Catherine gave him a cool glance. "I think he's right- exceptional bravery should be celebrated. The Rifles are some of the finest troops in the army, and part of the reason is because officers are encouraged to know and respect their men."

"Common soldiers aren't like us. His precious troops probably sold the medals for drink." Her husband ran a comb through his light brown hair. "I'm going to dine with friends. It will probably run late, so I won't be back tonight."

She wondered with detachment who the woman was. The ladies of Brussels were most hospitable to the allied officers who had come to save them from having to endure the emperor's yoke again.

She rose and collected his crumpled shirt and linen for the laundry basket. "Have a pleasant evening."

"I will," he said cheerfully.

She didn't doubt it.

Michael dined with army friends who were posted in the area. It was good to see them, though he took considerable ribbing over the fact that he couldn't seem to stay away from the army.

Predictably, conversation centered around the military situation. While officially there was still peace, no one doubted that as soon as Bonaparte had consolidated his position in Paris, he would march against the allies.

Michael returned to his new billet late and let himself in quietly. Candles had been left in the foyer and the upstairs hall. Catherine and Anne definitely ran a fine boarding-house.

A crack of light showed below the door opposite his, so he knocked there instead of entering his own room. Kenneth Wilding's familiar baritone told him to enter.

Michael did, and found his friend busy with a sketch pad. Kenneth was a first-rate caricaturist and draftsman, a skill which had aided his work as a reconnaissance officer in Spain.

Kenneth's eyes widened when he looked up from his drawing. "Good God, where did you spring from?"

Michael chuckled. "Didn't our lovely landladies tell you that I'm now occupying the room opposite yours?"

"No, I only got home a short time ago and everyone had already gone to bed." Kenneth rose and took Michael's hand. "Damn, but it's good to see you."

Dark, broadly built, and craggy, Kenneth Wilding looked more like a laborer than an officer and gentleman. He was one of.the rare officers who had been promoted from the ranks, an honor generally reserved for acts of suicidal bravery. While still a sergeant, he had kept Michael out of trouble when Michael had been a very green subaltern with his first command. Friendship had grown from mutual respect.

Michael studied his friend's face as they shook hands, glad to see that some of the terrible tension left by the Peninsular campaign had faded. "I've some whiskey across the hall. Shall I bring it over?"

"I haven't had any of that rotgot since you left Spain," Kenneth said, humor lurking in his gray eyes. "I've rather missed it. Whiskey makes brandy seem overcivilized."

Michael went for the bottle, almost tripping over Louis the Lazy, who was sprawled in front of his door. When he returned to Kenneth's room, the dog followed, flopping so that his jaw rested on Michael's boot. He studied Louis with amusement. "Does this beast welcome all newcomers this way, or am I just unlucky?"

Kenneth produced two glasses and poured each of them a drink. "Consider yourself blessed. With Louis on guard, any potential assailant will die laughing."

After they had exchanged news, Michael said, "Are Catherine and Anne real, or products of my fevered imagination?" '

"Aren't they amazing? I had the luck to share a chateau with them in Toulouse. When I found they were in Brussels, I came on bended knee to ask if there was room for a Rifleman. They are experts in the art of keeping men warm, well fed, and happy."

Knowing he shouldn't be so interested, Michael asked, "What are their fortunate husbands like?"

Kenneth swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. "You'll like Charles Mowbry. Quiet, but very capable and with a droll sense of humor."

"What about Melbourne?"

Kenneth hesitated until Michael remarked, "There is something ominous in your silence."

His friend studied his whiskey glass. "I don't know Melbourne well. He's a bluff cavalryman to the core. You know the sort-not unintelligent, but sees no reason to use his mind. Still, he's a good officer, from what I hear. Quite fearless."

"In the cavalry, courage is common. It's judgment that's rare. Is he worthy of the admirable Catherine?"

"I'm not in a position to say." Kenneth leaned over-and scratched behind Louis's floppy ears.She obviously thinks so. In Spain, she acquired the nickname Saint Catherine as much because of her virtue as for the nursing work she did. Half the men she meets fall in love with her, but she's never so much as looked at anyone other than her husband."

That put Michael in his place; he was merely one of a large crowd. Still, he was glad to hear that she was as good as she was beautiful. Once he had not believed such women existed.

He wondered what Kenneth wasn't saying, but enough questions had been asked. He lifted his friend's sketchbook from the desk. "May I?"

"If you like."

Michael smiled at the caricature Kenneth had been working on. "Clever the way you drew Bonaparte as a leering gargoyle. You should sell this to a print shop so it can be reproduced."

Kenneth shrugged off the suggestion. He invariably dismissed compliments by saying that his talent was no more than a minor knack for drawing.

Michael flipped through the pages of the sketchbook. After several architectural studies of a richly baroque guild hall, he found a drawing of Amy Melbourne and the Mowbry children playing. With a few swift lines, Kenneth had caught the fluid motions of a running game, plus the character of each child. It never ceased to amaze Michael that his friend's large hands could draw with such subtlety and grace.

"This is a nice sketch of the children." As he turned the page, he added, "The first thing Molly said was that you were teaching them how to draw."

Kenneth smiled a little. "Both girls are good students. Jamie isn't interested in anything that doesn't have four hooves, a mane, and a tail."

After more sketches of the children and one of Anne Mowbry, Michael turned the page and found himself looking at Catherine Melbourne. His heart constricted at the image of her standing on a rocky shore, her expression otherworldly. A sea wind unfurled her dark hair like a banner and molded her classical tunic to the curves of her splendid figure.

He studied the picture hungrily, in a way that would have been rude with the real woman. Trying to sound casual, he said, "A good drawing of Catherine. Is she meant to be a Greek goddess, or perhaps the legendary Siren whose songs lured men to their doom?"

"The Siren." Kenneth frowned. "The picture isn't that good, though. Her features are so regular that she's difficult to draw. Also, there's a sort of haunted look in her eyes that I didn't manage to catch."

Michael looked at the picture more carefully. "Actually, you did get some of that. What would haunt a beautiful woman?"

"I have no idea," Kenneth replied. "In spite of her easy manners, Catherine doesn't reveal much of herself."

There was definitely something his friend wasn't saying, for the very good reason that Catherine Melbourne's private life was none of Michael's business. Yet as he turned to the next page, he said offhandedly, "If you ever do a sketch of her you don't want, I'll be happy to take it off your hands."

Kenneth gave him a sharp glance, but said only, "Take that one if you like. As I said, I wasn't satisfied with it."

Michael removed the drawing, then continued paging through the sketchbook. He was a damned fool to ask for the picture of a woman who could never be part of his life. Yet when he was old and gray, if he lived that long, he would want to remember her face, and the way she had made him feel.

Wellington was right that the situation was a shambles. As soon as Michael appeared at headquarters the next morning, he was thrown a mountain of work involving supplies and equipment. As the duke said tartly, Major Kenyon might not be a quartermaster, but at least he knew what fighting men needed.

The work required total concentration, and by the end of the day, Michael's intense reaction to Catherine Melbourne was no more than a hazy memory. He headed back to the house on the Rue de la Reine for dinner, thinking it would be good to see her again. She was a charming, lovely woman, but there was no reason for him to behave like a love-crazed juvenile. A second meeting would cure him of his budding obsession.

Catherine had mentioned that the house custom was to gather for predinner sherry. After changing, Michael went down and found Anne Mowbry and a gentleman already in the drawing room. "

"I'm glad you could be here for dinner tonight, Michael." Anne turned her head, setting her auburn curls dancing. "This is my husband, Captain Charles Mowbry."

Mowbry greeted him with a friendly handshake. "I've been admiring your horses, Major Kenyon. It doesn't seem fair that such first-rate mounts should be wasted on an infantry officer."

Michael chuckled. "No doubt you're right, but I have a friend who's half Gypsy, and the horses he breeds are marvelous. I'm fortunate that he let me buy two. Usually he'll give them up only in return for a man's firstborn son."

Mowbry glanced teasingly at his wife. "It would be worth trading Jamie for that chestnut, wouldn't it?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't ask me that today. After the trouble Jamie has been, I'm ready to consider any offers!"

They all laughed. Soon they were chatting like old friends. Then Catherine Melbourne appeared in the doorway in a shimmering sea-green gown that emphasized her remarkable eyes. "Good evening, everyone," she said lightly.,

Michael glanced toward her, and his confident belief that he was immune to her beauty shattered into flinders. The best that could be said was that the shot-in-the-heart feeling he experienced was no longer a surprise.

He studied Catherine as she crossed the room toward the others. Her appeal was beyond beauty and warmth, though she had those in abundance. Kenneth, with his artist's eye, had seen the haunted vulnerability beneath her dazzling surface, and now Michael could see it, too. Catherine was that most dangerous of creatures: a woman who aroused as much tenderness as desire.

"Good evening." He had learned as a child how to conceal his emotions, and now he invoked a lifetime of self-control so that no one, especially not her, would suspect how he felt. "I'm thanking my lucky stars that I found this billet. It's the only one I've ever had that included a dog to sleep on my bed."

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Interesting. If I were a dog, I should think twice about pestering you. Obviously Louis knew better. He already has you wrapped around his paw."

While Michael wondered if he appeared that intimidating, the Mowbrys began offering Louis the Lazy stories. Clearly he was a dog who made an impression wherever he went.

Kenneth was not returning to dine, but a few minutes later Colin Melbourne appeared. The man was very handsome, with the confidence that came of a complete lack of self-doubt. Catherine went to her husband and took his arm. The two made a striking couple. "Colin, I want you to meet our newest resident."

After the introduction, Melbourne said heartily, "Good to meet you, Lord Michael. As long as that room was empty, there was a risk someone unsuitable might be billeted here. Another so-called officer who was promoted from the ranks, for instance."

The Mowbrys and Catherine shifted uncomfortably, but Michael's anger was tempered with relief. He had feared that he might dislike Melbourne for being Catherine's husband. Instead, he would be able to dislike the man for his blatant snobbery. No wonder Kenneth had been guarded in discussing him. Voice edged, Michael said, "Someone like Kenneth Wilding, for example?"

Suddenly cautious, Melbourne said, "No slur intended. For a man of his class, Wilding does a good job of aping gentlemanly manners. Still, there's no substitute for breeding. As a son of the Duke of Ashburton, surely you would agree."

"I can't say that I've ever seen a strong correlation between breeding and character. After all, Kenneth had the poor taste to go to Harrow. One would have hoped for better from the only son of Lord Kimball." Michael downed the last of his sherry. "Still, even an old Etonian like me has to admit that Harrovians usually give the appearance of gentlemen."