The man inclined his head slightly, his voice carefully measured. “I do not mean to rush matters, of course. I understand that it is customary for the bride to… delay. A little.” He hesitated, his fingers tightening at his sides. “But the guests are growing… restless.”
Rowan held his gaze. “She will arrive,” he said evenly. “Shortly.”
Wellfield nodded, though the motion was not entirely convincing. “Of course.”
Before Rowan could say more, a smaller voice cut through the space. “F-Father!”
Rowan stiffened at the sudden sound, his shoulders tightening, before he turned and saw the small figure rushing toward him. Aaron’s dark hair was slightly disheveled, his breathing a little too fast as he came to a halt.
“Have—have y-you f-found Aunt J-Juliet?” he asked, his words catching over themselves.
Rowan exhaled slowly, forcing the irritation down before it could take hold. “We are still looking.”
Aaron’s face shifted, his brows drawing together.
“I c-can help,” he said suddenly, looking up at Rowan with a spark of determination that did not belong on a child’s face. “I am v-very g-good at f-finding things. I f-found Mrs. C-Carter’s c-cat l-last m-month!”
Rowan closed his eyes for the briefest moment. This was not the time for Aaron, not when everything was already slipping beyond his control. Yet the boy’s earnestness pressed at something in his chest, a quiet sense that he was failing him even now. He pushed it aside.
There are more urgent matters at hand.
“Your assistance will not be necessary,” he said.
“Well—well, I c-could at l-least—” Aaron began, then paused, his expression brightening as though he had found a better solution. “I c-could k-keep the c-cake s-safe.”
Rowan looked at him, brow furrowing. “There is no cake here.”
Aaron frowned. “B-but th-there w-will be c-cake, r-right?”
“After the ceremony,” Rowan said. “At the house.”
The boy’s disappointment was immediate, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Oh.”
He shifted his weight, then looked up again. “H-how l-long w-will sh-she t-take?”
Rowan’s patience thinned. He turned his head slightly to the boy’s governess, standing a short distance away.
“Miss Harrow,” he said to her, “take him inside.”
Aaron hesitated, his gaze flicking between Rowan and the chapel, as though reluctant to leave.
“Go on,” Rowan said, more firmly this time.
The boy nodded, though he looked back once as Miss Harrow guided him toward the doors, his small hand curling into hers.
Rowan watched them disappear inside, and the unwelcome sense of having done wrong settled beneath his ribs. The boy had looked back at him, and he had still sent him away. He forced it down again, before it could take hold.
“Well,” he said, turning back to Wellfield, “as I mentioned—brides.”
Wellfield gave a strained smile.
Rowan gestured toward the chapel. “Shall we?”
The man nodded, though his lips remained tight as he stepped inside.
Rowan did not follow. Instead, he turned back toward the entrance, his gaze sweeping the road beyond the chapel doors.
Still empty.
