Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Juliet?” The name left Rowan immediately, but it died as he took her in.
The height did not match, nor the shape of her shoulders, nor the way she held herself so straight and composed. Juliet had never stood with such control. Juliet moved, fidgeted, filled silence with something soft and uncertain.
This woman did none of that.
Then she lifted her veil, and his breath caught before he could stop it.
This was not his sister.
And beneath that realization, another came immediately.
She is beautiful.
The realization struck his chest harder than it should have, entirely ill-timed.
There was no softness in her beauty, nothing fragile or uncertain about it.
Her features were gentle, but her gaze was steady, her honey-brown eyes meeting his without flinching, even as confusion tightened her expression.
Rowan dragged his attention away from her face with effort, forcing his focus back where it belonged.
“What is the meaning of this?” he said, his voice cutting through the space.
The men behind her shifted immediately.
“We found Lady Juliet, Your Grace,” one of them said, stepping forward, his tone too eager, too relieved. “She was traveling on a nearby road, and we assumed—”
“You assumed,” Rowan repeated.
The man faltered.
Beside him, the woman straightened further, her brow furrowing.
“Lady Juliet?” she huffed. “I am not Lady Juliet.”
“Did it occur to any of you,” Rowan continued, turning his head slowly toward his men, “to ask the lady a single question before dragging her all the way here?”
The men glanced at each other, their composure cracking.
“We—she—she was alone, Your Grace, and the timing—”
“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 missing bride, 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.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “Walk with me.”
Frederick nodded, falling into step beside him as they moved a short distance away, though Rowan’s attention drifted toward Emmeline, standing rooted in place, despite himself.
“This had better be good,” Rowan said under his breath.
“I stopped at the inn on the south road.” Frederick exhaled. “One of the barmaids said a lady in a wedding gown passed through not an hour ago. She paid another girl to exchange clothes with her.”
Rowan stilled.
“And?” he said.
Frederick reached into his coat and handed him a folded paper. “She left this.”
Rowan took it, already knowing what he would see before he unfolded it.
I cannot do this. I need to be somewhere safe. Please do not follow. I will write when I can. – J
The words burned, and Rowan simply stared at them for a moment.
His sister had run. Left him to stand before a chapel full of witnesses and explain the absence of a bride. Left him to manage the fallout. Left—
Rowan exhaled sharply, forcing the thought down before it could turn into something more volatile.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
“What now?” Frederick asked.
Rowan lifted his head, already calculating.
“We contain it,” he said. “We postpone the wedding.”
“And her?” Frederick nodded subtly toward Emmeline.
Rowan followed the gesture before he could stop himself.
She stood a short distance away, her posture still composed, though there was a tightness in her shoulders now, a tension that had not been there before.
He knew Lady Emmeline was alone, in a wedding gown, at the wrong chapel—all because of him. He forced himself to turn back to the matter at hand, but the realization tugged at his chest, and he knew he had to do something about her, too. He would not let her bear more of it.
“We handle Wellfield first.” Rowan finally exhaled.
Frederick nodded.
They stepped back toward the others just as Wellfield moved forward again, his patience clearly gone.
“I require an explanation,” he said.
“You shall have one,” Rowan replied, his voice steady.
“Well?”
Rowan met his gaze. “My sister has taken ill.”
Wellfield stared at him. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to exercise discretion,” Rowan said coldly.
“Well, I refuse,” Wellfield snapped. “This is humiliating. The wedding is to take place now, before witnesses, before—”
“It will be postponed until my sister has recovered,” Rowan said.
“It will not!” Wellfield shot back. “I have suffered enough humiliation from your sister.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You would do well to reconsider.”
“And you would do well to control your household,” Wellfield retorted, stepping closer. “I will not stand here and be made a fool of—”
His hand lifted.
Rowan saw it before it moved. He caught the man’s wrist easily, stopping the blow before it could land, his grip firm enough to make Wellfield’s face pale.
“Do not,” Rowan said quietly.
Wellfield yanked his hand back, breathing hard, his composure cracked beyond repair.
“This is done,” he said, his voice shaking with anger. “The wedding is off.”
He turned sharply and strode toward his horse, the murmurs behind them rising.
Rowan closed his eyes briefly. “Damn him.” Then opened them. “Frederick,” he said.
“I will handle it,” Frederick replied at once, already turning toward the guests, his voice shifting into something lighter.
Rowan watched him go for a moment before he turned back and finally allowed his attention to settle fully on her.
Lady Emmeline stood exactly where he had left her, her posture still composed, though the strain of the situation had begun to show in the way her hands held her skirts a touch too tightly.
When their eyes met, the noise of the chapel, the murmuring guests, the tension of the morning—all of it seemed to recede for a single, suspended moment, leaving only her standing before him.
Rowan stepped toward her before he could think better of it.
“My lady… This should not have happened,” he said.
“It is quite unfortunate indeed,” she said, and though her voice remained calm, Rowan heard the effort it cost her to stand there with dignity while half the chapel seemed ready to turn her into gossip. “But I must hurry to my own wedding, Your Grace.”
“You will not go alone,” Rowan said at once.
Her brows drew together. “Your Grace, that is really not necessary.”
“It is,” he replied, his tone leaving little room for argument. “My men took you off your route. I will accompany you and explain the matter to your father myself.”