“Daisy.” Mum’s expression tightens into that horrifying grimace-smile she does when she’s trying to look composed but mostly looks like she’s desperately holding in a fart. “Youcannotspeak ill of the dead.”
“Why not? Surely that’s the best time to speak ill of someone. What’s Uncle Bernard going to do—spring out of the coffin shouting ‘How dare you’?”
“It’s disrespectful,” she hisses. “And someone in the family might hear you.”
“You know what was disrespectful? A medical genius not knowing a back from a bum cheek.”
That gets me an elbow so sharp I nearly tumble into a hedge. I should stop—really, I should—but winding Mum up is second nature by now.
My eyes drift over the crowd. Too many women in their twenties and thirties, way too glam for a funeral. No veils, no sensible flats—just blow-dries and heels. Then it hits me: they’re not here for Bernard. Of course not. The Cavendish brothers are the draw.
It’s like a memo went out:Rich uncle dead. Hot doctor nephew single. Late wife tragically gone. Dress code: seductive sorrow.
Glossy lips, smoky eyes, demure necklines that somehow scream sex—I’d bet half of them googled “hot funeral looks.” Not that I’m one to judge; Mary Poppins, I am not.
My gaze lands on the church doors, and my stomach lurches.
Charlie and Edward, side by side. The Receiving Line from Hell. No slipping into a dark, anonymous pew now—they’re perfectly positioned to block any escape.
My throat tightens. I need water. Or whiskey. Maybe both.
The contrast is brutal. Charlie’s the easy pick—boyish charm, effortless grins. Even now, he’s the golden boy in mourning, playing it flawlessly. No wonder younger me fell for him.
But Edward?
Oh god. He’s something else entirely. Towering over Charlie, it’s like he stepped out of a Gothic novel—dark, brooding, no trace of sunshine. That frown’s chiseled into his face, permanent and unforgiving. The lines around his eyes aren’t from laughing; they’re from hard choices that stick with you. And those gray flecks at his temples? They don’t age him—they make him sharper, more dangerous.
If Charlie is the sun—bright, uncomplicated—Edward is midnight. The kind of midnight that has you checking your locks three times, then lying there anyway with your heart hammering for reasons you can’t quite explain.
Our last encounter flashes through my mind.
Me, mid–downward dog, ass in the air,winkingat him.
Flattered you think so highly of my . . . technique.
I only did it because I thought I wouldn’t see him for ages. It’s easy to play the sexy tease with a buffer of time and distance. Not so much when you’re ten feet away, days later, with those steel-blue eyes boring into you.
I swallow hard and force my feet to keep moving, even though every fiber of my being wants to execute a swift U-turn and sprint down the gravel path.
I’m going to have to shake both their hands and pretend I haven’t seen either of them naked.
And then I see her. The future Mrs. Charles Cavendish.
I skid to a halt, my heels catching slightly on the gravel. Mum nearly barrels into my back.
“Mum, I can’t do this.”
“You can, and you will.”
“Fuck.”
“Daisy,” she hisses, grabbing my elbow, and I know she’s debating wrestling me into submission. “Language.”
“I hate shaking hands. What am I even supposed to say?”
“Say something nice about Bernard and offer your condolences,” she replies curtly, already steering me forward.
“To twenty people? I have to say nice things about Bernard to twenty separate people?” I wave my hand at the receiving line, which looks like someone’s raided the entire cast ofBridgerton. “Why can’t I just announce general condolences to the group? Save everyone the hassle?”
