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.”
