She did not realize that she had emptied her glass until he rose and poured more for both of them. She regarded the brandy doubtfully. "You're going to get me tipsy."

"Perhaps, but with luck you'll sleep soundly."

She thought of the nightmares she had experienced after her parents had died, and took a deep swallow. Wanting to talk about something safe, she said, "Charles Mowbry mentioned that you were a member of a group called the Fallen Angels. It that a club?"

He made a deprecating gesture. "It's only a foolish label that fashionable society slapped on four of us who have been friends since Eton. It originated in the fact that two of us have archangel names, and the other two, Lucien and Nicholas, acquired the rather sinister nicknames Lucifer and Old Nick."

She smiled. "I've known a lot of young officers over the years, and from what I've observed, I'd bet that you enjoyed having diabolical reputations."

Laughter showed in his eyes. "We did, actually, but now that I am respectably adult I don't like to admit it."

"Are you all still friends?"

"Very much so." His expression was wry. "Nicholas's wife, Clare, said we adopted each other because our families were less than satisfactory. I suspect she was right. She usually is."

The oblique comment made Catherine wonder what Michael's family was like. Now that she thought of it, when his noble relations were mentioned, he was always curt to a point just short of rudeness. But it wasn't hard to see him as a fallen angel, handsome and dangerous. "What are your friends like?"

He smiled a little. "Imagine a great long wall blocking the path as far as one can see in both directions. If Nicholas came to it, he would shrug and decide he didn't really need to go that way. Rafe would locate whoever was in charge of the wall and talk his way past it, and Lucien would find some stealthy way to go under or around without being seen."

"What about you?"

His smile turned rueful. "Like a mad spring ram, I would bash my head into the wall until it fell down."

She laughed. "A good trait for a soldier."

"This is actually my third go-around in the army. I first bought a commission at twenty-one. The military situation was very frustrating, though, so I sold out after a couple of years."

She made mental calculations from what he had told her of his battle experience. "You must have bought another commission "after Wellington went to the Peninsula."

He nodded. "It was appealing to know that real progress was finally being made against Napoleon." His expression became opaque. "And there were… other reasons."

Painful ones, from his expression. "So you sold out when the emperor abdicated, then returned yet again." She tilted her head to one side. "Why do men fight?"

He gave her a bemused glance. "Having spent your life among soldiers, surely you know the answer to that."

"Not really."

"Well, the army and navy are honorable careers for gentlemen, particularly younger sons like me who need something to keep us out of trouble," he said dryly.

"Yes, but that doesn't explain why many men take pleasure in what is so terrible." She thought of the army hospitals she had worked in, and shivered. "Half the soldiers I know are panting for another chance to be blown to bloody bits."

He swirled his brandy as he thought. "There is no greater horror than war. Yet at the same time, one never feels more alive. It's both a heightening of life and an escape from it. That can become a drug."

"Did it for you?"

"No, but there was a danger that it would. It's one reason I sold out." His expression changed. "Why am I prosing on like this? You must be bored senseless."

"Not at all. You've taught me more about the essence of war than I've learned in a lifetime surrounded by soldiers." She sighed.

"Your answer explains why there are always more men yearning- to fight, even at the risk of death."

As silence fell, she leaned her head against the high chair back, idly studying Michael's fire-washed features. He really was extraordinarily attractive, all lean, pantherish muscle. She could watch him for hours, memorizing the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the way his white shirt emphasized the breath of his shoulders. As his long, tanned fingers fondled Louis's ears, she wondered what they would feel like on her____________________

With a shock, she realized that the languid warmth in her limbs was desire. She had forgotten what it felt like.

Luckily she did not have a passionate nature. Even at sixteen, when she had thought herself in love with Colin, her common sense had been firmly in control of her behavior. After marriage taught her that passion was a wicked trap, she had never once been tempted to respond to the men who wanted to coax her into immorality.

She had learned early that her appearance could incite men to behave like idiots, which was not only embarrassing but potentially dangerous. Twice Colin had challenged men for distressing his wife. Fortunately the men in question had given apologies and no duels had resulted, but the incidents had made her realize that she must find a way to make men behave.

By the age of nineteen, she had learned the trick. A reputation for unswerving virtue was part of her method, coupled with a sisterly manner and a total absence of flirtatiousness. Realizing that they could never be lovers, men either left her alone or became friends and protectors. It had been years since a man had given her real trouble, and Michael was too much a gentleman to change that.

Wanting to hear his deep voice again, she said, "You mentioned that one of your Fallen Angel friends had married. Do the others have wives also?"

"Lucien married this past Christmas- Eve." Michael-smiled fondly. "His wife, Kit, is like a gazelle, all long legs and shy eyes. But she has a mind like a rapier, and the courage of a lioness. I don't know if Rafe will ever marry. I think he prefers his life exactly the way it is."

"What about you?" She was immediately sorry she had spoken. Only the amount of brandy she had consumed could explain why she had asked such a personal question.

Unperturbed, Michael answered, "I was going to spend the spring in London with an eye to surveying the marriage mart, but Napoleon played ducks and drakes with my plans."

"He ruined the plans of many people."

Michael shrugged. "There will be other Seasons."

The thought of Michael seeking a wife among the brightest belles of society gave her a strange twist of regret. She had met Colin shortly before her parents' death, and married him a month after the double funeral, thinking his strength and love would support her in her grief. It had not taken long to realize that his emotions did not run deep, and that she was stronger than he in most ways.

She had no right to complain-but there were times when she longed to have someone to lean on. Instinctively she knew that if she had married a man like Michael, she would have a husband who would share the burdens of life-a man who could support her when she felt too tired to carry on.

Knowing she must not think of such things, she rose and gently deposited the cat in the middle of the warm chair seat. "I'd better go to bed while I can still manage the stairs."

She took a step, then wavered, her head spinning.

Instantly Michael was on his feet steadying her. She leaned against his shoulder until her head cleared. "Sorry," she murmured. "I haven't much of a head for brandy."

He guided her to the stairs with a hand on her elbow. "I'm the one who must apologize for corrupting you with strong drink."

His touch gave her a sudden, sharp memory of what it had felt like when he held her in his arms. How could she remember so clearly now when she had been weeping her eyes out then?

Striving for lightness, she said, "Nonsense. They call me Saint Catherine, you know. I'm quite incorruptible."

He smiled appreciatively, his green eyes alight with amusement. The intimate warmth of his expression almost knocked her from her feet again. With a sinking sensation in her stomach, she realized that she had never been so drawn to a man, not even when she was sixteen and infatuated with Colin.

Thank God that Michael had no improper designs on her. He might admire her looks, but he was one of those honorable men who had no interest in married women. She guessed that when he married, he would also be a faithful husband. His future wife was a lucky woman.

Since she and Michael could never be lovers, she must make him her friend. In the long run, that would be better, for-friendship lasted longer and hurt less than passion.

Yet as he escorted her to her room, she knew that if any man could lead her astray, it would be this one.

Chapter 6

The next evening Michael decided to dine at home to see how Catherine was faring. He arrived late at the sherry hour.

Anne Mowbry smiled and offered her hand when he entered. "I can't believe it! Every one of our stalwart officers is here tonight. I'd begun to think I had imagined you, Michael."

"I thought I had better put in an appearance before you forgot my existence and gave my room to someone else."

She chuckled, then turned back to Kenneth Wilding. Michael went to Catherine, who was dispensing sherry and looking as calm as always. As he accepted a glass, he asked quietly; "Any ill effects from last night?"

"A headache for my excesses, but no nightmares." She glanced at the coals, burning in the fireplace. "And I can look at flames without going into a flat panic."