She had been to almost every ball, rout, musicale, concert, card party, and festivity that her household had received an invitation to in the past two weeks. Tonight she was supposed to venture out to Lady Salride’s affair--it had something to do with an evening of invocations, dances, and other worldly celebrations that supposedly had to do with stopping the fall of rain--but she had finally pled exhaustion and opted to stay home. She had just settled before the fire, curled up with house slippers on her feet, a shawl across her shoulders, and a thick tome in her hands when a visitor was announced. “His lordship, the Marquess of Rothayne,” Pendleton heralded, stepping aside to allow the gentleman to enter after he saw his mistress’s eager nod of approval. “My lord,” Mary said warmly, starting to rise. “Pray do not bother,” he motioned her to retain her seat. “I thought you were at Salride’s tonight,” she said, setting her book aside and waving him to a chair. “No, I had planned to be, but then when you declined my company, that so put me in the mopes that I actually went home and discovered I had some correspondence awaiting my perusal,”
