"Daddy, don't marry her!"
Three children shouted it from the chapel doors. The organist stopped playing. The bride turned. Every guest in the pews looked back at once.Duke Rowan Vale stood at the altar and stared at them. There were three of them: two boys and a girl, all about seven years old, all soaked from the rain outside.The girl stood in front. She lifted one finger at him like a small judge. "You're not allowed," she said.Rowan did not answer. He was looking at her left cheek. She had a dimple there; he had the same one. He had seen it in a shaving glass every morning for thirty-four years.Then he looked at the smallest boy, who was holding a tiny brown suitcase with both hands. That suitcase was not from Rowan; that was from their mother. She had gray eyes—his gray eyes. The boy on her left had Rowan's black hair and one glove on the wrong hand. The boy on her right had no hat, wet curls, and the expression of a child prepared to bite a bishop if necessary.Rowan stepped down from the altar. Every board of the old chapel seemed to hear him."Who are you?"The girl frowned. "You should know."That struck him harder than the shout. Lady Clarabel turned slowly, her veil trembling in the draft. "Rowan?"He could not answer. Not yet. Because a woman had appeared in the doorway behind the children.She wore a plain dark gown, soaked at the hem. Her bonnet had lost one ribbon. Her face was thinner than memory, but not weaker. Her brown eyes met his across the chapel, and eight years collapsed with indecent speed.Evelyn Hart. No—Evelyn Vale, if one believed a promise made under a field hospital roof while rain hammered canvas and men groaned beyond the lantern light. He had believed it once. Then letters stopped. Then a cousin told him she had married. Then grief did what pride invited: it hardened.Now she stood in his chapel with three children who looked like him, and one tiny suitcase that looked ready to challenge the peerage.The smallest boy tugged Evelyn's sleeve. "Mama, did we stop it?"The chapel inhaled again. Evelyn closed her eyes. When she opened them, her voice was calm. "You stopped many things, Kit."The middle girl said, "Good."The wrong-glove boy looked at Lady Clarabel. "Sorry about your dress. We didn't mean the rain to come, too."Lady Clarabel looked down at her satin hem. Then she looked at Rowan. "I believe," she said very clearly, "the ceremony should pause."Rowan loved her a little for choosing pause instead of collapse. He loved Evelyn too much to breathe properly. That was inconvenient and badly timed.He faced the congregation. "Everyone will remain calm."Aunt Lavinia whispered, "Too late."The girl triplet heard her. "We are calm."The wet, hatless boy nodded. "We shouted on purpose."The congregation rustled. Rowan looked at the children. "Names?"The girl lifted her chin. "Pippa."The wrong-glove boy said, "Milo."The suitcase boy said, "Kit. But Christopher when Mama is disappointed."Rowan's chest hurt. Pippa. Milo. Christopher. Names he had not chosen, years he had not seen. First steps, fevers, questions—all missing.Evelyn took one step forward. "Your Grace, I am sorry."The title struck like cold water. Rowan looked at her. "Do not call me that."Her mouth tightened. "This is not the place.""No," Lady Clarabel said, "it is not." Then she lifted her train with both hands and stepped down from the altar. "Nor is it a place for three wet children to stand in a draft while adults behave like stunned furniture."Pippa studied her. "Are you angry?"