Her mother continually fussed with her dress. It was like her mother had never seen Elizabeth in it before. As if they hadn't done nearly three fittings with the damned thing. Liz hair was in loose waves, neatly filed and resting over one shoulder. She had no veil, because she thought they were silly. She was already working on adorning herself with the Scott tartan sash she'd had specially made so that it flattered the dress rather than being the focus. It pinned delicately to the shoulder and then across to her hip, set so that it would follow the curves of the dress instead of looking like it was draped and covering it. Now it was just a matter of time.
Gerald was at the bar, sipping conservatively at a glass of bourbon. He hadn't been fully prepared for his daughter's wedding. It wasn't like him to be unprepared, but what was a man to do when his only daughter was having a swanky white wedding with guests and family and... he sneered. He wasn't always an unpleasant sort of fellow, but gatherings that required his attendance never sat well with him. One way or another, he'd have to survive this, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let the day go without saying what he came to the bar to say.
The men were all waiting about for the ceremony to start. The sun would be setting in the couple hours. The timing was intentional, so the schedule was set. He had only a few minutes to pull his son-in-law aside and tell him precisely how he felt about the entire situation he was put in. So, Gerald waited for a lull in conversation between the men and approached the young (ish) Mr. Scott and cleared his throat. "A word..." he commanded.