Oh my god, he’s glitching.
He’s running a hand through his hair, further mussing it, like he’s trying to physicallyscrub his thoughts clean. Each pass is more frantic than the last.
It’s weirdly endearing.
Finally, he gets a grip. Sort of.
“This is Daisy, umm . . . Sophia’s friend,” he manages.
The vicar’s gaze shifts to me. “Hello, Miss Daisy,” he says reverently. “I believe I saw you earlier at the sermon.”
I panic.
And—dear god—out of nowhere, a posh accent I didn’t even know I possessed tumbles out of my mouth. “Yes, you very well might have.”
What the actual hell. Why am I suddenly cosplaying as Duchess Daisy of Fucksborough?
My spine straightens. My chin lifts. For absolutely no reason, I clasp my hands neatly in front of me.
Edward side-eyes me then clears his throat for the millionth time.
He digs in his pocket awkwardly. He shoves a handful of notes at the vicar like he’s trying to pay off god himself. Big notes, from what I can see.
I can’t take this.
“Better go say goodbye to Sophia!” I announce to no one in particular before practically sprinting out of the church like my knickers are on fire.
I lock eyes with Uncle Bernard’s massive funeral portrait.
And freeze.
The old perv had a front-row seat to the whole damn show.
CHAPTER 21
Daisy
The state of myunderwear is nothing short of a human rights violation. And the worst part? I have to marinate in it for the entire journey back to London.
Thirty minutes of nodding along to Mum’s endless chatter, pretending to listen, and I finally make my escape to say goodbye to Sophia.
StraddlingEdward Cavendishin a prayer alcove and grinding him to an unsolicited climax wasnotoriginally on my funeral itinerary. And yet—here we are.
Part of me—let’s call her Sensible Daisy—is fully aware that this was a wildly unhinged lapse in judgment. The other feral part of me isthriving. She’s popping champagne and doing a victory lap because, for once in my life, I have some kind of power over Edward Cavendish.
The man I’d carefully filed away in my brain under Completely Untouchable.
I was too busy making a fool of myself over his younger brother, Charlie, to even entertain the thought. Edward was the serious older brother who worked too much, smiled too little, spent his time discussing the economy in his clipped, measured tone.
So, whatwasthat? A momentary lapse in sanity on Edward’s part? Some kind of grief-induced hysteria?
Or, worst of all—am I simply his version of a palate cleanser? A little common-girl sorbet before he returns to his usual Michelin-starred menu of duchesses, heiresses, and women who own racehorses?
Because let’s be brutally honest here—I am not his type.
Sure, Edward enjoys watching videos of me selling garden tools, but that’s a very different thing from actuallywantingme in real life.
Edward Cavendish doesn’t end up with girls like me. Girls who say “cheers” instead of “thank you” and who think Fortnum & Mason is more of a tourist attraction than a legitimate place to buy jam.
