Makepeace Avery, sucessful Navy commander, priced strategist and staunch Quaker found himself more nervous on entering the Ball room then he had felt during his first sea-battle. There had been more blood then, but he was certain there had been less slaughter. In his opinion, anyway. He had tired, tried, to build up the courage, as Miss Beeton had told him, to ask a young lady to dance, but as yet he'd not even had the courage or resolve to step out from the side of the room and strike up conversation with any of the other guests, female or not.
He swallowed. Forsaken place only seemed to be serving beverage of an alcoholic nature this evening, and he had get seen a servant free enough to fetch him a cup of tea. Even a cup of that fowl tasting French coffee would have helped him now, helped him locate his land-legs, and his social-legs too.
It was a pity, he realised then, he can come in his dress uniform. Any of his other clothes may have made him less obvious in the room, but he left eyes and attention on him and it made him feel even more the fool for accepting Lord Hurst's invitation, friend of the Admiral or not.