Mr. Gideon Larson would rather be anywhere but a ball.

As the Master of Northingar, though, he was required to attend these events, much to his chagrin. He didn't understand the social appeal and would much rather be at his estate, conversing with his sister Charlotte or reading a book, or even - hell - working.

He stood idly with a flute sherry, his gaze sweeping across the crowd with a lazy cadence. A few men were chatting beside him, trying to gain his favor, but Mr. Larson didn't care much for horse betting, nor did he share his political views openly with the shrewd ton. Ladies tried to flirt discreetly with him, but as usual, he was nonplussed.

"Oof!" He grunted unceremoniously when a weight collided with his side. Looking down, his eyes caught yours.