"Never that." He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then on their son's, before settling on the grass beside her chair. "Your suggestion of having the christening here was brilliant. Skoal is a perfect place for a spring holiday."

"A pity that Kenneth couldn't come, but it's lovely that so many of your other friends are here." Catherine's gaze went to dark Rafe and golden Margot, who were retrieving their nine-month-old son. The infant marquess, as dark as his father, waved his hands and gurgled cheerfully when his mother scooped him up.

"You Fallen Angels have a very handsome lot of babies," she observed. "I wonder if the children will be as good friends as their fathers are."

Michael smiled at the sight of Kenrick and Elinor, who were stickily sharing an ice under the indulgent supervision of their mothers. "I'm sure the next generation will be friends, but they won't need each other as much as their fathers did."

She stroked her hand through her husband's hair. Thank God for the Fallen Angels, and for the friendship that had helped them become the remarkable men they were. Most of all, thank God for Michael, who gave her more love and tenderness than she had known existed. "Do you remember our first evening on Skoal, when you woke me up to go down to dinner?"

He gave her a wicked glance. "How could I forget? It was all I could do to prevent myself from making a meal of you."

Her cheeks burned again. "You woke me out of the most wonderful dream."

Michael made an encouraging noise.

"I dreamed that I was normal, that you were my husband, and that we were expecting our first child." She bent forward and kissed Michael with the love that grew greater with every day they spent together. "Who says that dreams can't come true?"


Historical Note

Experiments in blood transfusion date from the seventeenth century. Many involved transfusion from animals to humans, on the theory that since men ate roast beef, they could perfectly well accept the blood of calves. It didn't work, of course. Subsequent human-to-human experiments had results that were erratic, to say the least. Practical transfusion had to wait until Karl Landsteiner's discovery of blood groups in 1901.

Nonetheless, in 1873 a study was done of 243 transfusions from the previous half century. According to the data, forty percent resulted in complete recovery. Obviously there was a high degree of blind luck involved (I described the techniques used to a hematologist and a vascular surgeon, both of whom were horrified), but in at least some cases transfusions probably did save lives. (Michael is AB positive, a universal recipient, for those of you who were wondering.)

Michael's 105th Regiment was fictional. However, the remarkable courage of the men who held their ground and died at Waterloo was not.

The island of Skoal is also fictional, but many of its characteristics are modeled on the Channel Island of Sark, which claims to be the last feudal enclave in the world.

Louis the Lazy was real. Who could possibly dream up such a basset hound?


Also Coming in February

"So, the day of reckoning has finally arrived." A wicked glint brightened Lady Sophia Tremayne's sharp old eyes. "You have danced to your own tune for thirty years, my lad, but the time has come to pay the piper."

Jared Neville Tremayne, eighth Duke of Montford, Marquess of Brynhaven, and various other titles too numerous to mention, raised his quizzing glass and stared down his elegant nose at the crusty old woman. Lady Sophia was both his aunt and his godmother, and one of the few people in all of England rash enough to address him with such a lack of deference.

"If there is a point to that obscure statement, Lady Sophia, please make it and be done with it," he said stiffly. In truth, he knew all too well what her point was; it was the very reason he had given up his morning to this duty call on the two old tabbies who inhabited this stuffy, over-furnished town house in Grosvenor Square. More to the point, it was what had afforded him countless sleepless nights during the past month and soured his outlook on every aspect of his formerly pleasant existence.

Lady Sophia matched her godson's haughty stare with one of her own, and the temperature in the small salon chilled at least ten degrees. "My point is, Your Grace, I remember a promise you made your dying grandfather some ten years ago, and I feel it my duty to inquire how and when you intend to honor it." She raised a questioning eyebrow. "You do remember the promise of which I speak?"

"Of course he does, Sophie. The dear boy has a memory every bit as retentive as your own. I'm the only one in the family so dreadfully forgetful." Lady Cloris Tremayne, lace cap askew and ribbons flying, fluttered through the open doorway like a small, bright-colored moth to perch on the rose velvet settee next to her austerely gowned sister. "What is it he is supposed to remember?"

"That today is his thirtieth birthday, of course, and-"

"Thirty years! I simply cannot credit it. Why, it seems only yesterday I was listening to him recite his sums." She fixed her nephew with her usual vague, sweet smile. "I suppose, my dear, I must try to remember to address you as 'Your Grace' from now on."

"And," Lady Sophia continued, scowling at her chatty sister, "he promised the old duke he would make a suitable marriage in his thirtieth year, if he had not already done so, and produce an heir."

"A family wedding! How delightful!" Lady Cloris's faded blue eyes took on a new sparkle. "And what a stroke of fortune that my friend Lady Hargrave taught me to knit last spring while we were chaperoning dear little Lady Lucinda's dance classes. I shall have no trouble at all keeping Jared's children in caps and mittens." She smiled shyly at her nephew. "Is she exceedingly lovely and good-natured?"

The duke frowned. "Who, my lady aunt?"

"Why, the girl you have in mind to marry."

"I have no one in mind," he said tersely. "No one at all. In fact, considering the disastrous marital history of the previous dukes of Montford, I am more inclined to remain a bachelor forever." He raised his hand to forestall the objection he could see forming on Lady Sophia's tightly pursed lips. "Be assured, you need not remind me of my obligation to secure the title, my lady. I am fully aware of my responsibilities, and if nothing else, the thought that that blithering fool, cousin Percival, is next in line to inherit would compel me to set up my nursery."

Crossing one impeccable buckskin-clad leg over the other, the duke surveyed his two elderly relatives through narrowed eyes. He had learned one sad fact during the soul-searching month he had just endured-an awareness of his obligations to the title did not make the idea of taking on a set of leg shackles one whit easier.

He was an intensely private man; the last thing he needed was some silly female cluttering up his life. Not that he lacked appreciation for the gentler sex-he'd had a series of very engaging mistresses in the ten years since he had reached his majority and had thoroughly enjoyed every one of them… for a brief time. But a mistress didn't live in a man's house and share this table; nor did she have the right to expect him to spend the season in London when he would much rather be at one of his country estates-and when a man's passion for a mistress abated, he had only to present her with a suitably expensive bauble and send her on her way. It was not so easy to dispose of a wife!

He sighed deeply. But as the Duke of Montford, he was obliged to produce a legitimate heir and to accomplish that, he must take a wife. At times like this he found himself wondering if the obligations of nobility didn't sometimes outweigh the privileges.

But, to the business at hand. His two aunts were already eyeing him speculatively, and he schooled himself to hide his seething frustration behind the mask of aristocratic indifference he had inherited along with the ancient title.

"I am aware the time has come when I must marry," he said as dispassionately as if he were discussing changing the method of tying his cravat. "But since I have no inclination to expend a great deal of effort on the tedious business, I was hoping I could count on the two of you to take care of the preliminaries for me. It is the sort of thing I feel would best be handled by a woman, but somehow I cannot picture any of my bird-witted female cousins rising to the task."

"What preliminaries?" both ladies asked simultaneously.

"A list, if you will, of whom you consider the five most eligible young women to come out this season. Nothing less than an earl's daughter, of course, but spare me those two horse-faced creatures spawned by the Duke of Ashford. The ladies' bloodlines may be unexceptionable, but I should not care to risk producing progeny with features so closely resembling one of my prize stallions."

The duke momentarily toyed with his quizzing glass, then thrust it impatiently into the pocket of his fawn-colored satin vest. "I am leaving this afternoon for the races at Newmarket," he said, brushing an offending speck of lint from the sleeve of his beautifully tailored coat of forest green superfine, "but I shall plan to inspect the candidates when I return and consequently make my choice."

"And just where do you propose to 'inspect' these candidates, Your Grace?" Lady Sophia asked acidly. "At Almack's? You have not entered the halls of that hallowed establishment in years. If you should do so now unannounced, the hostesses would undoubtedly all be taken with apoplexy."