Yet it was human to try to hold back the night. On impulse, she asked, "Could you do a favor for me?"

"Of course. What would you like?"

"Could you do drawings of everyone in the household? Anne and Charles, Colin, the children. The dogs. You. Michael." Most of all, Michael. Seeing Kenneth's quizzical glance, she added quickly, "I'd pay you, of course."

His brows rose. "Really, Catherine, you know better than that."

She stared into her sherry glass. "I'm sorry. I suppose that sounded rather insulting, as if you were a tradesman."

The lines around his eyes crinkled. "Actually, it was a compliment-it would be my first professional drawing commission, except that I can't accept it."

"Of course not. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

He cut off her apology with a quick gesture. "I didn't say I wouldn't make the sketches. In fact, I already have a number that would do, but you must take them as a gift."

When she tried to thank him, he said, "No thanks are necessary. You and Anne have the gift of taking an assortment of misfit pieces and creating a home from them." He gazed out at the nearly dark sky. "It's been a long time since I've had a home. A very long time."

His wistfulness made her lay her hand over his, a gesture that was as easy with him as it was complicated with Michael. "When you do the sketches, don't forget the self-portrait."

"If I try to do one, the paper might spontaneously disintegrate," he said dryly.

"As Molly would say, you're so silly."

They both laughed. Removing her hand, she went on, "Are you going to the Duchess of Richmond's ball next week? It's supposed to be the grandest entertainment of the spring."

He gave an elaborate shudder. "No, thank heaven, I'm not important enough to rate an invitation. I'll be at the duke's ball on the twenty-first, though. Since he's commemorating the Battle of Vitoria, he'll expect his officers to be there."

She smiled teasingly. "I shall expect a dance with you."

"Absolutely not. I am quite willing to give you my drawings or my life, but dancing is quite another matter."

They laughed again. Turning from the window, she saw Michael standing in the doorway. When he saw her looking at him, he entered the room, his expression impenetrable. She ached to go to him and take his hands. Instead, she put on her Saint Catherine face and went to pour another sherry.

It was easier to be a saint than a woman.

That evening Kenneth went through his drawings, selecting ones he thought Catherine would like. He was surprised at how many he had done. Only one or two more would be needed. He set aside several for Anne as well. There was one of the Mowbry family together in the garden that was really quite good.

Idly he took his pencil and began sketching the lovers Tristram and Iseult. Tristram, the mighty warrior, and Iseult, the healer princess who was wed to Tristram's uncle. It had ended tragically, of course; it wouldn't be much of a legend if they'd settled into a cottage and she'd had nine children and he'd turned into a red-faced hunting squire.

He did not realize what he was doing until the picture was done. Then he saw that the tormented warrior wore Michael's face, and the dark-haired princess in his arms had the haunted sweetness of Catherine Melbourne.

He gave a soft whistle. So that was how the wind was blowing. It wasn't the first time his drawings had revealed something he had not consciously recognized. Damnation, hadn't Michael suffered enough? Or Catherine, for that matter, paying endlessly for the foolish marriage made when she was sixteen.

Having learned to his bitter cost that happiness was fleeting, he would throw morality to the winds and seize what joy he could if he were in love. He would like to believe Michael and Catherine were doing exactly that, but they were both too damned noble. They were probably concealing their feelings from each other, perhaps even from themselves.

He tossed the drawing into the fireplace and held a candle to the edge until the paper flared. As he watched the picture crumble into ash, he hoped they would get their reward in heaven, for it wasn't likely to happen on earth.

The day before the Duchess of Richmond's ball, Michael and Kenneth attended a dinner to welcome several officers of the 95th who had just arrived from America. Inevitably, the conversation turned to Peninsular days. It was a good evening, but Michael said dryly as he and Kenneth rode home, "There is nothing like distance to make bad food, bad wine, and bad housing look romantic."

"The real romance is that we were young, and we survived." Kenneth chuckled. "Lord, remember the time we held the Rifles anniversary banquet on the bank of the Bidassoa?"

"Sitting with our legs in trenches and using the turf as both table and chair is not the sort of thing one forgets."

They turned into the Rue de la Reine, moving at a quiet walk. As he dismounted and opened the gate, Michael said slowly, "There's a bad storm coming in the next few days."

Kenneth looked at him sharply. "Literal or metaphorical?"

"Perhaps both." Michael unconsciously rubbed his left shoulder, which ached before major changes in the weather. "It's going to be an almighty thunderstorm. That may be all-but remember how often storms hit before battles on the Peninsula?"

Kenneth nodded. "Wellington weather. It was uncanny. Perhaps you should tell the duke."

Michael laughed. "He'd throw me out of his office. He's a man who deals in facts, not fancies."

"No doubt he's right-but I'll tell my batman to make sure my kit is ready to go in case we have to move out quickly."

"I intend to do the same."

They led their horses into the stable. A lamp was lit inside, and its light showed Colin Melbourne sprawled in a pile of hay, snoring heavily. His mount, still saddled and bridled, was standing nearby, looking bored. Kenneth knelt and examined the sleeping man. "Drunk as a lord," he reported.

"I beg your pardon?" Michael said icily.

Kenneth grinned. "Very well, he's as drunk as some lords. I've never seen you that far gone."

"No, and you never will."

"Give the man his due, though. He was able to stay in the saddle long enough to get home. A credit to the cavalry."

After bedding down his own horse, Michael did the same for Melbourne's mount. No sense in the beast suffering because its master had overindulged. When he finished, Kenneth hauled their drunken companion to his feet.

Colin came alive, asking Wearily, "Am I home yet?"

"Almost. All you have to do is walk to the house."

"The bloody infantry to the rescue. You fellows do have your uses." Colin took a step and almost pitched to the floor.

Kenneth grabbed him barely in time. "Give me a hand, Michael. It's going to take both of us to get him inside."

"We could leave him here," Michael suggested. "The night is mild, and the condition he's in, he won't mind."

"Catherine might worry if she's expecting him home tonight."

Since that was undoubtedly true, Michael pulled Melbourne's right arm over his shoulders. There was a heavy scent of perfume underlying the smell of port. The bastard had been with a woman.

He tried not to think of the fact that this drunken dolt was Catherine's husband. That he had the right to caress her, to possess her with his own promiscuous body…

Gritting his teeth, he took his share of Colin's substantial weight and supported the man through the stable doors. Revived slightly by the fresh air, Colin turned his head and blinked at Michael. "It's the aristocratic colonel. Much obliged to you."

"No need," Michael said tersely. "I'd do the same for anyone."

"No," Colin corrected him. "You're doing it for Catherine 'cause you're in love with her."

Michael went rigid.

"Everyone's in love with her," Colin said drunkenly. "The Honorable Sergeant Kenneth, the faithful Charles Mowbry, the damned duke himself dotes on her. Everyone loves her because she's perfect." He belched. "Do you know how hard it is to live with a woman who's perfect?"

Kenneth snapped, "That's enough, Melbourne!"

Relentlessly Colin continued, "I'll bet your noble lordship would like nothing better than to roll Catherine into the hay and make a cuckold of me."

Michael stopped in his tracks, his fists knotting with fury. "For Christ's sake, man, shut up! You insult your wife by suggesting such a thing."

"Oh, I know she wouldn't go," Colin assured him. "It's not for nothing they call her Saint Catherine. Know why the original Saint Catherine was made a saint? Because the silly bitch-"

Before he could finish the sentence, Kenneth pivoted and gave Colin a short, sharp punch to the jaw.

As the man's dead weight sagged between them, Kenneth said dryly, "I thought I had better do that before you murdered him."

Kenneth saw too damned much. Grimly Michael continued his part of the job of hauling Melbourne inside and up the stairs to his bedroom. When they got there, Kenneth rapped on the door.

A minute passed before Catherine opened it. Her dark hair was loose over her shoulders and she wore a hastily tied robe that revealed too much of the nightgown beneath it. She looked soft and slumberous and infinitely beddable. Michael dropped his gaze, blood throbbing in his temples.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Don't worry, Colin isn't hurt," Kenneth said reassuringly. "A bit drunk, and I think he bruised his chin falling in the stable, but nothing serious."