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Social engagements, in general, were all varying levels of unpleasant. At best, they were simply tedious and tiring; at worst, they were positively intolerable. Smaller dinner parties tended to be the most bearable, but large parties — or, Heaven forbid, balls — were by far the worst of all. Had he been capable of avoiding them altogether, Lewis certainly would have done so, but every so often, the calls of society were a little too insistent to ignore. Lewis knew too well how it would look if he turned down too many invitations in one season, especially one as well-attended by London's elite as this ball in question would be. Several members of parliament were rumoured to be coming, after all. If Lewis could just get through the social nonsense of the evening, he might be able to insert himself into conversation with one or two politicians, which would prove advantageous indeed. 

Getting through the social nonsense, however, was easier said than done. Remembering every little nuance and rule was a daunting task, especially when one small mistake could cost a man his entire reputation. He had spent nearly an hour agonising over the colour of the waistcoat he ought to wear — not out of any genuine interest in his own appearance, but out of an uneasy recollection of some mention in Lady Whistledown's latest column about the poor choice of colour some other poor gentleman had made at another event.

Thankfully, once he had arrived at the ball itself, the first part of the evening had passed by relatively smoothly. He made, at least, no great missteps, in his own estimation. Then, of course, came the part of the night that Lewis had been dreading: the dancing. His heart positively sank as the band struck up their first jaunty tune and the flood of couples made their way to the centre of the room. He had dawdled enough that he could miss the first dance without comment, but he was well aware that he could not do the same for every dance. 

Finding a suitable partner was the first issue. He could not select anyone too eager, too old, or too low in station — anyone, in short, who would be desperate enough to marry that the prospect of wedding a working man would not deter them. It had to be someone who would consent to dance with a mere surgeon, but would not come with a marriage-minded mother in tow. After casting his nervous glance a few times around the room, he settled on a red-haired woman standing near one of the columns. They had been introduced very briefly by her mother at the last event, and although he had never had cause to speak directly with her, he was sure that he had seen her at a small handful of these parties prior to that introduction, almost always at the back of the room with a rather sad expression. She would do well enough, he wagered. Her mother had two other daughters to marry off before this one, and she did not strike him as the sort of woman who would stoop to pursuing a man without a fortune as a husband for any of her girls. Penelope was, in short, the safest option he was likely to find. Careful to skirt around the edge of the room to avoid the throng of dancers, Lewis approached Penelope, bowed stiffly, and addressed her. "Miss Featherington. Have you a partner for this next dance?"