Pre Dance 2
Ambrose had made quite the entrance into society, though not exactly the one he had envisioned. His debut was marked by an incident that would surely be remembered… if only for the moment: bulldozing into a noble, no less a beautiful one. The gossip mills of the ton had undoubtedly been set abuzz with his antics. Ambrose couldn’t help but hold a disdain for the high-society mamas in the room. To him, they were the purveyors of the endless rumor mill that plagued the ton, and he had heard whispers of someone named “Lady Whistledown” as of late, as well. If you asked Ambrose, this “Lady Whistledown” was likely a lowlife who used the lives of the ton’s elite for comedic fodder, making their own existence seem superior by comparison. In his eyes, gossip was a weapon wielded to spread information unrelated to oneself, all in an effort to boost one’s own ego.
It was disgusting.
While Ambrose’s words were filled with respect and courtesy, his internal dialogue was less forgiving. He mentally berated himself for his earlier blunder with those oversized boots he had…er… borrowed. Or… bought… if you consider it as such.
Pushing those thoughts aside for the moment, he directed his attention solely toward the young lady before him. Well, mostly. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but keep the refreshment table, tantalizingly close, on his radar. His hunger still lingered, but for now, he was determined to focus on the girl.
"Thank you, sir. No harm done, I assure you. I do appreciate your swift assistance.”
Ambrose couldn’t resist a playful retort, a grin making it’s way on his features as he uttered “You deserve nothing less, madam. Truly I should be the one to apologize again for my poor show of bullfighting skills. I hope this encounter won’t be the highlight of our evening, for I assure you, I am much better at dancing than charging like a bull” His eyes twinkled with amusement at his words.
However, his grin disappeared as her eyes settled downward. While a lady’s gaze perusing his figure typically brought a smile to his face, this time was quite the opposite as her eyes fixated on his shoes. Correction, Prince Magnus’ shoes. Her words that followed only deepened his unease about the situation. After all, it was well-known that the best-kept secrets were those left unquestioned, and this girl had chosen to inquire about the one thing he had hoped to avoid.
“I…Do…” he hesitated for a moment; Ambrose’s second mistake of the night - and sadly, it was one that had only just begun. “I must confess, dear lady, my choice of footwear is often dictated by the whims of fashion, and my memory of their procurement tends to waltz away from me,” Ambrose replied with a charming smile. “But speaking of waltzes, would you honor me with a dance, and perhaps we can create a memory together that’s far more captivating than my boots?”