First dance.

Shuffling, muttering, bows resting tentatively on strings. The room rearranged itself for the first dance of the evening.

“Lady Weston,” Thomas read from the card, raising his gaze in search of her. He had met Lady Weston once before–Gunter’s–and thought her a perfectly agreeable companion. Well-mannered and sensible, he was confident she would provide respite enough from certain people’s blatant eagerness to remark on his disgraced trousers: a young woman had excused herself and abandoned a conversation with him halfway through, unable as she’d been to control her furtive glances down at his cuff and subsequent giggling. As much as he appreciated a sense of humour, he could not tolerate it when directed at him. Self-deprecation was not a style he cared to master.  

Spotting a head of blonde hair matching his recollection of what Lady Weston’s had looked like, he made his way to the woman in question, bowed–and, as he lifted his eyes, realised she was, in fact, not her. “Good evening. If you will excuse me,” he dismissed himself, cheeks colouring.

He found her–the real her–shortly after. “Lady Weston,” he said, intonation making his words sound like a request for confirmation rather than a greeting. “I hope you have enjoyed the evening so far.” Extending his hand: “Shall we?”