"I'll be fine," she assured him. "Enjoy yourself."

He inclined his head, then moved away. She sent a wistful glance after him. She wouldn't mind more of his company, but it was wise of him not to hover over her. That might have caused talk, even about "Saint Catherine." Society loved clay feet.

Several of her officer friends arrived and swept her into a lively conversation. Soon she was enjoying herself thoroughly. Perhaps it was foolish not to come to functions like this alone, but when she had tried that, she had felt pathetic.

A few minutes later, Lady Trowbridge approached with a man on her arm. "Catherine, do you know Lord Haldoran? He has just arrived from London. Lord Haldoran, Mrs. Melbourne."

Haldoran was a handsome man of about forty with the powerful build of a sportsman. As Helen turned away,

Catherine offered her hand. "Welcome to Brussels, Lord Haldoran."

"Mrs. Melbourne." He bowed over her hand with practiced grace, and with an equally practiced meaningful squeeze.

Knowing from experience that she must make her position clear immediately, she removed her hand and gave him her best frosty look. As he straightened, she saw that her message had been received and understood. For a moment, she thought that he was going to make a heavy-handed compliment. Instead, his languid expression changed to a stare that bordered on rudeness.

Catherine said sweetly, "Is it so obvious that my gown has been remade several times?"

He collected himself. "Forgive me, Mrs. Melbourne. A woman of your beauty could wear sackcloth and no man would notice. I was merely startled by your eyes. They are so unusual-neither blue nor green, and as transparent as gemstones."

"I've heard that before, but since my parents' eyes were the same, I think of mine as nothing out of the common way."

Something flickered across his face before he said gallantly, "Nothing about you could be common."

"Nonsense," she said coolly. "I am merely an officer's wife who has followed the drum, learned to keep household when pay is months in arrears, and taught my daughter how to recognize the best chicken in a Spanish market."

He smiled. "Fortunate husband, and fortunate daughter. Do you have other children?"

"Only Amy." Preferring less personal conversation, she asked, "Are you in Brussels in the hopes of excitement, my lord?"

"Naturally. War is the ultimate sport, don't you agree? As a lad I considered asking my father to buy me a commission in the 10th Hussars. The uniforms were very dashing and the hunting was excellent." He inhaled a pinch of snuff from an enameled box. "However, I changed my mind when the regiment was transferred from Brighton to Manchester. It is one thing to risk one's life for one's country, and quite another to be exiled to Lancashire."

The flippant remark was in keeping for someone who had wanted to join the 10th Hussars, the most fashionable and expensive of cavalry regiments. Yet in spite of his banter, Haldoran was studying Catherine with disturbing intensity.

"A pity you didn't join when the regiment was sent to the Peninsula," she said dryly. "I'm sure you would have found it grand sport to pursue creatures that could shoot back. So much more exciting than foxes."

He laughed. "You're right. Hunting Frenchmen would have suited me right down to the ground."

It was true that hunting had been a popular pastime in the Peninsula. Catherine knew for a fact that once Wellington had been conferring on horseback with a Spanish general when a pack of hounds went by after a hare. The duke had instantly turned and joined the pursuit. After the kill, he had returned to the amazed Spaniard and resumed speaking as if nothing had happened.

Wellington, however, had earned his right to recreation. Lord Haldoran appeared to be the sort who had done nothing useful in his life, and done it very expensively.

Across the room, Lady Trowbridge announced that the concert was about to begin in the opposite salon. Haldoran said, "Shall we find a seat together, Mrs. Melbourne?"

"Thank you, but I've already arranged to sit with friends." She gave a wide, false smile. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

He bowed. "I'm sure we shall meet again."

Perhaps, but as she slipped into the crowd, she knew that she would not be sorry if that failed to happen.

Chapter 7

The spring weather was exceptionally fair, which added to the air of holiday that hung over Brussels. Catherine, however, liked the weather for more maternal reasons: it allowed the children to play outside. She was sitting under the chestnut tree in the back garden, mending and keeping an eye on her daughter and the young Mowbrys late one afternoon, when Michael Kenyon rode into the driveway. He was home early.

Catherine watched as he dismounted and led his horse into the stable. He moved beautifully, without a single wasted motion. She felt one of the odd lurches of the heart that occurred whenever he appeared.

In the past weeks, he had been her escort a dozen times. At balls, he would always claim a lively country dance- never a waltz-then keep out of her way until it was time to leave. Yet on the occasion when a drunken ensign had cornered her in an alcove and attempted to declare his love, Michael had appeared and removed the youth as firmly as an older brother would have.

A pity that her feelings weren't quite sisterly.

Michael came out of the stable and hesitated, then turned into the garden and walked toward her, his shako in his hand. The sun found glowing auburn highlights in his tangled brown hair. "Good afternoon, Catherine."

"Hello." She reached into her basket and pulled out a torn petticoat of Amy's. "You look tired."

"Commanding a raw new regiment is worse than digging ditches." He nodded toward the energetic game of hide and seek. "I heard the children and thought it would be pleasant to watch someone else do the running for a while."

In the distance, Amy emerged stealthily from behind one rhododendron and slipped behind another. "She does that well," Michael said approvingly. "It wouldn't take much to turn your daughter into a first-rate skirmisher."

"Don't tell her that! She's a dreadful tomboy-you should see her with a cricket ball. And she has had to be restrained from telling Wellington that women fought with the Spanish guerrillas, so why can't Englishwomen do the same?" Catherine began stitching a torn flounce. "How are your men shaping up?"

"I have grave doubts whether they know which end of a musket the ball comes out."

Catherine laughed. "Surely it's not that bad."

"I exaggerate, but only slightly. I've been trying to convince them that the most dangerous thing soldiers can do in battle is break and run, so they're better off holding their ground. If they learn that, they may be of some use. Thank God for my sergeants. If it weren't for them, I would give up now."

"I see you're still wearing your Rifleman uniform instead of infantry scarlet."

"The official reason is that I haven't had time to visit a tailor." His eyes gleamed with humor. "But that's only an excuse. The truth is I don't want to give up my Rifle green."

"A good thing the duke doesn't care an iota what his men wear. I swear, I've never seen two officers who were dressed exactly alike." She smiled reminiscently. "Remember how ragtag everyone looked after a few months on the Peninsula? One could tell a new man because his uniform could still be identified."

Suddenly Jamie Mowbry exploded from the bushes and pointed a branch at Michael. "Bang, bang!"

Because she was watching Michael, Catherine saw the instinctive response that in battle would have resulted in lethal action. It vanished as quickly as it had come and Michael collapsed dramatically on the grass. "I'm done for, lads. Take care of my horse Thor." He kicked a few times and lay still.

Jamie charged over, Clancy at his heels and his branch triumphantly aloft. "I got you, I got you, you filthy frog!"

As soon as the boy was within reach, Michael grabbed him and began tickling his ribs. "Who's got whom? Never trust an enemy to be as dead as he looks, Jamie."

Flushed and shrieking with delight, the boy rolled around in the grass with his former prey. Catherine watched in amusement, surprised at how easily Michael had entered the child's world.

The wrestling match ended when Amy raced up. "Hello, Colonel Kenyon." She tagged Jamie. "You're it now!" She dashed off with Jamie and Clancy at her heels.

Michael stayed sprawled on the grass. "Lord, it feels good to lie down in the sun and not have to do anything for the next hour." He closed his eyes and unbuttoned his jacket.

Catherine said, "The weather has been lovely, hasn't it? But I keep thinking that it is like the calm before the storm."

"And black clouds are gathering just over the horizon."

Michael's remark reduced them both to silence. For all they knew, Napoleon was already marching north to reclaim his empire.

Louis the Lazy, who had been snoozing by Catherine, hauled himself onto his stubby legs and went to flop beside Michael. "I'm jealous," she said teasingly. "Louis is only willing to be my friend when you're not around."

"Nonsense," Michael said without opening his eyes. "The contrary beast is trying to ruin my reputation. Since dogs and their owners are said to resemble each other, it will be assumed that I am as lazy and useless as he is. Tell him to go away."

His order was undercut by the way he ruffled the dog's ears. Louis moaned with pleasure and rolled onto his back, holding his broad paws in the air.

She laughed. "If that is how you command your troops, Colonel, the 105th is in trouble."

Out of sight at the end of the garden, Molly squealed and Jamie shouted, "Got you!"

Michael's eyes opened. "Jamie looked rather pale. Has he been ill?"

"He suffers from asthma sometimes," Catherine replied. "Anne says the attacks are terrifying. He had a bad one yesterday. Apparently spring is the worst time for him."

"I had occasional asthma attacks as a child, but in time I pretty much outgrew them. No doubt Jamie will, too."

She studied his rugged frame. "I'll tell Anne that. It will make her feel better to know that an asthmatic boy can grow up into a strapping fellow like you. What causes the attacks?"

"I don't know if anyone is sure," he said slowly, "but I think it's usually a combination of things-dampness, food or plants that don't agree with one." He laid his arm across his eyes, blocking the sun and concealing his expression. "I believe there's an emotional component as well."

"Do you mean getting too excited? Jamie is high-strung."

"That, or being frightened or distressed. Painful emotions can sometimes trigger an attack in a matter of moments."

"I see." She would have liked to know more, but his tone forbade questions.

He continued, "How is Anne feeling these days?"

"Much better. She's napping at the moment, but she says she's almost at the stage of pregnancy where she will go from exhaustion to boundless energy. In another week, she'll be eager to be dancing again." Catherine knotted and cut her thread. With Anne as a companion, she would no longer need Michael's escort. She would miss spending time with him. She would miss it a great deal. "Then you won't have to squire me around."

"Escorting you has been a pleasure, not a burden. When Charles isn't available, I can take you both. I'll be the envy of every man in Brussels."

He covered a yawn and lapsed into silence. In spite of the noise of the children and the wagons rumbling along the road that ran through the Namur Gate, he dozed off, his breath becoming slow and steady. There was a precious intimacy to the situation.

Catherine, continued sewing. She was very good at concealing her feelings, and not even the most suspicious observer would suspect the quiet joy in her heart. Michael's presence fed a part of her soul that had been starving for years.

Perhaps she should feel guilty about her improper feelings, but she didn't. No one would be hurt, and soon then-paths would diverge, probably forever. But when that happened, she would have the memory of a few golden hours to carry in her heart.

She finished Amy's petticoat and folded it into her basket, then began darning Colin's socks. When she had done two, she allowed herself to study Michael's tanned right hand, which lay relaxed in the grass only two feet from her.