That she is content to argue his name sees both stormy grey eyes of the man widen. He is not used to being argued with, aside from members of his immediate family, everyone else around him merely content to nod and agree- the man evidently taken aback but her boldness and evident decision rename him at her discretion. Dori, he is sure, is neither correct nor appropriate and yet for now the fae, perhaps wisely, chooses to offer little argument in return. Women, he has always been told, where perhaps better not argued with, especially when the naming traditions of this culture remained elusive to him- a frown of disdain all he offers for now. It is the printed book he truly holds an interest in, the tiny, neat print outside his ability to comprehend, assured that whomever had penned it was of incredibly steady hand and marvellous precision, his awe at the writing only overshadowed by his utter disbelief in the book itself. The girls handing running over his shoulder as she moves to point at the countries momentarily sees the man pause, gaze angled back towards her. Physical touch between unrelated men and women was decidedly rare to his understanding of it, any sort of intimate touch reserved exclusively for the bedchamber- or the shadows of a garden and the darkness of the night with only the stars above to see the fugitive lovers sneak away. That society has changed its understanding of touch is outside his knowledge, the girl, to his mind, acting in a decidedly suggestive manner that does little more then confuse him. It is fortunate perhaps- that the book so seeks to distract him from Samanthas advances.

He has not seen a map since the late 1400s, news of discoveries had hardly reached him, the very world he had once known seeming to have expanded tenfold- and rounded, since he had last observed it. For a moment his emotions teeter between disbelief, awe and a distinctly sharp taint of anger at a world he no longer holds any understanding off, a truth, that for now, he has utterly no desire to accept as he pushes the book almost roughly away, demanding Samantha remove it from his sight. He cannot avoid I forever, that he already understands and yet for one night at least he can. He remains oblivious to the emotions Sam alone is content to feel, unaware the woman is so aware of himself in turn, the Prince determined to prevent any true look of distress from tainting his features in the manner he had been taught. It was improper, after all, for someone of his station to appear distraught. He assurance that he hardly owes her anything is met with another look of surprise, such an expression perhaps better worn as a permanent fixture from the amount of times he has worn it today.

"-and where I am from Mademoiselle, we repay those whom offer kindness. As I will- one day."

The French lyrics find his lips easily, the man so faultlessly slipping into one of the languages he prefers, evidently refusing to be moved upon this topic, assured of the rightness of it as he moves to stand and ask after whatever method of bathing this kingdom associates itself with. The clothing that is thrust into his arms is met with a look of something between confusion and open disdain, Dorian moving to lift the jeans, fingers experimentally feeling the denim.

"This is horrible fabric, do you mean to tell me this is used clothing?"

He has never before worn anything that had not been made for himself exclusively, the knowledge that he had been presented with the rather offensive clothing of another man is as outrageous as it is ridiculous- almost as much as her mention of this boyfriend.

"I do not understand, what do you mean your boyfriend? Are you not married? Is this the clothing of your male lover to whom you are unwed?"

Dorian, evidentially, has rather a flare for the dramatic. It is hardly unheard of for a woman to have male lovers and yet it was far less acceptable then it was for a man- that is simply the nature of things. Beside, surely at her age she was married? He manages to follow her towards the bathroom all the same, eyeing the shower almost warily, her attempts to explain the piping and water not totally illogical to his mind as she moves to point out several containers of....something before shutting the door behind her. It takes several minutes of staring before Dorian at least moves to place the clothing and towel down, one hand reaching experimentally for the tap, turning it as she had suggested before pulling it upward- only to be forced to leap aside in an effort to avoid the violent spray of water.

"Oh my....."

This was a decidedly unpleasant apparatus. How anyone would deem this relaxing he hardly knows, Dorian content to turn it off and on several times before moving to pull his shirt from his head, his pants shucked off a moment later, the water adjusted several times until it no longer threatened to either burn him or freeze him before he at last allowed himself to step beneath the spray, eyes shutting against the stream that fell upon his head. What a perfectly ridiculous way to bathe! One hand reaches down to grasp this supposed soap, the man turning it over in some attempt to search for instructions, eyes narrowing against the water.

"What does lather mean..."

It is little more than a mutter to himself, the man moving to place the bottle back down, picking up the shampoo instead, several more moments spent attempting to work it before he, at last, manages to squeeze some of the shampoo into his hand- eyeing it with distinct disdain.

"No."

He settles, at last, for simply rinsing his hair, the man having been within the shower for near on forty minutes before he emerges at last, one hand clutching the jeans in an attempt to actually hold them up and preventing himself from walking upon the ends, the shirt a semi-decent fit in the least.

"This clothing.....does not fit."