, fuck off,” I mutter, eyes fixed ahead.
“Christ.” He chuckles, unfazed. “No need to be such a moody bastard. This about you getting caught with your hand in the wrong cookie jar?”
I falter for half a second—half a second too long—before resuming my stride. “I’m not entertaining this conversation with you.”
“Come on, you have to expect a bit of teasing for this one. I heard about the ball. What the hell were you thinking?”
My jaw tightens.
I don’t answer. I just keep walking.
Charlie, being Charlie, follows and catches up with me.
“We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but from one gentleman to another, I would have expected you to ask permission before indulging in one of my exes. We are brothers, after all.” He smirks, pleased with himself.
“You’re about as much of a gentleman as bathwater is fine champagne.”
“Oh fuck off. If that’s the case, it looks like we’ve both been soaking in the same tub, haven’t we, brother? You know as well as I do how warm and bubbly it is.” He laughs.
I have to forcibly remind myself that the head of the Cavendish family does not, under any circumstances, punch his brother in the face. Giving Charlie a black eye before the wedding would likely push Sophia over the edge—especially after everything else I’ve already done.
But god, how he tests that resolve.
The older we get, the less I can tolerate him when he’s like this; dripping with that smarmy, self-satisfied charm that’s let him coast through life unscathed.
I exhale slowly through my nose, willing my temper back under control. He wants a reaction. I won’t give him one. “Are you here for a reason?”
He shrugs. “Just wanted to know what the hell was going on with you.”
I stop walking.
Turn.
Fix him with the kind of look that makes junior doctors swallow their words and rethink their careers.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
But Charlie—predictably, infuriatingly—has never understood when a conversation has concluded.
His gaze drifts lazily across the lawn. “Man.” He sighs, stretching the word out. “Daisy gave me the best head of my life in that shed. I guess we can compare notes now.”
Something inside me breaks.
Her name. From his mouth. Twisted into something vulgar.
She’s mine.
I move before I even register the decision—my hand fisting into his collar, yanking him forward with enough force to rip the breath from his throat. His back hits the stone ledge of the fountain with a muted thud.
“You have no right,” I growl, each word cutting, “to speak of what’s mine like that.”
Mine.
It’s a word I’ve always associated with territorial men who grunt more than speak.
But now I understand.
My fingers clench tighter into the fabric of Charlie’s collar, dragging him closer until we’re nearly nose to nose.
“You will never speak of Daisy like that again,” I say, voice low and deliberate. “Do you understand?”
His smirk falters, a flicker of confusion passing through his eyes before fear replaces it.
“Alright—easy—” he mutters, squirming, trying to laugh it off.
My knuckles go white against the collar of his shirt. “Do you understand me, Charlie?”
His eyes dart—left, right, then back to mine. There’s a flicker of real fear now. His throat bobs.
“Y–yes. Christ. Fine.”
Not good enough. “Say it.”
He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs under my grip.
“I’ll never disrespect Daisy ever again,” he chokes out.
I won’t hit him.
That’s not who I am.
But I’m not above a little retribution.
I shove him. Just enough to watch the shock flicker across his face, to see his balance shift, to hear the delicious crack of panic in his voice as his arms flail—
And he topples.
Right into the fountain.
Water explodes in every direction, soaking the stone path, the manicured grass, the tailored suit he no doubt spent a fortune on. A blur of limbs and spluttering indignation.
“What the fuck?” he howls, choking on fountain water, blinking furiously.
His voice barely cuts through the blood still thundering in my ears.
“Edward, what the hell are you doing?” Sophia’s shriek carries from the Regency room window.
I glance up. The windows are lined with silhouettes—figures watching, horrified, enthralled. My mother. Sophia. The entire bloody family. All of them witnessing the composed Edward Cavendish come apart at the seams.
I don’t stop.
“Fucking asshole!” Charlie shouts behind me.
I keep walking, long strides cutting across the grass, my breath coming hard and fast. My fists remain curled, my signet ring digging into the skin of my palm.
Because if I stop—if I so much as turn my head, if I even glance in his direction—I might finish what I started. And I can’t do that.
I’ve had too much time to think about Daisy. Too many nights alone in my cavernous townhouse, pacing through empty rooms with nothing but Millie’s ghost for company—trapped in the wreckage of my own making.
Too much time thinking about how I treated her.
How we all treated her.
And all I feel is shame.
That night at the ball blindsided me—gutted me, in fact.
The moment I saw her at the ball, the moment my brain caught up with what my eyes were seeing—Daisy, in a dress that stopped conversations dead, standing with another man’s hands on her waist, another man’s lips on hers . . .
I was livid. Possessed by something primal, and I snapped. She’s mine. I knew it the second he pulled her in for a kiss.
I knew it when I saw Lizzie at the hospital and then checked the records to confirm my worst fear—Daisy hadn’t been off planning some grand trekking trip. She’d been admitted to the ER for dehydration and exhaustion.
And that word fits her perfectly.
Mine.
Mine to keep.
Mine to protect.
Mine to cherish.
And I fucked it up.
I treated our relationship like some kind of experiment in a petri dish to watch closely as it develops and discreetly terminate if it starts to take a toxic path.
I told myself I was protecting her, sparing her from a life with a man like me—older, serious, a chronic workaholic.
But the truth?
I was just afraid. Afraid that if I surrendered to her completely, she’d consume me. That I’d lose myself. That I’d make a fool of myself.
The joke’s on me, though.
Because for all my attempts to stay in control, to keep her at arm’s length, I’ve never been more out of control.
It’s been two agonizing weeks since Daisy collapsed on set. At least Liam has been decent enough to pass updates through Lizzie about how she’s doing.
She won’t take my calls. Won’t respond to my messages. She’s probably blocked me altogether. But she won’t be able to avoid me at the wedding.
And that worries me.
The last thing I wanted was a spectacle, yet that’s exactly what I’ve created. Now, everyone is talking about us, and she’s already under enough pressure as it is.
But come hell or high water, we’re going to face the truth of what we are.
I’ll lay all my cards on the table.
I want her. I want her forever. I want her to be mine—no one else’s. And I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that to her.
If she decides never to speak to me again, so be it. I’ll do the honorable thing and watch her walk away.
But she won’t walk away still believing in all these false impressions of who I am and what she means to me.
She’ll walk away knowing everything.