CHAPTER 46
Daisy
The sound of Pride and Prejudice fills the living room.
Mum’s dressed for the wedding—her best navy dress, pearls, not a single blonde hair out of place. The very image of a respectable woman heading to a respectable wedding. She’s been fussing with her jewelry for twenty minutes, which we both know is just an excuse to hover.
I, meanwhile, am dressed for what I do best these days: moping. Hoodie, jeans, trainers. I don’t even want to be near the Cavendish estate. But after I fainted, Mum strong-armed me into a week at home. The network even tossed me a few days of paid leave—Simon’s terrified I’ll sue his arse off.
And this will be my last chance to spend time with Mum in the cottage I grew up in before she moves to Spain.
Nothing boosts your self-confidence quite like retreating to your childhood bedroom while your mother details her fabulous future travels while your own life has completely imploded.
On-screen, Mark Darcy’s brooding in the rain, all damp curls and tortured stares, seconds away from the line . The one that turns sensible women into hormone-soaked puddles.
I clutch the throw pillow tighter. Do not cry, Daisy. Don’t you dare fucking cry.
Because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment, I can’t help but think about how Edward always reminded me of Mr. Darcy. Except my Dr. Cavendish wasn’t some misunderstood romantic hero.
I should switch this off. Flick to Love Island or some show where the guys are at least upfront about their dickheadery instead of disguising it behind stormy eye contact.
It’s just on the telly by chance, but really, I don’t think the universe does things like this by chance . No, this is personal.
“I love you,” TV Darcy announces, voice thick with emotion.
I snort, sinking deeper into the sofa cushions. “Yeah, well, lucky Liz Bennet never showed up to his swanky ball and made it a wet T-shirt competition.”
Mum exhales through her nose, the way she does when she’s holding back a full-blown maternal intervention. “Daisy, sweetie . . .”
Here we go. The voice. The one that means she’s trying to be gentle but also trying very hard not to scream what the hell are you doing, you stupid girl? into my face.
I know she’s upset. Not just about my skipping the wedding, but the whole catastrophic disaster that is my personal life—Sophia, Edward, me. The fact that her daughter has somehow managed to bollocks up not just one, but two relationships with the Cavendishes. A truly impressive feat of self-sabotage.
I pretend not to notice. “You should probably get going,” I say instead, keeping my voice breezy. “Don’t want to be late.”
Mum sighs again. She’s been sighing dramatically all morning. Even during yoga. And nothing says I’m deeply disappointed and sad quite like aggressive breathing in downward dog.
She looks beautiful, a soft pink fascinator perched delicately atop her head. As I told her, she’s still got it.
I should be dressed too. I should be at the Cavendish manor, standing beside Sophia, fussing over her dress, making sure she’s calm, making inappropriate jokes to stop her from hyperventilating.
I should be at the wedding.
But instead, I’m here.
Because I’m not wanted.
I exhale, staring blankly at the telly where Colin Firth continues to be unfairly attractive. God, I feel like shit.
Not just because I didn’t sleep, or because my emotions are still curdling in my stomach, but because I know Sophia didn’t expect me not to go to the wedding. Like it never occurred to her that dumping me as maid of honor might actually hurt .
I’m not doing it to hurt Sophia. I love her. God help me, I love her, even though loving her feels like repeatedly hitting myself in the face with a cricket bat.
But there’s a limit to how many times you can grin while someone scrapes you off their Louboutin sole before you say Enough, I’m out .
That letter . . . I must’ve rewritten it fifty times. In the end, I kept it short. Honest. Simple. Because I do love her, and I always will.
Just wished her the best—hoped her day sparkled, said sorry for the mess between us, swore there’s no drama on my end.
Mum makes a noise, glancing at the clock. “Are you really sure, love, that you won’t . . . ?”
I shake my head. My throat is too tight to speak. I can chat for hours about overpriced gardening tools on live TV but ask me to articulate my feelings about today and suddenly I’m a mime.
Edward and Sophia are both at the manor right now. Laughing. Drinking champagne. Celebrating.
Has he invited Lucia?
My stomach twists.
Maybe she’s up there right now, sipping a mimosa with his mother, making charming conversation. She seemed nice, from the brief time I met her. Not that she’ll have a good impression of me.
A sharp sting burns behind my eyes, and before I can stop it, a single tear escapes, tracing a hot, silent path down my cheek.
Jesus Christ. Not this again.
I thought I was done crying. I really did. I thought the past few weeks had drained me dry.
But heartbreak is relentless. Just when you think you’ve got a handle on it, it finds a new way to gut you. It saps at your soul until it breaks you and then keeps going just for fun.
And here I am.
A broken girl, who should know better, crying over a man who is embarrassed by her.
I didn’t answer his calls. I couldn’t.
I knew he was only trying to smooth things over so there were no hard feelings for Sophia’s and Mum’s sake. But that’s just it—there were hard painful feelings. Ones stuck in my heart like splinters I couldn’t pull out.
And if I had answered, if I had so much as heard his voice, I would have blubbered immediately.
And I’ve humiliated myself enough in front of Edward Cavendish, thanks.
I didn’t need to hear that careful politeness in his voice. That practiced bedside manner he probably uses on patients. Didn’t need to suffer through whatever well-meaning, empty words he’d offer.
More tears join their mate, sliding down my face as Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy finally get their sweeping, cinematic moment.
I sniff, wiping my face with my sleeve like the classy bird I am.
Good for them.
I am no Elizabeth Bennet. Virgin? Absolutely not. Well-mannered? Debatable. Would never accidentally flash a tit at a fancy charity ball? That ship sailed.
To be fair to Mum, she hasn’t told me to turn off the TV.
She’s busying herself with her makeup in the good kitchen light, pretending not to notice me slowly dissolving into the sofa cushions. And that’s fine. I’ve had plenty of practice crying quietly.
I wonder if she knows I can see her sneaking concerned glances at me between brush strokes.
There’s this odd noise outside, trickling in under the movie’s gentle piano hum. At first, I barely clock it—just some deep, rhythmic thudding, like far-off thunder rattling the floorboards.
I scrunch my brow, tilting my head. “What’s that?”
It sounds like something thundering over the pavement outside. A deep, pounding sound. Not the grumble of a van engine. Something . . . bigger. Heavier.
“Richard needs to get his van checked,” I mutter. “Sounds like an entire polo team is charging down our—”
“Daisy.” Mum’s voice pitches up, all wobbly and shrill, cutting me off.
I don’t even glance her way. “Yeah, what?”
“Come here!” she squeaks.
I sigh, hauling myself off the sofa. “All right, keep your knickers on—”
Then I catch her face.
Her jaw’s dropped, mascara wand hovering like she’s forgotten how to blink.
A sinking feeling pools in my stomach.
I shuffle over to the kitchen window where she’s rooted, peering out beside her.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Because charging down our gravel drive, straight from the main estate, is a wedding carriage.
Not just any carriage—we’re talking the whole Victorian fantasy package: six enormous white horses, their plumes of ostrich feathers bouncing wildly, their hooves hammering the ground like an earthquake. It looks like the queen’s coronation parade hijacked by a lunatic.
And the lunatic in question?
A six-foot-something, angry, aristocratic god, shoulders tense, face set with determination, in an expensive wedding suit minus the jacket, gripping the reins like his life depends on it.
I don’t move. I can’t move.
I just . . . stand there. Mouth open.
I blink—once, twice, maybe three times. Maybe I’ve finally cracked and this is some sort of hallucination.
Mum grips my arm, her breath coming fast. “Daisy, that’s—?”
“—Edward?” I croak, voice barely working. “Yes. That’s Edward. Driving a fucking carriage. ”
And he’s coming fast . Not just driving—oh no, Edward’s full-on bombing it down the gravel like he’s starring in the world’s most deranged installment of Fast and Furious: The Aristocrat Edition.
The horses are galloping full-speed, wheels rattling against the uneven gravel, the entire thing swaying dangerously as Edward yanks on the reins.
Mum lets out a choked little gargle. “What’s he . . . What’s he doing ?”
I have no answers. Only pure, unfiltered chaos barreling straight for me at approximately sixty miles per hour.
Then—movement. Off to the side. Something big. Something fast . A blur of white feathers.
“Oh shit .” I gasp.
The ostrich. The bloody ostrich .
It’s charging the carriage like it’s got a personal grudge, legs pumping, feathers flouncing.
Edward hasn’t clocked it yet, but the horses have. And they are not impressed.
Richard bursts out from behind the bird, arms windmilling. “Get back, you daft—!”
Too late. The horses lose it. Hooves thrash, rearing up.
Edward yanks hard on the reins, his whole body straining like he’s trying to parallel park the damn Titanic. His jaw is clenched, muscles locked—but it’s too late. This train’s off the rails.
The carriage swerves. Hard left. Right toward—
Mum’s hand flies to her mouth. “The lake.”
My heart forgets how to beat.
Because Edward is about to drive a wedding carriage straight into the goddamn lake.
My feet move before my brain catches up. I shove open the front door, stumbling down the steps, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Edward!”
Nothing snaps you out of a pity party quite like watching the man who broke your heart about to drive a wedding carriage into a body of water.
The wheels hit the embankment at a godawful angle, and the whole thing tips like a slow-mo disaster flick. Then— splash . A lake-sized explosion of water, soaking everything in a ten-foot blast zone.
Mum lets out an unholy squeak beside me.
I slap my hands over my mouth, frozen in absolute shock. The horses tear off in all directions, galloping out of the water.
For a long, terrible second, there’s nothing.
Then—
From the depths of the water, he breaks the surface, water streaming off him.
His strong jaw clenches as he shakes the lake from his face. His white dress shirt’s soaked through, clinging to his chest like it’s been painted on, showing off every muscle.
He rakes a hand through his wet, messy hair, shoving it back from his forehead, and sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it’s like watching some forbidden hybrid of Mr. Darcy and a David Gandy for Marks & Spencer underwear advert.
His eyes snap to mine.
He’s drenched. He’s a mess. He is utterly, sinfully gorgeous.
“Oh. My. God ,” I wheeze, knees wobbling like they’ve forgotten how to function.
I had ONE glass of wine last night. ONE. This can’t be a hangover hallucination, can it?
Either my telly’s sprung to life, or Edward Cavendish has completely lost his mind.