“Hello, Daisy,” he says, his voice low and rough.
“Hello, Edward,” I shoot back, keeping my tone just as cool.
Sophia, oblivious to the tension, grins and hooks her arm through mine. “Daisy and I grew up together—inseparable, right, darling? Having you around was the best.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, forcing another smile while Edward’s stare drills into me.
He’s staring like I’m something the peacocks shat out after a bad day. His nostrils flare—those judgy bastards—while he takes another sip.
“Daisy! So nice to see you again!” a chipper voice cuts in, and suddenly Imogen’s all over me—arms flapping, air kisses flying: right cheek, left, right again.
“Hi, Imogen,” I manage, trying not to flinch as she pulls back. We’ve met maybe a handful of times, but her energy’s always dialed up to eleven. Still, she’s Sophia’s close friend and a fellow bridesmaid, so I slap on aglad to see yougrin.
“You look stunning,” she gushes. “Is that from the new Christopher Kane line?”
“Um . . . no.” Christopher Kane could be a fashion god or the bloke who fixes the estate’s plumbing—I haven’t a clue. What Idoknow is this dress came from a frantic high-street dash, not his hands.
“Oh, well, it’s super demure,” she says, tilting her head with a smile. “Very his vibe. Though, it might be more a few seasons back.”
“Maybe,” I mumble.
“Refresh my memory—where did you and Sophia meet? St. Catherine Academy, right?”
And there it is. Imogen’s classic move: the sneaky class check, all wrapped up in a sweet little question. She knows damn well I didn’t go to St. Catherine’s. I’m the girl who used to nick biscuits from the kitchen while my mum polished their heirlooms.
And that’s exactly why Imogen gets under my skin.
I tilt my chin up, channeling the air of someone who owns a legit Birkin, not the “limited edition” fake I snagged from Deano at the Sunday market.
“We didn’t meet at school,” I say, voice light. “My mum’s the housekeeper here. One time, I grabbed Mrs. C’s cashmere robe, tied it like a cape, and slid down the banister shouting, ‘I’m Santa, suckers, I’ve got your gifts!’—then crashed right into their massive Fortnum & Mason Christmas tree. Sophia saw it, jumped in, and that was that.”
Suck on that, Imogen.
Sophia cackles like it’s the first time she’s heard it. “Oh my god, we got in so much trouble with Mother!”
Imogen’s eyes pop, just a flicker. “That’s . . . cute.”
Sophia squeezes my arm, and despite everything, I can’t help but grin. Say what you will about the Cavendishes—Sophia never cared that my mum cleaned their loos. “She was more like a sister than a friend,” she says, all warm and mushy.
“More like a terrible influence,” I tease, nudging her. “Always dragging her into mischief.”
Sophia laughs, but the sound is quickly overshadowed by a deliberate throat-clearing. Edward.
I glance over—only to find him staring at me yet again.
“Yes,” he says, his voice crisp. “You were quite the handful back then.”
I bat my lashes and flash a smile. “You know what they say—well-behaved women don’t make history.”
“Yes,” he says, dry as the champagne I’m clutching. “History tends to remember the bold. And the brazen.”
“You say brazen like it’s a bad thing. Personally, I think it’s my best quality.”
His lips twitch—barely. “It’s definitely your most . . . memorable trait.”
A sudden, vivid memory of that night in his bedroom with “Uncle” Edward slams into me. My cheeks are now in flames.
Thank god Sophia jumps in. “Daisy, this is Bernice—I don’t think you’ve met,” she says, beaming as she nods toward a quiet girl with a mess of brown curls. “Bernice is my other bridesmaid. We met during my charity work in Cambodia, building orphanages.”
