“And the face?” Rowan cut in. “The voice? The fact that you have served in my house long enough to know my sister by sight?”
“Her veil was lowered, Your Grace,” one of the men said quickly, color rising high in his face. “We could not see her clearly. We thought—” Rowan exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience thinning with every second. “Leave.”
“Your Grace?—”
“Leave,” Rowan repeated, sharper this time, the word leaving no room for argument. “And do not return until you have found Lady Juliet.”
They bowed their heads and, within moments, they were gone.
Rowan turned back, only to find the woman watching him, her posture still straight despite the confusion in her face, her gloved fingers gathered too tightly in her skirts.
He opened his mouth, intending to ask her name at last.
Footsteps cut across the moment before he could speak.
“What is going on here, Ironford?”
Wellfield came down the chapel steps with agitation written plainly across his face, his gaze moving from the bride to Rowan and back again.
There was nothing tentative in him this time. The man had clearly heard enough of Rowan’s orders to know that something was wrong. The sharpness in his expression only worsened the murmurs already beginning to rise from the guests nearest the door.
Rowan heard the sound of curiosity sharpening into scandal, and he knew he had only moments to contain it.
“There has been a mistake,” Rowan said evenly, stepping forward before the situation could unravel further. “Lady?—”
He stopped. He didn’t even know her name.
“Lady Emmeline Greene,” the bride said at once, her voice calm despite everything, though Rowan caught the effort behind it. “Daughter of the Earl of Weston.”
Emmeline.It was a soft, silky name, and his tongue ached to say it.
She lifted her chin slightly and continued, “I was directed here in error. I was meant for another chapel entirely, and I shall be on my way now to my own wedding.”
Wellfield stared at her, then at Rowan, eyes wide.
“My sister will be arriving shortly,” Rowan said, with enough conviction to make it sound like fact.
Wellfield’s mouth tightened. “Shortly?” he repeated, looking toward the whispering guests and then back again. “Your Grace, Lady Juliet has been late for far too long already.”
Rowan held his gaze. “And for that reason, the immediate concern is keeping order, not feeding gossip.”
“Well, the gossip is already feeding itself,” Wellfield snapped, gesturing toward the chapel entrance, where more than one guest had now turned openly to watch them. “You hear them as well as I do.”
Rowan heard the murmurs growing louder. Every second of it tightened something colder inside him. This had to be stopped now, before it spread beyond the chapel steps and turned into something no one could contain.
“It will be handled,” he said.
“Well, I should like to know how,” Wellfield shot back, his voice rising with every word. “Because at present, all I see is a missingbride, a strange lady in wedding silk, and half the county staring at us as though we are a farce.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened, though his expression did not shift. “Then I suggest you lower your voice before you give them more to stare at.”
That only made Wellfield flush darker, his agitation worsening as the whispers continued to gather around them like flies to blood.
The sharp rhythm of hooves cut through it all and turned more than one head toward the road.
Frederick rode in at speed, drawing his horse to a firm stop near the steps before swinging down at once, none of his usual ease in the movement. His gaze swept the scene quickly, taking in the gathered guests, the tension, the unfamiliar bride, and it lingered on Emmeline just a fraction too long.
He caught himself and turned to Rowan. “I found something.”
