“There’s my Daisy. Fresh as a daisy.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I turn to find Sophia’s great uncle Bernard staring at me like I’m the last prawn cocktail at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
The guy stinks of whiskey, cigars, and something vaguely medicinal, and his scruffy white beard has officially ruined Christmas for me.
Bernard owns a crumbling estate about twenty miles away and has a revolving door of suspiciously young, suspiciously attractive cleaners. Mum swears the place must be a biohazard, considering it apparently takes anarmyof them to keep it from collapsing into filth.
“Got those hedge trimmers you suggested last week,” he says, his eyes gleaming like we’re in on some dirty little conspiracy.
Fun fact about Uncle Bernard: he’s obsessed with my BritShop TV segments. Watches them religiously. Sweet, right? Except not so sweet when he’s looking at me like I’m the hedge that needs trimming.
“Glad they’re doing the trick,” I say, taking a step back. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”
But Bernard’s not letting go that easy. “Come and visit me sometime. With little Sophia.”
God help me. Sophia thinks he’s a darling old gent. The Cavendishes all coo over their “loveable rogue.” I think he’s a total pervert.
I’m rarely this right about anything, but on this? I am bloody certain.
Before his clammy hand can find my back, I sidestep and snag a champagne flute from a passing waiter—the first of what will likely be seventeen, judging by the current state of my nerves.
I weave through the crowd, eyes peeled for Sophia, when I catch a loud, horsey whisper behind me: “Darling, look—he’s here. Edward Cavendish is here.”
Oh, fantastic. My stomach does that stupid flip thing it’s been doing lately. Which isridiculous, because of course he’s here. It’s his sister’s engagement party.
I take a long, steadying gulp from my glass, lingering near the edge of the room in a desperate attempt to look casual.
“He’s a widower.” The voice quivers with barely-contained horniness.
Here’s the thing about these upper-crust types: nothing gets them going like a tragic hero—especially one with a “Dr.” in front of his name, a sprawling estate, and a very handsome face.
Edward’s wife, Millie, was the real deal—warm, kind, the sort who’d make you feel comfortable without even trying. It just goes to show—ovarian cancer doesn’t give a flying shit about pedigree.
They’d met at university, been mates for ages before it turned into something more. The big wedding followed. And then life, as it so often does, took a sledgehammer to it.
I only saw Edward a handful of times after she died—usually by chance, in passing, at the estate. AndChrist, the exhaustion was carved into every line of his face. The kind of tired that a good night’s sleep can’t fix.
I never knew what to say to him. So I’d just sort of nod, and he’d nod back, and we’d go on pretending grief wasn’t hanging over him like a dark cloud.
Now, according to Sophia, every socialite from here to Scotland is lining up for the chance to become Mrs. Edward Cavendish 2.0. To be the one to bring the light back into his life.
I sneak a glance over my shoulder and spot them: two women gripping their champagne flutes, staring across the ballroom. I flash a tight smile before following their line of sight.
Oh.
My breath catches.
Because there he is.
Edward Cavendish towers over the crowd, looking like he walked straight out of a classic Hollywood film—something in black and white, where the leading man leans against a grand piano with a whiskey glass in one hand.
Stop staring at his mouth. Knock it off. Now.
“It’s so sad, him being a widower,” one of them sighs. “A handsome surgeon like that . . . such a shame.” She sounds likeshe’s about to faint—probably hoping he’d swoop in and perform CPR.
“He’s so intense, isn’t he?” Horsey Voice muses. “Like he’s bored of everyone here.”
