“Exactly. And Bernard would’ve loved it. All those gorgeous women showing up in his honor? He’s probably up there somewhere giving you astanding ovationfor pulling that off. Probably told St. Peter to hold the pearly gates open a little longer so he could watch the show.”
“Yes, he would’ve enjoyed it.”
“Your uncle was a bit of a pervert.”
“Yes,” he says, unfazed. “Yes, he was.”
Well. At least we’re on the same page.
The memory of Bernard’s final moments pops into my head, and before I can stop myself, I ask, “Was it . . . my shopping channel? That he was watching when he . . . you know?”
Edward’s mouth twitches—not amused, exactly. Something closer to pained.“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.”
“I knew it!” I groan, burying my face in his chest.
“Technically, if you think about it . . . manslaughter might apply. You gave the man a heart attack.”
I slap his chest and he grunts.
“That’snotfunny,” I say.
“If you don’t laugh about these things, you’ll go mad.”
We smile at each other, and suddenly, the world outside my bedroom doesn’t exist. Like someone’s hit pause on reality, leaving just us in this ridiculous bubble where surgeons and BritShop presenters somehow make perfect sense together.
I tilt my head. “Edward, is this you sowing your wild oats? Because I wouldn’t blame you.”
He frowns. “That’s not my intention.”
“Oh? Then what is your intention?”
He pauses. “I’d like to take you out. To court you, as antiquated as that might sound.”
“Tocourtme? Are we in a Jane Austen novel? Should I fetch my bonnet and parasol?”
“Cheeky mare,” he growls, which is an appalling choice of words because it only makes me want to be cheekier.
“Why on earth would you want to court me? I can’t say that word with a straight face.”
“How that’s not blindingly obvious to you is . . . baffling.” He sounds exasperated. “Because you’re beautiful. And witty. And entirely too charming for your own good.”
“I don’t have a serious career.”
“That’s simply not true.” His mouth twitches. “I happen to think selling bidets is a very serious career. You’re single-handedly revolutionizing bathroom hygiene in Britain.”
“You’re mocking me,” I huff, but I can’t quite hide the grin tugging at my mouth.
“I’m not.” He holds my gaze. “Okay,perhapsI’m teasing slightly. But Daisy . . . the way you see yourself iswildlyat odds with reality.” His voice softens. “I think you’re extraordinary.”
I stare at him, my heart tripping over itself. “The world has told me what my value is,” I say quietly. “And I’ve said, fine, I’ll cash it in. Hence BritShop TV.”
His brows pull together.
“Your value isn’t something the world gets to decide,” he says in that commanding surgeon voice. “And if BritShop TV is what you’ve chosen, then you’ve made it better just by being part of it.”
I swallow hard, tryingveryhard not to grin like an absolute idiot who’s just won the hot-doctor lottery. This feeling bubbling up inside my chest is warm and terrifying and absolutely inconvenient.
“Well,” I say softly. “In that case, Edward Cavendish, I’d be delighted to be courted by you.”
