So far as Hauke was concerned, he had come to England to teach first and to court last. A necessary promise to his kin to buy just a little more time before the inevitable knot was tied, and thus to buy a much-needed to chance to find some solution to his predicament. Out from under Uncle Lothar's scrutiny he had neglected that second goal. Attended a handful of balls in August where he had, admittedly, enjoyed himself but offered the ladies little in the way of a chance, then abandoned such endeavors in favor of lesson plans and grading papers. The winter interterm removed all such responsibilities. With neither teaching nor research to occupy his time, he had conceded that a New Years Eve ball might not just be well-advised, but necessary.
He quickly regretted choosing any event so elaborately themed. What little finery he ever kept he abandoned behind him in Germany, and so he'd had no choice but to acquire whatever costume he could put coin to quickly. He landed upon a black ensemble, caped and hatted and gloved-- a dramatization of some fifteenth-century rogue which looked, Hauke had to admit, not altogether terrible on him. Not his style, but good enough to be getting on with.
Hauke arrived alone and just barely on time, amidst a veritable flurry of greetings and introductions. One whirlwind later he found himself wandering the edge of the dancefloor with no plan. Of course he knew the dances. He knew, on paper, the steps a man in his position should take. Knowing could not make it natural to him. To strike up a conversation with a doubled purpose made Hauke's skin crawl, and--
A flutter of motion in the corner of Hauke's eye pulled him from his rambling thoughts, back to the warm gilded light of this enchanted ballroom. He turned, startled, and his eyes landed on the fan at a young lady's feet. There was little thought involved as Hauke stooped to retrieve it, offering it back to her with his usual laid back smile.
"Miss," Hauke remained at a half-bow-- the most comfortable option with a capelet draped over that shoulder-- with her fan balanced gently in his palm.
He quickly regretted choosing any event so elaborately themed. What little finery he ever kept he abandoned behind him in Germany, and so he'd had no choice but to acquire whatever costume he could put coin to quickly. He landed upon a black ensemble, caped and hatted and gloved-- a dramatization of some fifteenth-century rogue which looked, Hauke had to admit, not altogether terrible on him. Not his style, but good enough to be getting on with.
Hauke arrived alone and just barely on time, amidst a veritable flurry of greetings and introductions. One whirlwind later he found himself wandering the edge of the dancefloor with no plan. Of course he knew the dances. He knew, on paper, the steps a man in his position should take. Knowing could not make it natural to him. To strike up a conversation with a doubled purpose made Hauke's skin crawl, and--
A flutter of motion in the corner of Hauke's eye pulled him from his rambling thoughts, back to the warm gilded light of this enchanted ballroom. He turned, startled, and his eyes landed on the fan at a young lady's feet. There was little thought involved as Hauke stooped to retrieve it, offering it back to her with his usual laid back smile.
"Miss," Hauke remained at a half-bow-- the most comfortable option with a capelet draped over that shoulder-- with her fan balanced gently in his palm.