Page 1 of A Rogue's Downfall
The Anniversary
by
Mary Balogh
SHE stood with her forehead pressed against the glass of the window, staring sightlessly downward,picturing in her mind how the day would be unfoldingif she had accepted Hester Dryden’s invitation—if shehad beenallowedto accept it. She would have lefthere in the morning. She would be arriving now ifthere had been no delays on the road. It was such aglorious mild sunny day that it was very unlikely therewould have been delays. She would be arriving now,kissing Hester, turning her cheek for George Dryden’skiss, linking arms with Hester, and going inside tomeet the other guests. Jane Mallory, her best friendalong with Hester would be there, Edward Hinton,Charles Mantel ... She smiled bleakly. All her oldbeaux would be there, and numerous strangers, too.
There would have been tea and dinner, cards and gossip, conversation and laughter, to look forward tofor the rest of the day. And Valentine’s Day tomorrowwith its day-long activities and ball in the evening.And then the return home the day after tomorrow. Itwould all have been quite harmless and very pleasant.Pleasant—it was a very bland word. But it would havebeen no more than pleasant. It never could be. Andnever had been. Valentine’s Day had never been thetime of sweet romance she had always dreamed of.She had lived in the country until two years before,and no one there had ever made anything special ofthe occasion. Her parents, she sometimes thought, didnot have one romantic impulse between them. Two years ago, although they had been in town already,she had not been allowed to attend the Valentine’sBall that everyone else was attending because she hadnot yet been presented at court. Her parents weresticklers for what was socially correct. It was ratherfunny under the circumstances.
And then last year ... She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead more firmly against the glass. Itwas better not to think about last year.
He might have allowed her to go to Hester’s, she thought, opening her eyes and turning from the window at last in order to wander across the room to herdressing table, where she idly lifted a brush and ranher hand over its bristles. She had thought it a mereformality when she had written to ask his permission.He had never withheld it before. But this time he had.She was to remain at Reardon Park, she had beeninstructed. He was to come there himself on the thirteenth. Today. There was no sign of his arrival yet.
She might have expected that he would be glad of her absence during his visit. The last time he hadcome, he had stayed for three weeks. But they hadnot once sat together in the same room or walkedtogether or eaten a meal together. Except when theyhad had company, of course. They had not exchangedabove a dozen words a day during those three weeks.If he felt duty-bound to come home in order to consultwith his steward or show himself to his people, thenhe should have been relieved to know that she wasplanning to be at Hester’s for a few days.
Or perhaps it was her very request that had prompted his decision to come home. Perhaps he wasdeliberately trying to spoil her enjoyment. Preciouslittle enjoyment she ever had out of life these days.Though there was no point in feeling self-pity. Shehad brought it on herself. All of it. It was entirely herown fault that she was where she was now, living thelife she was living.
She set the brush back on the dressing table and raised her eyes to her image in the glass. Amy Richmond, Countess of Reardon. Her eyes mocked herself.She was wearing her best and her favorite spriggedmuslin, the one she had scarcely worn the year before.In February! It was true the weather felt like springand the sun outside felt almost warm. But even so—muslin was not quite the fabric for February. And shewore the new blue kid slippers that matched the sashof her dress almost exactly. Jessie had spent half anhour on her hair before she was satisfied with the wayit looked. Very often she did not even summon Jessieto do her hair. She combed it back smoothly herselfand knotted it at her neck. But today there werewaves and ringlets. Her hair looked almost blond thisway.
She was looking her very best. As if for some special occasion. As if for someone special. Because he was coming home? A faithless husband, who had married her almost a year before and not bedded her onher wedding night or any night since, who had broughther here on her wedding day and left the same evening to return to London? Who had been home onlyonce since ... for those three silent weeks? Who hadnow forbidden her attendance at the only Valentine’sparty of her life? Had she dressed like this for him?
She hated him.
She should be wearing one of the wool dresses she would normally be wearing. The brown one—the oneshe rarely wore because it seemed to sap her of bothcolor and energy. She should have her hair in its usualknot. The fact that he was coming should be makingnot one iota of difference to the pattern of her day.
She stared at herself in indecision. But even as one hand reached for the brush and the other for the pinsin her hair, she heard it—the unmistakable sound ofan approaching vehicle. Her stomach somersaulted uncomfortably, and her hand returned the brush to thedressing table. She crossed to the window, careful tostay back from it so that she would not be seen to belooking out. A curricle. He had chosen to drive himself rather than come in state with all his baggage.That must be following along behind with his valet.
He was wearing a many-caped greatcoat and a beaver hat. He was dressed sensibly for winter. It would be very obvious to him that the muslin had beendonned in his honor. She felt a wave of humiliation.And dread. Should she go down? Or should she stayin her own apartments and let him seek her out if hechose to do so? What if he chose not to? Then thesituation would become unbearable. She would beafraid to venture from her rooms at all for fear ofpassing him on the stairs or walking into a room thathe occupied. Better to go down now.
The dutiful, docile wife.
How she hated him.
She left her room and descended the stairs slowly. She entered the grand hall reluctantly, feeling smalland cold in its marbled splendor as she always did.She was aware of Morse, the butler, who stood in theopen doorway, and of several silent footmen, none ofwhom looked at her. What must they make of hermarriage? she wondered. Did they laugh below stairsat her humiliation? She clasped her hands loosely before her and raised her chin. She took several slow,deep breaths.
And then his voice outside was giving instructions to a groom and greeting Morse, who was bowing withthe stiff dignity peculiar to butlers. There was thesound of his boots on the steps at the same time asMorse moved to one side. And then there he was,seeming to fill first the doorway and then the hall withhis tall, solid presence. As sternly and darkly handsome as ever. His expression was as stony as ever,though she had the strange impression that he hadbeen smiling before entering the hall.
His steps did not falter when he saw her standing there to greet him. He strode toward her, stopped afew feet away, and bowed to her. “My lady?” he said.“I trust I find you well?”
“Thank you, yes, my lord,” she said, watching his eyes move down her body. She felt proud of the factthat she was as slim as ever, perhaps slimmer. Jessiesaid—not entirely with approval—that she wasslimmer.
“And my son?” he asked.
She felt a flaring of anger at his assumption of singular possession. He had not set eyes on his son for two and a half months. “Well too,” she said, “I thankyou.”
“You will take me to see him before I go to my room?” he said.
It was phrased as a question, but really it was a command. She was to take him to see his son. Nomatter what the household routine might be. The master had come home, and the master wished to see hisson. She inclined her head and turned to lead the wayto the stairs. Fortunately, she thought, she had turnedaway soon enough to make it seem likely that she hadnot seen his offered arm. She had no wish to take hisarm. Since she did not take it, he paused for a fewmoments in order to remove his greatcoat and handit to the butler before following her.
He was glad she had come down to greet him. God, he was glad of that. For the last several miles he hadfelt nothing but dread. If he had not written to warnher of his arrival—and he probably would not havedone so if she had not first written to ask permissionto attend Hester Dryden’s Valentine’s party—hefeared that he would turn utterly craven and changehis destination. Going back to Reardon was the hardest thing he had done in his life. Last time it had beenhard enough, but at least then there had been a clearreason for going. He had gone home for the birth ofher child. His child. Their child. It had been hard tobelieve, alone in London, that he had fathered a child.It had been even more difficult to believe when hehad gone to Reardon to find her huge, ungainly, andstartlingly beautiful that his seed had caused that bulkinside her.
He had stayed for the birth and the christening before fleeing back to London. He should have stayed then and worked something out with her. But howcould one work something out with a stony-faced,tight-lipped, hard-eyed girl when one knew oneself responsible for ruining her life? The wordrapehadnever been used—not even by her father that first day.Never by her. But it had hammered in his brain foralmost a year. Very nearly almost a year. A year tomorrow. A valentine’s wooing! A rape that no oneelse called rape except him. How could one worksomething out with the woman one had raped, impregnated, and forced into marriage? Guilt, which gnawedat him constantly, tore into him whenever he set eyeson her.
And now he was to set eyes on her again. And to work something out with her. Something that wouldmake her life seem a little less like imprisonment inthe country. Something that would make his own lifea little more bearable—something that would give him just one good night’s sleep again.
He was glad she had come downstairs and not hidden in her rooms as she had done during his last visit. He would not know how to handle that, just as hehad not known then. Perhaps he would take his cuefrom her again: keep away from her and return toLondon after a week or two with nothing settled atall. With a wife like a millstone about his neck and aguilt as huge and painful as a cancer. And a son heached for.
He had smiled at Davies, the elderly groom, and at Morse, pretending to both them and himself that hewas delighted to be back home. He would smile ather, too, he had decided, if she had come down togreet him. And yet he knew the smile had faded evenbefore he got inside the hall and saw her standingthere, a slim and beautiful girl. Too slim. Beautiful,but lacking the sparkle of something—he had neverdiscovered what, he had never had a chance to get toknow her at all—that had made him fall reluctantly inlove with her two years ago. He had caused the thinness. He had destroyed the sparkle.
