The gasping, grasping for words is entirely unlike Prior's typical demeanor but he's well and truly caught too off-guard to respond until they're deep into the makeshift dance floor with no immediate escape in sight.

"I know of dancing—" Which Prior feels stupid enough saying that it colors him pink. It's only because it's Fitzjames that he doesn't immediately lash out. His gaze flicks about, but finding no one else is paying either of them any obvious mind, he remains in proximity instead of fleeing. "Mostly only ever done the other kind," he adds, because there is little in his life that Prior doesn't akin to sex.

Interestingly, his practiced accent slips, too, into a moment of rough Northern-ness. His roots were water-logged to start, clinging haphazardly to the shore of a coastal town with the stink of fish all about. When he'd severed the anchors, he'd hoped to never go back, and a part of that is divesting himself of everything, including the accent. Posh and school-taught has, traditionally, been the way to go.