Page 190 of Dare to Love Me

I knew he was only trying to smooth things over so there were no hard feelings for Sophia’s and Mum’s sake. But that’s just it—therewerehard painful feelings. Ones stuck in my heart like splinters I couldn’t pull out.

And if I had answered, if I had so much as heard his voice, I would have blubbered immediately.

And I’ve humiliated myself enough in front of Edward Cavendish, thanks.

I didn’t need to hear that careful politeness in his voice. That practiced bedside manner he probably uses on patients. Didn’tneed to suffer through whatever well-meaning, empty words he’d offer.

More tears join their mate, sliding down my face as Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy finally get their sweeping, cinematic moment.

I sniff, wiping my face with my sleeve like the classy bird I am.

Good for them.

I am no Elizabeth Bennet. Virgin? Absolutely not. Well-mannered? Debatable. Would never accidentally flash a tit at a fancy charity ball? That shipsailed.

To be fair to Mum, she hasn’t told me to turn off the TV.

She’s busying herself with her makeup in the good kitchen light, pretending not to notice me slowly dissolving into the sofa cushions. And that’s fine. I’ve had plenty of practice crying quietly.

I wonder if she knows I can see her sneaking concerned glances at me between brush strokes.

There’s this odd noise outside, trickling in under the movie’s gentle piano hum. At first, I barely clock it—just some deep, rhythmic thudding, like far-off thunder rattling the floorboards.

I scrunch my brow, tilting my head. “What’s that?”

It sounds like something thundering over the pavement outside. A deep, pounding sound. Not the grumble of a van engine. Something . . . bigger. Heavier.

“Richard needs to get his van checked,” I mutter. “Sounds like an entire polo team is charging down our—”

“Daisy.” Mum’s voice pitches up, all wobbly and shrill, cutting me off.

I don’t even glance her way. “Yeah, what?”

“Come here!” she squeaks.

I sigh, hauling myself off the sofa. “All right, keep your knickers on—”

Then I catch her face.

Her jaw’s dropped, mascara wand hovering like she’s forgotten how to blink.

A sinking feeling pools in my stomach.

I shuffle over to the kitchen window where she’s rooted, peering out beside her.

What. The. Actual.Fuck.

Because charging down our gravel drive, straight from the main estate, is a wedding carriage.

Not just any carriage—we’re talking the whole Victorian fantasy package: six enormous white horses, their plumes of ostrich feathers bouncing wildly, their hooves hammering the ground like an earthquake. It looks like the queen’s coronation parade hijacked by a lunatic.

And the lunatic in question?

A six-foot-something, angry, aristocratic god, shoulders tense, face set with determination, in an expensive wedding suit minus the jacket, gripping the reins like his life depends on it.

I don’t move. I can’t move.

I just . . . stand there. Mouth open.