Lord Tretham, a foppish young man who had been at school with her brother James, led Portia to the edge of the dance floor at Almack’s. Despite having his marriage proposals rejected by her three times already this season, Tretham still made a point of hovering over her whenever they attending the same social functions. Which, given the insular nature of most ton activities, was more frequent than she’d have liked. Now, slightly breathless from the vigorous country-dance, she was thirsty. Any refreshment, even the warm lemonade for which the establishment was notorious, would serve. And any errand that saved her from Tretham’s banal conversation was to be encouraged. “Indeed, thank you. Lemonade would be just the thing.” When her unwanted suitor had bowed and left her side, she unfurled her ivory-handled fan with a flick of the wrist and put it to use. It had been a week since the incident at Vauxhall and to her surprise no gossip about her encounter with Lord Leighton had surfaced.
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