Fuck. She'd spotted him, honed in on him, and made a beeline for him. Shit, shit, shit. "Yes, hello," he said, looking for an out. Dancing with a Carrington chit was social suicide and he needed to extract himself as politely as possible from the woman who now practically plastered herself to his personal bubble. "Miss Carrington, I regretfully must... take refreshment to my mother." He doled a glass of punch out and offered it to her politely.