Chapter Text
Rosaline hadn’t meant to pry. She had only been searching for her... husband, and came to see if he was in his former room. (The room that is still his, in truth, considering that he has slept there every night since their wedding, instead of the chambers that are officially theirs as man-and-wife.) She'd thought she had her husband figured out by now, but as soon as she'd stepped into his room, she'd realized there are further depths to him still.
What she finds she may only describe as an artist's workspace. She has heard Lord Montague make passing, derisive comments about his nephew's "dabblings," but this suggests something more akin to a passion. One table is covered in a dusting of stone, sculpting tools, and some half-formed designs. Another table has brushes and paints. There are stacks of papers and portfolios and drawing utensils strewn about the room. One book in particular appears to have been set down recently, as if kept in regular use.
Curiosity gets the better of her.
She opens the cover — just to see what it is — and finds a depiction of the interior of some unfamiliar building. There are the hard lines of the vaulted ceilings and the soft strokes of the curtains. There is even shading done to show how the light shines in from the windows. Rosaline knows little about art, yet she is inclined to say the drawing is skillfully portrayed.
She forgets herself then, letting the cover lay open flat so she may better peruse the pages. She finds all manner of sketches. Some incredibly detailed, some simple, and some abandoned in what she might guess is frustration. There are depictions of architecture, landscapes, still life, and... naked women.
It's shocking, yet Rosaline is still too ensnared by the artistry of the nude drawings to be scandalized.
They were done with great care, each woman beautiful in her depiction. Rosaline feels as if she can see their emotions and thoughts, whether they be pensive or coy or bold. And though she does her best to view them with an objective eye, she cannot help but sense the eroticism in the drawings, as well. Her eyes trace each angle and curve the way he must have studied once. And she wonders —
"What are you doing in here?”
Rosaline jumps, her hand slipping from the page. But there’s no hiding what she had been examining.
She does her best to keep her composure as she turns to face her husband. "I was looking for you," she says, her voice wavering from the prim manner for which she had been aiming.
He pointedly looks down at the open portfolio and back to her. His eyebrows are raised but he otherwise gives nothing else away. "In there?"
Any excuse she may give would be a feeble one. Instead she meets his gaze plainly. So she'd looked in one of his books. So what?
Rosaline isn't sure which typical reaction from him she would have expected: amusement or rage. This is neither. He's stern, but with none of the bitter resignation she'd grown accustomed to. He steps forward and closes the portfolio over her hand, coming dangerously close to touching her where her fingers remain grazing the pages. He keeps his eyes locked on hers but his expression is... entirely unreadable.
"You said you were looking for me?" he asks.
"Your uncle wants you. He seems to think that as your wife, I am in charge of knowing your whereabouts."
"He seems to think a lot of things when it comes to our marriage," he mutters darkly, more to himself than her. Rosaline has her suspicions what Lord Montague wants, as he is ever impatient for them to produce an heir; her husband clearly does as well. "And it doesn't matter," he continues. "Because that is between you, me, and God."
Funny, she thinks, that he is so insistent on their privacy yet refers to it as something that is shared between them, rather than decidedly individual. For as much of herself as she prefers to keep hidden away, the same it would seem of her husband.