"It's my pleasure." He offered his arm, and a smile that started deep in his eyes. "You look very fine tonight."

She took his arm and they went out to the carriage. Michael's long legs brushed hers as he folded himself into the cramped space. A slow burn of attraction began humming through her veins. This time she recognized it immediately. Familiarity made it less disquieting than the night in the kitchen. In fact, she found it possible to enjoy the sensuality since she knew her companion would not drop a hand on her thigh or try to force a kiss on her. Her desire was simply like a craving to eat fresh strawberries-real, but not dangerously powerful.

Lady Trowbridge's town house was not large, and the receiving line was in the same salon where guests were talking and laughing before the music program. The high-ceilinged chamber shimmered with candles, flamboyantly costumed officers from half a dozen nations, and almost equally colorful ladies.

"A brilliant scene," Michael remarked. "Brussels has gone mad for all things military."

"Once peace returns, the army will go out of fashion again," Catherine said tartly. "There is nothing like danger to make everyone love a soldier."

He gave her a glance of rueful understanding. "Yet when Napoleon is defeated, officers will be retired on half pay and common soldiers will be thrown back into civilian life with little to show for their service except scars."

"Until the next war." Catherine studied the crowded salon more closely. "Perhaps it's my imagination, but the atmosphere seems strange tonight-a hectic kind of gaiety."

"It's like this throughout fashionable Brussels, and the fever mounts with every day," Michael said quietly. "People are waltzing on the lip of the volcano. As in war, the possibility of danger heightens the intensity of living."

"But the danger is an illusion," Catherine said, her voice edged. "If Napoleon were to approach Brussels, most of these glittering people will fly back to their safe homes in Britain. They won't stay to face the guns, or nurse the wounded, or search the battlefield for the bodies of their loved ones."

"No," Michael said, his voice quieter yet. "Few people have the courage of you and the other women who follow the drum. You belong to an elite sisterhood, Catherine."

She looked down at her gloved hands. "I'm proud of that, I suppose. Yet it's an honor I won't mind forgoing."

Their turn had come to greet the hostess. Lady Trowbridge exclaimed, "How lovely to see you, Catherine. Your admirers will be in ecstasy. How do you manage to look so beautiful?" She gave Michael a droll glance. "Catherine is the only diamond of the first water I know who is genuinely liked by women as well as adored by men."

"Please, Helen, spare my blushes," Catherine begged. "I am not such a paragon as all that."

Lady Trowbridge rolled her eyes. "And modest as well! If I was not so fond of you, Catherine, I swear I would hate you. Be off, now. I shall see you later."

Cheeks flushed, Catherine took Michael's arm and moved on. "Helen does rather exaggerate."

"She seems to have spoken the truth," Michael said as several guests of both sexes started to move eagerly toward them. "It doesn't look as if I'll be needed until it's time to go home. Do you mind if I leave you?"

"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?"