[he looks at his hand grasped firmly in PM's, then back up at her, and shuffles his feet so that they're underneath him and not tangled up in hers. At least he's standing on his own now. PM's arm is wrapped around him, but the thought of reciprocating that makes him blush suddenly and very deeply, and instead he puts his hand gingerly on her shoulder.]
I... I do warn you, PM, I was never much for dancing—a-and we did not do your sorts of city-dances, what you would have learned on Prospit. Ours were, er, they were different—that is, I am not sure I will be a very good partner.
[for all of his protesting, though, he hasn't let go of her hand. ...That might be because she's holding him fast, but still.]