A Rogue's Downfall Read online

  Dear Reader,

  I have always loved writing novellas to appear in anthologies with those of my fellow authors. I have written them for all sorts of occasions—Christmas, Valentine’s, Halloween, for example. Now, when all my oldest, out-of-print books are being republished in ebook format by Class Ebook Editions, I am gathering together all these novellas into groups of three as collections of their own.

  Novellas are more than just short novels. I have always said that I love writing them because they are all beginning and end with none of the pesky middle. But that is a tongue-in-cheek description of their appeal for me. They are, in fact, intense love stories, focusing upon a brief episode in the lives of two lovers and compressing all the passion of a romantic encounter into relatively few pages. They are like a miniature painting in contrast to a full-canvas portrait, an exquisite art form in themselves.

  I do hope you will enjoy being able to read all these novellas again, three at a time, just as I hope you will enjoy reading the republished novels I wrote in the '80s and ‘90s.

  Mary Balogh

  www.marybalogh.com

  “The Wrong Door” © 1993 by Mary Balogh

  “The Anniversary” Copyright © 1994 by Mary Balogh

  “Precious Rogue” © 1995 by Mary Balogh

  A ROGUE’S DOWNFALL First Ebook edition May 2017 ISBN: 978-1-944654-07-8

  All rights reserved. No part of the Ebook may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both copyright owner and Class Ebook Editions Ltd., the publisher of the Ebook. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  “Balogh is today’s superstar heir to the marvelous legacy of Georgette Heyer (except a lot steamier)!” –New York Times Bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  "With her brilliant, beautiful and emotionally intense writing Mary Balogh sets the gold standard in historical romance." –New York Times Bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

  "When it comes to historical romance, Mary Balogh is one of my favorites!"— New York Times Bestselling author Eloisa James

  “One of the best!” –New York Times Bestselling author Julia Quinn

  “Mary Balogh has the gift of making a relationship seem utterly real and utterly compelling.” –New York Times Bestselling author Mary Jo Putney

  “Winning, witty, and engaging…fulfilled all of my romantic fantasies.” –New York TimesBestselling author Teresa Medeiros

  A Rogue's

  Downfall

  Mary Balogh

  Class Ebook Editions, Ltd.

  New York, NY

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dear Reader

  Copyright Page

  Praise for Mary

  Title Page

  The Anniversary

  The Wrong Door

  Precious Rogue

  More by Mary Balogh

  Biography

  Also by Mary Balogh

  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 unfolding if she had accepted Hester Dryden’s invitation—if she had been allowed to accept it. She would have left here in the morning. She would be arriving now if there had been no delays on the road. It was such a glorious mild sunny day that it was very unlikely there would have been delays. She would be arriving now, kissing Hester, turning her cheek for George Dryden’s kiss, linking arms with Hester, and going inside to meet the other guests. Jane Mallory, her best friend along with Hester would be there, Edward Hinton, Charles Mantel ... She smiled bleakly. All her old beaux would be there, and numerous strangers, too.

  There would have been tea and dinner, cards and gossip, conversation and laughter, to look forward to for the rest of the day. And Valentine’s Day tomorrow with its day-long activities and ball in the evening. And then the return home the day after tomorrow. It would all have been quite harmless and very pleasant. Pleasant—it was a very bland word. But it would have been no more than pleasant. It never could be. And never had been. Valentine’s Day had never been the time 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 of the occasion. Her parents, she sometimes thought, did not 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’s Ball that everyone else was attending because she had not yet been presented at court. Her parents were sticklers for what was socially correct. It was rather funny under the circumstances.

  And then last year ... She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead more firmly against the glass. It was 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 her dressing table, where she idly lifted a brush and ran her hand over its bristles. She had thought it a mere formality 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 been instructed. 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 had come, he had stayed for three weeks. But they had not once sat together in the same room or walked together or eaten a meal together. Except when they had had company, of course. They had not exchanged above a dozen words a day during those three weeks. If he felt duty-bound to come home in order to consult with his steward or show himself to his people, then he should have been relieved to know that she was planning 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 was deliberately trying to spoil her enjoyment. Precious little enjoyment she ever had out of life these days. Though there was no point in feeling self-pity. She had brought it on herself. All of it. It was entirely her own fault that she was where she was now, living the life 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 sprigged muslin, the one she had scarcely worn the year before. In February! It was true the weather felt like spring and the sun outside felt almost warm. But even so— muslin was not quite the fabric for February. And she wore the new blue kid slippers that matched the sash of her dress almost exactly. Jessie had spent half an hour on her hair before she was satisfied with the way it looked. Very often she did not even summon Jessie to do her hair. She combed it back smoothly herself and knotted it at her neck. But today there were waves and ringlets. Her hair looked almost blond this way.

  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 on her wedding night or any night since, who had brought her here on her wedding day and left the same evening to return to London? Who had been home only once since ... for those three silent weeks? Who had now forbidden her attendance at t
he only Valentine’s party 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 one she rarely wore because it seemed to sap her of both color and energy. She should have her hair in its usual knot. The fact that he was coming should be making not 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 pins in her hair, she heard it—the unmistakable sound of an approaching vehicle. Her stomach somersaulted uncomfortably, and her hand returned the brush to the dressing table. She crossed to the window, careful to stay back from it so that she would not be seen to be looking 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 been donned in his honor. She felt a wave of humiliation. And dread. Should she go down? Or should she stay in her own apartments and let him seek her out if he chose to do so? What if he chose not to? Then the situation would become unbearable. She would be afraid to venture from her rooms at all for fear of passing him on the stairs or walking into a room that he 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 small and cold in its marbled splendor as she always did. She was aware of Morse, the butler, who stood in the open doorway, and of several silent footmen, none of whom looked at her. What must they make of her marriage? she wondered. Did they laugh below stairs at 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 with the stiff dignity peculiar to butlers. There was the sound of his boots on the steps at the same time as Morse moved to one side. And then there he was, seeming to fill first the doorway and then the hall with his 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 had been smiling before entering the hall.

  His steps did not falter when he saw her standing there to greet him. He strode toward her, stopped a few 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 fact that she was as slim as ever, perhaps slimmer. Jessie said—not entirely with approval—that she was slimmer.

  “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 thank you.”

  “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. No matter what the household routine might be. The master had come home, and the master wished to see his son. She inclined her head and turned to lead the way to the stairs. Fortunately, she thought, she had turned away soon enough to make it seem likely that she had not seen his offered arm. She had no wish to take his arm. Since she did not take it, he paused for a few moments in order to remove his greatcoat and hand it 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 had felt nothing but dread. If he had not written to warn her of his arrival—and he probably would not have done so if she had not first written to ask permission to attend Hester Dryden’s Valentine’s party—he feared that he would turn utterly craven and change his destination. Going back to Reardon was the hardest thing he had done in his life. Last time it had been hard enough, but at least then there had been a clear reason for going. He had gone home for the birth of her child. His child. Their child. It had been hard to believe, alone in London, that he had fathered a child. It had been even more difficult to believe when he had gone to Reardon to find her huge, ungainly, and startlingly beautiful that his seed had caused that bulk inside 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 how could one work something out with a stony-faced, tight-lipped, hard-eyed girl when one knew oneself responsible for ruining her life? The word rape had never been used—not even by her father that first day. Never by her. But it had hammered in his brain for almost a year. Very nearly almost a year. A year tomorrow. A valentine’s wooing! A rape that no one else called rape except him. How could one work something out with the woman one had raped, impregnated, and forced into marriage? Guilt, which gnawed at him constantly, tore into him whenever he set eyes on her.

  And now he was to set eyes on her again. And to work something out with her. Something that would make her life seem a little less like imprisonment in the country. Something that would make his own life a 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 he had not known then. Perhaps he would take his cue from her again: keep away from her and return to London after a week or two with nothing settled at all. With a wife like a millstone about his neck and a guilt as huge and painful as a cancer. And a son he ached for.

  He had smiled at Davies, the elderly groom, and at Morse, pretending to both them and himself that he was delighted to be back home. He would smile at her, too, he had decided, if she had come down to greet him. And yet he knew the smile had faded even before he got inside the hall and saw her standing there, a slim and beautiful girl. Too slim. Beautiful, but lacking the sparkle of something—he had never discovered what, he had never had a chance to get to know her at all—that had made him fall reluctantly in love with her two years ago. He had caused the thinness. He had destroyed the sparkle.

  “My lady?” he said to her. He had never called her Amy. She had never called him Hugh. “I trust I find you well?” What a strange way to address one’s wife of less than a year after a two-and-a-half-month absence from her.

  “Thank you, yes, my lord,” she said.

  He should have taken her hand and raised it to his lips. But he hesitated a second too long, and the moment when it might have been smoothly done passed.

  “And my son?” He lay awake at nights wanting his son, longing for that tiny, warm, perfect little bundle of life that had aroused such an unexpected welling of love in him as he had watched it emerge wet and blood-smeared from his wife’s body. Her son. She had carried him inside her for nine months and delivered him after an agony that had lasted longer than twenty-four hours. The child was more her son than his. And yet in London he longed for his son. And that was how he had referred to him now. He wished he could recall the words and ask how their son was.

  “Well too, I thank you,” she said coolly. There was that in her voice and in her eyes that told him she still hated him as much now as she had when she had summoned him to tell him that she had changed her mind about not marrying him because there was to be a child—his stomach could still lurch at the memory of those words. She probably hated him more now because now she had had time to realize that it was a life sentence she had taken on.

  He could not wait for a more decent time, when he would have had the opportunity to change from his dusty clothes, to wash and to comb his hair. His son— their son—was three months old already. He had been two weeks old when they had parted. He would have changed.

  “You will take me to see him before I go to my room?” In his effort not to sound abjectly pleading, he sounded just the opposi
te, he feared. The arrogant master come to see his heir. James. He rarely thought of the child by name. He thought of him as his son. He offered his arm too late. She had already turned from him without a word to take him to the nursery. He paused for a moment to remove his greatcoat before following her.

  She was slender. Not exactly thin. She was as shapely as she had been before he had impregnated her. Her hips still swayed as she walked with a provocation he guessed was unconscious. He had never been able to bring himself to court her in the normal way, although he had been in love with her for almost a year before it happened. He had not wanted to be in love. He had not wanted to marry. He had earned and coveted his notoriety as one of London’s most active rakes. She had been a bright little star beyond his reach because he had chosen to live his life in a different sphere from the one she moved in. And now, although she was his wife and the mother of his son, she was forever outside his sphere, or he was outside hers.

  But something must be settled.

  The child’s nurse smiled at his wife and then, seeing him, curtsied deeply. “He has just woken up, my lady,” she said. “I have changed his nappy, but he is rather cross.” She flushed, darting him a look. The baby was crying in his crib.

  His wife bent over the crib while the nurse tactfully withdrew. He watched her face in profile. It softened, and she smiled—and he knew again that he had been shut out of her life. Because she hated him.

  And then his stomach lurched again. His son had grown. He was no longer the tiny, red, and wrinkled little bundle of ugliness and beauty with his shock of dark hair. He was now all plump and cuddly beauty, his hair still dark, but thinned out, sleek and shining. He stopped crying at the sound of Amy’s voice or at the fact that she picked him up. He stared about him with dark eyes. His son looked like him, the earl thought. By what miracle had he been carried in his mother’s body and born of her, and yet looked like his father?