Marriage, it seemed, was quite a thing to get used to. He found himself passing back and forth outside of her room a dozen times before attemping to knock, and only on the 3rd attempt did he actually bring himself to do it.
He steeled himself before entering the room, a carefully composed mask slipping into place. He'd spent the better part of the morning in correspondence, the afternoon in meetings, and all of it with the faint awareness that there was another person moving somewhere beyond the walls of the townhouse who, by law and ceremony, was now tied to him in life and in death. It was, he found, an absurd arrangement. More absurd still that he did not yet know how to speak to her without sounding like a solicitor drafting terms.
"It is me," he replied, somewhat awkwardly. "You are late for nothing," he assured her, shaking his head in a signal that there was nothing to worry about. "I told the staff that I would..." he looked around the room, searching for the right lie. "See that you knew that dinner is served at six," he lied. In truth, he'd half-expected to find the room empty and her belongings gone, halfway back to Inverness. They hadn't exactly seen much of each other since their arrival.
Instead, he found her surrounded by papers. scribbling furiously. He had the distinct urge to snoop, to lean over and read what she was writing. Against his better instincts, he fought against it. For now. "Though I am most impressed that your first instinct upon seeing your husband is to presume you have failed in some duty."
He has always incited a curious sort of response in her, something alight and alive, as if her heart were a bird about to take wing, or a horse about to break into a gallop, or--- she does not know. For the briefest of moments, she is excited to see him. And then she remembers. Remembers the circumstances; where they are now, why they are here, who they are to one another now.
She does not move from her desk by the window just yet, her eyes roaming over his frame before returning to his face. Still as inscrutable as ever. There is a relief that comes when he speaks, a reassurance that this is merely about the time they would be eating. Her husband has not found fault with her, despite all the evidence of her shortcomings. As he speaks, he moves through the room, almost pacing, and yet she cannot help but notice he does not actually approach her. Each step is sideways, askance, as if they are in orbit rather than in lockstep. As if, by maintaining his distance now, they can somehow undo what has occurred.
Charlotte forces herself to smile, her lips pressed tightly together. Is this how it will be? Her stomach feels lined with lead. "Apologies, sir; it is a rather natural inclination after spending time with one's mother," she admits wryly, glancing back to ensure all of her scribblings are hidden beneath blank paper. "Thank you for informing me. I suppose..." she sighs, realizing this means she needs to get dressed for dinner, and rests one elbow on her desk, dropping her forehead to her hand. She allows herself two deep breaths before she pushes herself away from the desk and heads to the wardrobe. "You have been rather busy since our arrival." It's not a question.
