It was not in her nature to boast about her affections, as it was not in his to comply with the social norm of curiosity and wonder. He was, by all means, a sensible man. And as all sensible men do, he could all but explicitly state what it was that had tugged at his heartstrings from his first encounter with her. His pride, nay, his subconsciousness had instilled a mental block upon the rest of his body, so as she silently sat there observing the room, he could do nothing more than to stare most potently in her direction in such an omnipresent way as to draw the attention of neighboring guests around him. As for her, earlier exertions on the dance floor had quite depleted her energies as to not give notice to her immediate surroundings. A faint whisper and slight cough caught her attention as her surrounding background understood exactly what was happening in their little corner on this lovely evening. With a frustrated sigh, she pushed herself up from her resting place and made for the garden. Her pride would not be wounded by their indecency towards her emotions, if at all, she would only prove their mistake.
Writing like Jane Austen?
still got it ;)