He looks up at Sorcha with no small amount of discontentment. It was not every day that an upstart white peer had the gall to suggest somehow he was unusual, somber, dower even.
He approaches the group with his head down and his eyes keen upon the head of this strange gathering - positive that his parents and ancestors had never had to do anything this way. He wonders if it might not just be better to allow himself to turn hermit, passing poisons like the Apothecary of Romeo and Juliett.
He manages to catch the obligations they had here as per listening to the others describe their perfect lady, and frankly when it comes time for his turn, he is no small bit at a loss. “What would I want?” as if it is a preposterous question, “A woman with a head on her shoulders and the good sense to keep it there.” He offers, though there is a tickle of tenderness in his mind that he wishes he could bog down. “Someone to be a sanctuary, at peace so when I am not -- I can become so.”
It is a complicated notion, but he senses that there is no small amount of that when seeking a mate, or even a companion.
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