Melbourne's jaw dropped. Since Harrow was as prestigious as Eton, even a bluff cavalryman couldn't miss the sarcasm.

Rallying, Melbourne said with disarming ruefulness, "Forgive me-I just made a bloody fool of myself, didn't I? I've never spoken with Wilding much, and I made the mistake of assuming he was no more than a jumped-up sergeant."

It was well done, though Melbourne's charm did not quite outweigh his boorishness. Michael replied, "It probably appealed to Kenneth's antic sense of humor to let you keep your preconceptions."

Melbourne's brow furrowed. "If he's actually the Honorable Kenneth Wilding, why did he enlist as a private?"

Michael knew the answer, but it was none of the other man's business. He said only, "Kenneth likes a challenge. He was my sergeant when I was a raw subaltern. I was fortunate to have him. After he and his squad captured three times their number of Frenchmen, I recommended him for a field promotion." He set his glass on a table with an audible click. "I was amazed the army actually had the sense to make him an officer."

His comment produced a lively discussion about the idiocies of the upper ranks of the army, a topic that occupied the group well into dinner. It was a pleasant meal, with excellent food and good conversation. Even Colin Melbourne wasn't bad company, though he'd obviously never had an original thought in his life.

Yet when dinner was over, Michael could not recall a single bite he had eaten. What he remembered was Catherine's elegant profile, her rich laughter, the creamy smoothness of her skin.

He resolved to dine out whenever possible.

Chapter 5

It was well past midnight when Michael opened the door to the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks. "Sorry, I didn't expect to find anyone here."

Catherine Melbourne glanced up from the hearth where she was feeding the fire. "No reason why you should-all sane citizens are in bed." She rose and brushed off her hands. "The duke must be keeping you busy. You've been here a week, and I think I've only seen you once."

It might be wiser to retreat, but it would also be unpardonably rude. Michael entered the kitchen. "Most evenings I've been showing the flag at entertainments given by the English fashionables who have come to Brussels in hopes of excitement."

"I suspected as much. Wellington has always liked having his senior officers attend important social functions, and that must be particularly true now, when he doesn't want the civilians to become too alarmed over the military situation." She gave a teasing smile. "I'm sure you're much in demand to add your aristocratic luster to all of the routs and balls."

Michael made a face. "I'm afraid so. But why haven't I seen you? Wellington is also fond of the company of attractive ladies, so I would think you and Anne and your husbands would be on the prime guest lists."

"We're usually invited, but Colin is often… otherwise occupied." She lifted a wooden spoon and stirred a pot simmering on the hob. "When Anne and Charles attend, I usually go with them, but she has been feeling too tired for socializing, so I haven't been out lately. Except for the duke's own entertainments, of course. Everyone goes to them."

Michael hesitated before making the offer that would be automatic and uncomplicated with any other woman. "If you need an escort, I would be honored to oblige."

Her head came up quickly and she studied his expression. Apparently satisfied with what she found, she said, "Thank you. There are events I would enjoy, but I'd rather not go alone."

"Fine. Tell my batman, Bradley, which functions you wish to attend and I'll be at your disposal." He covered a yawn with his hand. "Today, though, I rode to Ghent and back. I haven't eaten since breakfast, so I decided to raid the larder. Have you also come in search of a late meal?"

She tossed her long braid over her shoulder as she straightened from the pot. Tendrils of glossy dark hair curled against her slim throat. "I couldn't sleep. I came down to heat some milk, but this soup smelled so good I changed my mind."

The pale edge of a nightgown showed above her lightweight blue cotton robe. Though the garments covered her more thoroughly than a regular dress, the effect was destractingly intimate. Worse, the kitchen was lit only by two candles and the fire, and the shadowy darkness was rather like a bedroom…

He looked away. "Is there a household protocol for late-night pantry theft?"

"Not really-whatever you can find is fair prey. There's generally soup simmering on the hob. This one is a rather nice chicken and vegetable concoction." She gestured toward the pantry. "There are also cold meats, cheeses, and bread. Help yourself while I set a place for you."

"You shouldn't be waiting on me."

"Why not?" She went to a cupboard and removed heavy white servants' dishes. "I know my way around this kitchen, and I haven't had as hard a day as you."

"I thought raising children is the hardest work there is."

Her brows rose. "Men aren't supposed to know that."

"A female once broke down and disclosed the secret to me."

She eyed him thoughtfully. "I imagine that women are always telling you secrets."

Preferring to keep the conversation impersonal, he took his candle into the pantry. "The local cheeses are wonderful, aren't they? And the breads, too."

"The food is so good it's easy to understand why the French believe the country should be part of France. Would you like wine? There's a jug of very decent vin ordinaire here."

"Sounds wonderful, though I warn you, two glasses and I'll fall asleep on the table."

"If that happens, I'll tuck a blanket around you," she said serenely. "This is a very pragmatic household."

By the time Michael emerged from the pantry, the pine table was set and steaming bowls of soup were in place. Kenneth was right-Catherine was an expert at keeping men happy and well fed. She would be a rare prize even if she weren't beautiful.

As he started to slice the cheese, he heard a canine whimper. He glanced under the table and found Louis regarding him with mournful hound eyes. He grinned and tossed a small piece of cheese to the dog, who deftly snapped it out of the air. "For a beast called Louis the Lazy, he is remarkably good at turning up wherever people or food are found."

Catherine laughed. "He's from an old French hunting breed called basset because they're so low. Like the French soldiers in the Peninsula, he's a first-rate forager. He and the kitchen cat are always competing for the best bits."

A polite meow announced that a plump tabby had materialized beside Michael's chair. In the interests of fairness, he gave her a sliver of ham before applying himself to his meal.

Silence reigned for the next minutes. Yet despite his consumption of an embarrassing amount of food, he was intensely aware of Catherine on the other side of the table. Even the movement of her throat when she swallowed was erotic. Yet paradoxically, her presence was restful. His mistress, Caroline, had been many things, but never restful.

Noticing his bowl was empty, Catherine asked, "Would you like more soup?"

"Please."

She picked up the bowl and went to the fireplace, which was large enough to roast a calf. As she bent to the soup pot, her lush breasts swayed fluidly beneath the soft material of her robe. He went rigid, unable to look away.

Louis lurched to his feet and followed her hopefully. "Go away, hound," she said firmly as she ladled soup into the bowl.

Ignoring the order, Louis whined and reared up on his hind legs, banging his head into the bowl. It tilted and soup splashed onto the hearth. She jumped backward, then said severely, "You're due for a review lesson in manners, Louis." The dog hung his head with comical guilt.

Michael smiled at the byplay. He was enjoying himself more than at any of the glittering social events of the last week, and his attraction to Catherine was not getting out of hand.

Catherine refilled the bowl and turned toward him. With all his attention on her face, it took him a moment to notice that flames were licking up the left side of her robe. His heart jerked with horror. Christ, when she stepped back, her hem must have brushed the blazing coals.

He sprang to his feet and whipped around the table. "Catherine, your robe is burning!"

She looked down and gave a gasp of sheer terror. The bowl crashed to the floor and Louis bolted away, but Catherine didn't move. Paralyzed, she stared at the yellow-orange flames as they consumed the light fabric with ever-increasing hunger.

In the seconds it took Michael to leap across the kitchen, the fire had flared almost to her elbow. He untied her sash with a yank and dragged her robe from her shoulders, almost knocking her from her feet. Steadying her with his left hand, he hurled the burning garment into the fireplace with his right. A fountain of sparks shot up the chimney.

Ignoring his singed knuckles, he pulled her away from the hearth and turned her to face him. "Are you all right?"

A stupid question; she was in shock, her face as white as her nightgown. Fearing she would collapse, he drew her into his arms. Her heart was hammering so hard he could feel it against his ribs, and she seemed barely aware of him.

"You're safe, Catherine," he said sharply. "You're safe."

She hid her face against his shoulder and began sobbing. He held her close and murmured words of comfort. Her dark silky braid slid seductively across the back of his hand. He was guiltily aware of every inch of her length pressed against him-and her rosewater scent, and the pressure of her soft breasts against his chest.

This was as close to her as he would ever be. Yet he could not savor it because it was impossible to take real pleasure in her nearness when she was distraught.


Her tears gradually faded, but she was still chilled and her breathing was quick and shallow. Gently he guided her into a chair. She buried her face in her hands, exposing the fragile curve of her nape.

As he removed his jacket, he saw that the areolas of her breasts were dimly visible under her white muslin nightgown. The tantalizing sight caused him to begin to harden.

Good God, what kind of animal was he, to feel desire for a woman shaking with fear? As much for decency as for warmth, he draped the heavy wool jacket over her shoulders. The garment was far too large, so he crossed the braided panels double over her chest, painfully careful not to brush her breasts with his fingers. She stared at him numbly, still not speaking.

He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. The dark green jacket intensified the hue of her aqua eyes. "Should I go for your husband?"

She said unsteadily, "Colin isn't home tonight."

"Do you want me to wake Anne?"

"Really, I'm fine." She tried to smile. "There's no need to disturb anyone else."

"Liar." He started chafing her cold fingers. "Seldom have I seen anyone who looked less fine."

She gave a watery chuckle. "I'm a disgrace to the army, aren't I?" Her hands knotted into fists. "I'm usually fairly levelheaded, but… well, my parents died in a fire."

He winced, understanding her shattering reaction to the accident. "I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"

"I was sixteen," she said haltingly. "My father's regiment was posted to Birmingham. We rented a charming old cottage that was covered with roses all summer. I thought it would be lovely to live there forever. Then winter came, and one night the chimney caught on fire. I awoke smelling smoke. I screamed to wake my parents, but the fire was already out of control. My bedroom was on the ground floor and I was able to escape out the window." She closed her eyes and shuddered. "My parents were upstairs. I kept screaming until half the village was there, but… Mama and Papa never woke."

He squeezed her hands, then stood. "Is there brandy in the cabinet in the dining room?"

"Yes, but really, it's not necessary."

Ignoring her protest, he said, "Will you be all right while I get the bottle?"

Feeling a shadow of humor, she said, "Believe me, I'm not going anywhere for a while."

He scooped the kitchen cat from under the table and set it on her lap. "Here. There are few things more comforting than a purring cat." Then he took a candlestick and left with long, soundless strides.