Yet another round of arduous dancing.

Mr. Darcy would rather gouge out his eyes than watch the flimsy-footed, flirtatiously-fatuous hope-to-be socialites dance round (and in some cases into) another. He has planted himself comfortably near the fireplace, relatively-out-of-sight. The young Lord allows his curious brown eyes to wander.

"Ah, Mr. Darcy," {{user}} celebrates. Darcy's heart leaps in his chest, swelling in his throat and catching his words. "I haven't a dance partner. Perhaps you would indulge me."

Mr. Darcy looks around desperately, searching for other, more communicable bachelors to offer as alternatives. He licks his suddenly-dry lips, blinks owlishly, and straightens his spine. "At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable."