My mind spins. Why isn’t Edward Cavendish having sex in his own bedroom?
A man like him—tall, commanding, gorgeous—should be having plenty of sex. He could have anyone, anywhere he pleases. Maybe he’s the type who only hooks up at their place, keeping his sheets pristine. Or maybe—
Oh, crap.
OfcourseI know why he’s not having sex.
“Sorry,” I blurt, mentally kicking myself. “That comment about you not having sex was probably . . . um, insensitive, with . . .” I wave a hand toward the peacocks, as thoughtheymight finish my sentence. “Not that I know if you’re having any. I mean, it’snone of my business. You could be havingloads! Just, you know, with . . . uh . . .”
Shut up, Daisy.
“It’s fine,” Edward says brusquely. For a fleeting second, something—grief, maybe—flashes in his eyes before his usual stone-cold mask snaps back into place.
I fidget with the chain, twisting it around my finger. “Thanks for not ratting me out about the other night,” I mumble. “If there’s a worse way to get caught with your pants down, I’d rather die than find out.”
“Yes, well, I apologize for my nephew bringing you back under false pretenses. That’s not acceptable.”
“It’s not about him not being a doctor,” I feel the need to explain. “I mean, I don’t care that he’s not a doctor. I wasn’t expectingGrey’s Anatomy. It was just . . . misleading, you know?And then there was the whole borrowing-your-bed thing, which obviously you know about because it’syour bed,and oh my god, I’m still talking. Anyway, it’s not your fault so no need to apologize.”
My soul shrivels.
“Maybe not.” He frowns. “But that’s not how Cavendishes are raised. We were raised to treat women with respect.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, Charlie’s smug grin flickering in my head before I can stop it.
Edward’s jaw tightens. “Meaning?”
“Nothing,” I backpedal, brushing it off with a weak shrug. “Anyway, it’s not like things were going anywhere with Doctor Spencer.” I force a laugh. “I was using him as much as he was using me.”
“I don’t want to know,” he cuts in sharply, like I’m about to launch into a detailed report of my sexual escapades with his nephew.
Fair enough. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to know either.
He rolls his shoulders back, a casual move that draws my eye to the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest. The fabric shifts, hinting at muscle underneath, and—oh no. I amnotdoing this. I snap my focus away, but it’s too late; I’ve noticed, and now I can’t un-notice it.
“Can we just . . . can you delete that from your memory? I know you’ve got one of those elite Cambridge brains that remembers everything—but please just erase that particular image from your mental hard drive.”
He doesn’t answer.
A peacock screeches in the distance, its cry slicing through the tension.
“You know, the image of me in your—”
“For god’s sake, Daisy, I know precisely which image you’re referring to,” he snaps, finally turning to look at me. His eyesare blazing with a mixture of frustration and something else I can’t quite place. “As a gentleman, I assure you it will never be mentioned again. I’ll take it to my bloody grave.”
I exhale relief. “Thank you—”
“But as a man,” he interrupts, his voice strained, “I suggest we change the subject.”
As a man?What’s that supposed to mean? Because that distinction between gentleman and man feels far more loaded than it should.
The words hang in the air, and suddenly I can’t remember who I am or why I’m even standing on this balustrade.
I clear my throat, grasping for normalcy. “Right. Brilliant idea. Let’s change the subject.”
Right on cue, another peacock lets out a wail.
“Richard can’t stand those things,” I say, latching onto the distraction.
