“None of us can,” Edward mutters.
I bite back a grin. “Except your mum.”
“My mother is convinced they add ‘sophistication’ to the grounds.”
“Dogs would’ve been easier,” I point out, as one particularly combative peacock challenges its own reflection in the fountain. “You can’t cuddle a peacock. Trust me, I tried.”
That earns me a raised brow. Not a full smile—god forbid—but the corners of his mouth twitch, as though he’s fighting it. “Youtried?”
“When I was little,” I say with a shrug. “They’re all colorful and prancy, so you think, ‘Oh, they must be sweet!’ Turns out they’re just unnecessarily aggressive and wildly entitled.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “Unnecessarily aggressive, entitled, and impossible to cuddle? You’ve just described half my family.”
I blink. Did Edward Cavendish just crack a joke?
“Does that include you?” The question slips out before I can rein it in.
He pauses. “I’d like to think I’m not beyond the possibility of being . . . cuddled.”
Oh. Now I’m imagining cuddling Edward, thoughts I really should not be having.
I drop my gaze to the necklace clasp, suddenly fascinated by its tiny, meaningless details.
“I assume my brother’s appearance had something to do with your hasty exit,” he says.
I consider leaning into the explosive diarrhea excuse. But no—too undignified, even for me.
“It might have played a role,” I reply.
He makes a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a growl, like my emotional fragility offends him. “I thought you were made of sterner stuff than that.”
I stiffen. “Sorry for being human. My bad for having actual feelings. Ididdate him for a while, you know.”
“You have plenty of admirers chasing after you,” he says, his tone clipped. “You don’t need to pine over my brother.”
“Chasing after me?” I echo, incredulous. “As if Iwantmen chasing after me. And contrary to appearances, it’s not a desperate quest to date my way through your living relatives.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Although I’m not sure why you needed to clarifylivingrelatives.”
“Your great uncle Bernard is pushing one hundred. I thought I should clarify, just in case.”
That earns me a small smirk, a hint of amusement breaking through his stern facade. But it’s short-lived. “All right, Daisy. If you’re not interested in my brother or any other Cavendish, for that matter, then what is it that you want?”
I stare at him. What an intense question.
My god, he’s actually waiting for a coherent answer to that.
“I just . . . I don’t know. I guess I want someone who accepts me for who I am. I don’t have everything sorted like you or Sophia, okay? I don’t know what my career is. Or where I’m supposed to live. Or who I’m supposed to be with. But I know one thing—I’m not like Sophia. I say the wrong things, am messy when I shouldn’t be, and I make way too many mistakes.”
There’s a pause. Alongpause. Long enough for me to realize I’ve just projectile-vomited my existential crisis all over his expensive shoes.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
I glare at him. “You’re not supposed toagreewith me so readily. When someone self-deprecates, you’re meant to disagree politely. That’s the rule.”
“You’re the one who said it. I’m just acknowledging your self-assessment.”
“Lie to me like a normal person. Tell me I’m delightful or witty or some bollocks you don’t mean.”
