Not based on anything historical, but a sign of the time period. I hope you enjoy it!

He was there, across the ballroom. Among the whipping gowns and glittering lights that skipped on gems and sparkled in wine glasses. I could spot him a mile away. A figure, tall and lean, with elegance sewn to perfection. From where I stood, this much I could tell for certain. His skin was not fair like mine, but bronze with a Mediterranean tan. This in itself made him different, an outsider.

His hand casually held his glass, and from my distance, it still seemed untouched. He stood alone, and by the looks of his unwavering glance, he was clearly uninterested.

So was I.

This gathering was no special occasion, but rather another excuse to have a gossip affair. It was meant to serve as a welcoming for our new members of the institute, yet one of our guests was being treated as a ghost. It was far from a welcoming, indeed.

My ear rang from my mother's high pitched chatter stringing up the table, sharing exciting news with close family and friends. The husbands of each gathered around the spirits, discussing business or the struggles of their weighing marriage. Or at least that's what I can assume from the looks of it. I, however, find solace in quietly observing. During these special occasions, I'm at my best when my mouth is shut, due to my unwanted candor.

The room was filled with laughter and brightness, but most importantly, opportunity. For a growing young woman, a ball is a perfect gathering to see potential suitors. The catch is, the woman must never be assertive. It's the lady's job to look presentable, desirable. Many find themselves hopelessly wishing for one special man to ask for a dance, but usually, it's the ones you like the least who grant you the attention you seek. Still, a proper lady never objects.

I don't affiliate myself with those expressively swooning girls. Wishing and begging never won a lady any honor, and it certainly leads to disappointment. But tonight, my fingers hid behind my skirts of amber to cross tightly. I wished he'd approach me and ask me, and only me, to dance. But by the looks of it, he was merely praying for an escape from this hell.

A couple flashed by me, the leftover wind chilling my shoulder. My loose curls tickled my cheek in reply. They all made it seem so easy to be swept away by a man. I'm close to ending my seventeenth year, but mother said there is still hope for me to become engaged before my eighteenth birthday. I knew mother will throw a ravishing party for that occasion, for all she's good for is starting gatherings, but I also knew she'd prefer to brag about my wedding instead of my aging.

"Florence, do sit down. You're making me nervous, watching you standing there hovering over the dance," mother insisted, and I obediently took my seat.

"My, my, aren't you wishing to be whisked away by gentlemen?" Her hand tenderly brushed my gloved one, but her cold, gray eye flashed a warning. Don't disappoint me, they screamed. Laughter broke around the table, but one lady remained silent. My mother also took note of this and set her wrath spiraling.

"And you, dear Amara, what made you decide to bring your family from France to London?" Curiosity mixed with mockery, a bitter poison my mother drinks and spits towards others for reasons even I cannot understand. How does my poor father manage her?

Her skin matched her son's, and I envied her for being a wildflower in a harvest full of bland tulips. "A matter of duty, Mrs. Cartwright. Ever since our bidding from Egypt, I have wanted the best for my son. He has been practicing much English in France, and after some time, I decided it was time for us to settle in a rather progressive society. We both are happy to be here." Amara's diverse accent separated her once more from the rest of us, but no one dared to say a word regarding their uncomfortable affections towards the woman.

Instead of matching the awkwardness of the crowd, I smiled inwardly to myself. Surely, there was sarcasm in her sentiment, for ironically, the diverting eyes and splitting silence was the opposite of a progressive and open mind.

On impulse, I turned back to study this son of hers, still perched against the wall across the table of spirits. He was spinning his wine glass now, concentrating on the curves of the liquid, probably begging for the nightmare to be over. Then his head snapped up. Bright honey eyes met my hazel ones, and blood rushed into my cheeks. I looked away, embarrassed for being caught in the act.

"Now Florence, do behave! There is no need to gush over the dancers so boldly. One lucky man will sweep you up soon, mark my words," she leaned her head closer to mine, her breath reeked so bitter it made me gag, "but I do hope, not the colored one, their family seems rather odd." I only stared at my mother blandly, fiddling with the fabric of my dress.

The distaste in her voice was cruel and unmeasurable, but I couldn't stop myself from feeling pity for her. She knew no better than to bring others down in order to climb up the social status. It was times like these I longed for an older sister, not an older brother, though he was undoubtedly my favorite person in the world. If, however, there were two of us, then maybe I would not be nagged as often as I am.

I continued to massage my amber skirts anxiously in my seat. This tool was another gown mother had custom made for me. As if any man is dying to know the secret fabric that brings glamour to a dress. She thinks me too out of the ordinary, thus the reason for my lack of a husband. That no man wants my company because I'm not pretty enough. If that's the case, then it truly is their loss, but alas, my mother, unlike the ever-changing ways of London infrastructure, is not as progressive. No one here truly is.

Unable to endure my mother's complaints and bickering, I rose from my seat with my head held high. "Do pardon me, but I fear this corset is bringing on a dizzy spell. I will gather myself and find some air." Before anyone could protest, I hurried off as the dance was coming to a close and the clapping began to erupt. I knew there would be a small interlude where dancers hydrated themselves, then another waltz would take place minutes after. If I wasn't back by then, I knew mother would hunt me down and drag me by my hair.

Swiftly but gracefully, I escaped past the corridor and into the hall where a strip of white light cracked through the balcony doors. To limit any attention I may earn, I walked on the balls of my feet in hopes my heel would not click the marble floor. When I reached the balcony's edge I gasped for air. I felt completely embarrassed of myself. All these pearls, dresses, rosy cheeks, and parties will never earn me a wealthy husband like my mother desires. I'm a basket case.

I leaned on the stone railing, and let my eyes close. My hand found the pins and decors in my caramel locks. I wanted to rip them apart, along with this monstrous dress. More than ever, it stuck to me like glue and fed off my breath like a leech, the thick layers continued to weigh me down.

The rings, bracelets, and chains around my neck were all a facade, a coverup of the truth. My mother's worries about me becoming husbandless, my father's torment of constant rumors now stains any glory of our name. Then my own guilty pleasures of storybooks and learning invited others to create pretentious rumors of me as well. And yet no one bears the courage to seek the truth, hiding behind their masks. We wear gowns and laugh in ballrooms pretending everything is fine when it's far from reality. With all the pain and stress I've put my family through, I'm led to believe I am less than adequate.

Defeated, I allowed one tear to slip down my cheek. Another threatened to spill when a gentle, velvet voice snuck from behind me.

"Quite odd, Miss, that I find you here out of breath, and yet your presence on the ballroom floor was absent."

I spun around mortified, attempting to adjust my posture and rub away my swelling eyes.

Now I could see all of him up close, basking in the milky moonlight. A spotlight that brought a halo around his chestnut curls. There was no wine glass in his hand now, as his arms were naturally crossed. I looked over his well-fitted attire and great height that might've doubled mine, even with these horrendous heels. He was less muscular, and not as intimidating up close, yet his set expression and lack of amusement in his eyes were unsettling.

"And if I recall, sir," I straightened my back and kept my gaze firm, " your informal manner and disdain is what left you to rot on the sidewall."

This brought a grin to his lips, but as quickly as it appeared, it was wiped away. He took a step forward, and I forced my body to not react to the subtracting space between us.

"You are the only one who seemed to notice, madam." he stopped a few feet away, close enough to smell a hint of lemon surrounding him. It was sweet but nowhere close to overpowering. He dropped his arms to the side and kept a steady composure.

I flinched at his striking sarcasm, which I detect stems from his mother. " You haven't even presented yourself properly and yet you find the audacity to ridicule me. Do realize how immensely rude that is, especially towards a lady?" Deep within me, I really wanted to know his name and hear him speak more words, whether they mocked me or not. The dialect on his lips was hauntingly beautiful. So rich and colorful, unlike mine that made me sound snarky and uptight. 

"You're quite right," he admitted calmly, and without warning my gloved hand was in his grasp. His lips tenderly grazed my hand for a brief moment. My body was completely paralyzed, it burning like a supernova.

"I am Hassan Salib. And with whom do I have the honor of being accompanied by?" His head was almost at level with mine, and I had the sudden urge to sketch his sculpted face. Brown and tanned, his soothing canary eyes captured me in ways far more complex than physical.

"Florence Olivia Cartwright, sir." I managed to keep my voice afloat. Hassan released my hand as his gaze studied me gingerly.

"A lovely name, like the famous Italian city. Very spectacular there. Have you been?" I shook my head and he sighed. "Your family throws money into luxurious balls, but they have no fancy for traveling? What a pity. Nevertheless, you must go one day, maybe a dashing husband of yours can be convinced otherwise." Amusement was back into his voice. He bit back a grin as he took a stand beside me.

"What is it that you want of me?" I murmured. I kept my eyes down, too ashamed to look at him.

"Oh, pardon me, miss. I do apologize. I don't have a way with words. I seem to treat serious situations as a joke to be light, but clearly, this is not the time for it," he clears his chest  "I happened to see a very beautiful girl storm away in both style and despair, and I thought it would be decent of me to wish the girl well. But I see my humor is causing more damage."

At this I looked at Hassan, his eyes were forward, eyebrows scrunched together in uncertainty. "That is rather surprising to me, and I'm grateful, but I am disappointed in myself. I did try to seem as casual as possible. "

"You did a horrible job at that, Miss. Cartwright."

"You are the only one who seemed to notice, sir."

A genuine chuckle escaped him, soft and welcoming. It made room for a smile to tug on my face. "We are back full circle, I suppose. You're a clever one, I can tell."

"I may be clever, but it doesn't matter. I lack one important thing."

Hassan raised an eyebrow, "Whatever could that be?"

"A husband."

His eyes roamed my face, maybe in search of comedy, but when silence carried on, he cleared his throat once more. "Well, then my comment a moment ago was rather harsh indeed and inappropriate. I find myself humbly apologizing yet again. But I suppose there is nothing to fear. You seem young. I'm sure there is-"

"I will be eighteen in a fortnight." I hold back the urge to cry. The daft feelings from before crept back inside me. "After that, it all goes downhill from there, I'm afraid."

"Are there truly no suitors who have asked for your hand?" Now Hassan's curiosity has built up, though strangely, I'm more willing to express my emotions with him than my own family.

"Besides my father's tumbling reputation and my mother's absent kindness, I too have my own issues. Apparently,  education and women are not a match, but I disagree. I've taken upon the challenge of diving deeper into learning, and this does not sit well with my mother or society. As for my older brother, he's the only member of the family well off with himself. Christopher is married and has a fine life. It is I who shall bear the burden of our family." Once it's off my chest, a certain relief takes hold of me. A tide washing away some of my grief. It was satisfying to finally admit this weight out loud.

Hassan seemed to know the feeling well and shook his head thoughtfully. "That is a tragedy, miss, but I do believe there is hope for you. You are not your parent's mistakes, and any woman who decides to take upon a task as intense as education is most noble." I was taken aback by his confession, and he continued on.

"You and I, we are not so different. I too am here to find a wife. My mother deems London to be the best place to cover our heritage. She wishes I marry a woman with wealth and paleness. That maybe this will give us belonging, but I fear it may only cause an increase in distress. Besides, I wish to marry for love, not merely out of duty, and I'm proud of my heritage. I do not feel there is a reward in banishing who I am."

I faced him now, my dress crunched from the balcony railing. We both were under similar spells and wished for hopes that may not come true, but at that moment I never understood someone so much in my life.

"Mr. Salib,"

"Please, call me Hassan."

"Oh," I felt my blush rushing back into my cheeks. Using his Christain name deems us more than acquaintances. "Very well, Hassan. If I may ask, what is your year?" his head leaned closer to me. The light from the sky traced the outline of his jaw and curve of his lips. I tried to concentrate on a feature more respectable, like his curls that hung around his ear and rested on his forehead, or his eyes that opened a door within me.

"I am soon to be twenty-four, madam. My time to find a wife is soon to be over as well." He cracked a smile again, clearly mocking the sand in our hourglasses that determined when we could and could not marry.

We both were left staring at one another, helplessly sharing our self-pity and making fun of it all the same. The faint sound of violins brought me back to life.

"Oh dear, my mother is soon to start a fit if I'm not returned." I rushed over to the doors when a hand grabbed mine. I whipped my head back in astonishment.

"Miss. Cartwright, would you do me the honor of giving me this dance?" Hassan's eyes beamed so brightly, even the moon was jealous of his beauty.

"Please," I said, closing our distance. " Florence is just fine."

One moment his hand was in mine, and the next we were drifting tastefully across the balcony. "My mother would be mortified if she found out my first dance was with you," I announced, and Hassan flashed a grin.

"You're full of surprises then, aren't you Florence?" The way he said my name drew more blood into my cheeks, but I cared no less.

"Is that such a bad thing?" I match his smile. His honey eyes rested deep into mine.

"No, not at all. It's a quality I admire most fondly in a lady." Hassan spun me elegantly and took both my hands into his. "That and a woman who is not afraid to be herself."

With our hearts presented in our smiles, we danced for what seemed to be hours. It was my first dance that made me realize how special it is to be different.

As we spun to the rhythm, sneaking its way into the air, it was clear that we both were not as lost and worthless as we once thought.

Not anymore.