The ballroom is crowded but he asks her for a dance with all the ease in the world. Her hands are sweating and she hopes he doesn't notice. “Care to dance?” he asks her, and she graciously accepts.
He is a royal lord, with more money and station than Jemma could ever hope to marry into. She, however, has a small dowry and a smaller title and only her great wit and mind make her pleasant company. In spite of this, no man would ever marry her, pleasing though she may be to the eye and quick her mind. Most men would not care to marry below their station, no matter how beautiful the woman.
“You look troubled,” she notes as they dance, and frowns slightly. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” he says with a smile, and continues on.
The night is young, and they do not leave one another's arms.