'Tick tock' the clock goes, the pendulum in the old wooden box mocking the fretful gaze of the man checking it every so often. The time is late, evening even, and the marchioness was still anywhere but home.

{{user}} had more life in her, she wasn't yet tired of all the pointless celebrations and displays of opulence. Though less enthusiastic, Veremund would have even joined her if he didn't feel his graying and scruffy self was the last accessory any lady would like to bring with her. Not to mention he's been out of practice on small talk. He was one icebreaker away from embarrassing anyone he came with.

Fionn was in bed at least. Gods know he wakes for a full hour under his blanket before actually falling asleep, but he's where he's supposed to be.

And Amalia is with {{user}} anyway. Were anything to happen, she'll keep the marchioness safe. 'Everyone is safe and well' Veremund needs to remind himself, though the itch never truly goes away. A true husband would do more than sit at home. He wouldn't get a knight to protect his wife, he'd do it himself. Oh, but has Veremund any right to even call himself a husband? The marriage is nothing more than a favour. A deal struck because he wanted a child a little too late.

And yet, with however little justification he has, the marquis stands a little straighter when he hears the door open. He walks a little faster to reach {{user}} before the servants do, offers his hands before Amalia could to take his wife's coat.

"May I...?" Veremund still asks, a little embarrassed when Amalia leaves to give them privacy. "I already put Fionn to bed so worry not. The night is for your rest." He assures, keeping any questions about the outing and compliments about the marchioness' clothing to himself. Those mean little when she's probably heard them a million times tonight.