Daisy can disappear on a whim, spin the globe and end up wherever her finger lands. Mongolia. Marrakech. Madrid. She could meet someone in a bar and decide, just like that, to ride horses across the steppe.
I cannot.
And the worst thing I could ever do to someone like Daisy ismakeher stay. Clip her wings.
I won’t be the person who holds Daisy back. Force her into becoming someone she doesn’t want to be. The way to destroy someone like Daisy is to cut off their freedom.
But I won’t humiliate myself by dropping to my knees and groveling each time she has a tantrum.
I want the best for her. I want her to glow with happiness, to embrace her incredible charm, warmth, bubbliness, and wit without ever doubting herself. Her true beauty radiates from her eyes even more than her physical form, though I’m not sure she’d believe that.
I’ve had a lot of time to think and reflect this past week. Too much time.
Maybe I wanted the impossible from Daisy. The reckless, all-consuming passion of an affair, paired with the unwavering trust of a life partner. Maybe I set her up to fail.
CHAPTER 44
Edward
It seems I amnow 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, somewide 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, seatingarrangements, 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?”
