Deciding it was time to stop acting like a stunned ox, he remarked, "It's very good of you to let me share your billet. I suspect that decent quarters are hard to find."
"Kenneth Wilding will be glad to have another infantryman under the same roof."
He grinned. "Surely you know that one infantryman is easily a match for two cavalry officers, Mrs. Melbourne."
"Just because the British cavalry is famous for chasing the enemy as wildly as they run after foxes, there's no reason to be caustic," she said with a laugh. "And please, call me Catherine. After all, we shall be living together like brother and sister for the indefinite future."
Brother and sister. She was so unaware of the paralyzing impact she had made on him that he began to relax. He had shared billets with married couples before, and he could do so now. "Then you must call me Michael. Have you been in Brussels long?"
"Only a fortnight or so. However, Anne Mowbry and I have shared quarters before, and we have the housekeeping down to a science." She gave him a humorous glance. "We run a very good boardinghouse, if I do say so. There's always food available for a man who has worked odd hours. Dinner is served for anyone who is home, and there's usually enough for an unexpected guest or two. In return, Anne and I request that any drunken revels be held elsewhere. The children need their sleep."
"Yes, ma'am. Are there any other house rules I should know?"
She hesitated, then said uncomfortably, "It will be appreciated if you pay your share of the expenses promptly."
In other words, money was sometimes tight. "Done. Let me know how much and when."
She nodded, then glanced at his green Rifleman's uniform. "Are you just back from North America?"
"No, I sold out last year after Napoleon abdicated and have been living a quiet civilian life. However, when I heard that the emperor had bolted again..." He shrugged.
"A civilian life," she said wistfully. "I wonder what it would be like to know one could stay in one house forever."
"You've never had that?"
She shook her head "My father was in the army, so it's the only life I've ever known."
No wonder she had learned to create comfort wherever she went. Her husband was a lucky man.
They fell into an easy conversation, for the Peninsular years had given them experiences in common. It was all quite casual—except for the fact that he was acutely conscious of the light pressure of her gloved fingers on his arm.
Deciding that he should mention their first encounter, he said, "We did meet three years ago after a fashion, Catherine."
She frowned, an enchanting furrow appearing between her brows. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't remember."
"I was wounded at Salamanca. At the field hospital, you gave me water when I was desperately thirsty. I've never been so grateful for anything in my life."
She turned and studied his face, as if trying to recall.
"There was no reason for you to remember me among so many. But you might recollect the boy on the pallet next to me. He was calling for his mother, and thought you were she. You stayed with him until he died."
"Ahh..." She exhaled, her lighthearted charm dropping away to reveal the tenderness of the woman who had comforted Jem. "Poor boy. There was so little I could do. So damnably little." She turned her face away. "I suppose I should have become accustomed to such scenes, but I never did."
Her beauty had struck him like a blow to the heart. Her compassion struck a second, harder blow, for years of war had made him treasure gentleness. He took a deep, slow breath before replying. "Callousness is easier. Yet even though it hurts more, there is much to be said for remembering the uniqueness and worth of each person whose life touches ours."
She gave him a measured glance. "You understand, don't you? Most soldiers find it better not to." More briskly, she continued, "Our destination is that house on the corner. We were able to get a place with a nice garden for the children, plenty of stable room, and even a carriage for a ridiculously low amount."
The large, handsome house was surrounded by a wall. Michael opened the gate for Catherine, then beckoned to his servants, who were ambling quietly behind them. His young batman, Bradley, had eyes as large as saucers as he stared at Catherine. Michael could hardly blame him when he himself felt the same way.
Calmly ignoring the boy's smitten expression, Catherine described the household, then waved the two men toward the stables behind the house. The vulnerability she had shown earlier was gone, leaving her a well-organized army wife again.
As she led Michael inside, three children and two dogs came sweeping down the stairs in a stampede of small but astonishingly noisy feet. A bright soprano said, "We've finished our lessons, Mama, so can we please play in the garden?"
While the children and a long, low-slung dog swirled around Catherine, the other dog, a splotchy beast of indeterminate ancestry, began barking at Michael. Laughter in her voice, Catherine said, "Silence, please, or we'll drive Major Kenyon to another billet. Clancy, stop barking."
Michael's opinion of her went still higher when not only the children but the dog fell abruptly silent.
Catherine put an arm around the taller girl, who appeared to be about ten. "This is my daughter, Amy. Amy, Major Lord Michael Kenyon. He will be staying here."
He bowed gravely. "Miss Melbourne."
The girl gave a graceful curtsy. She had her mother's striking aqua eyes and dark hair. "A pleasure, Major Kenyon."
Catherine continued, "And this is Miss Molly Mowbry and Master James Mowbry."
Both children had red hair and lively expressions. Mary must be eight or nine, her brother a couple of years younger. Like Amy, they had impeccable manners. After curtsying, Molly said, "You're a lord?"
"It's only a courtesy title," he replied. "My father is a duke, but I won't be a real lord, since I have an older brother."
"Oh." Molly digested that. "Captain Wilding is teaching us to draw. Do you know anything useful?"
Amy elbowed her and hissed, "Don't ask such questions."
Molly blinked her large hazel eyes. "Was that rude?"
Michael smiled. "Only because I'm afraid I don't have any interesting skills."
"No?" she said with disappointment.
He tried to think what might interest a child. Certainly not mining or investment strategy. "Well, I can tell when a storm is coming, but I don't think I can teach it to anyone else."
Her face brightened. "You could try."
Catherine intervened. "The major needs to get settled. You three go outside, and take Clancy and Louis the Lazy with you."
Michael watched in bemusement as the children and dogs obeyed. "Louis the Lazy?"
A voice from the stairs said, "He's the long, lethargic hound. Mostly he sleeps. It's his only talent."
He looked up to see a small-boned, pretty redhead descending the steps. With a smile, she said, "I'm Anne Mowbry."
After the introductions, they talked for a few minutes, until Anne said candidly, "Please excuse me. I'm in the family way again, and at the stage where all I want to do is sleep."
Michael was amused by her frankness. She was attractive, friendly, and charming. And, blessedly, she didn't scramble his wits the way Catherine did.
After Anne took her leave, Catherine began to ascend the stairs. "Your room is up here, Michael."
She led him to a sunny chamber that looked on to the side street. "Kenneth is across the hall. There's already fresh linen on the bed, since we knew it would be occupied soon."
She turned to face him. The movement brought her into the sunshine that poured through the window. Limned by light, she was like a goddess, too beautiful to be of the earth. Yet she also had a warm ability to create peace and happiness around her that reminded him of Clare.
Behind her was the bed. He had a brief, mad fantasy of stepping forward, taking her in his arms, and sweeping her down across the mattress. He would kiss those soft lips and explore the hidden riches of her body. In her arms,
he would discover what he had been yearning for...
Her gaze met his and there was a strange moment of awareness between them. She knew that he admired her. Yet though she was surely used to male appreciation, she quickly looked down and concentrated on peeling off her gloves. "If you need anything, just ask Anne or me or Rosemarie, the head housemaid."
He forced himself to look at the gold band that glinted on her left hand. She was married. Untouchable. The wife of a brother officer... and he must get her out of his bedroom now. "I'm sure I'll be very comfortable. I won't be here for dinner tonight, but I look forward to meeting the rest of the household later."
Not looking at him, she said, "I'll send a maid with a house key later." Then she vanished into the hall.
He carefully closed the door behind her, then dropped into the armchair and rubbed his temples. After the disaster of Caroline, he had sworn that never, under any circumstances, would he touch another married woman. It was a vow he was determined to keep at any price. Yet Catherine Melbourne might have been designed by the devil to tempt him.
The sheer egotism of the remark brought a reluctant smile to his lips. If there was a lesson in his meeting Catherine, it was a reproach for his own smugness. He had been so sure that age and experience would protect him from the follies of infatuation. Not for him the idiocy of becoming entranced by a lovely face.
Obviously, he'd been a damned fool to think himself immune. Yet while it might not be possible to control his reaction to Catherine Melbourne, he could, and would, control his behavior. He would say no word, make no gesture, that could be interpreted as improper. He would behave toward her as he did toward Clare.
No, not like that—there could be no casually affectionate kisses or hugs between him and Catherine. This billet was unlikely to last more than a few weeks, and certainly he could control himself that long. After all, by tomorrow afternoon he would be too busy for infatuation.
Yet a sense of disquiet lingered. He rose and went to stare out the window. All soldiers had a streak of superstition, a belief in the unseen. Perhaps the lovely Catherine really was a test. He had thought he'd come to terms with the past, but maybe some divine judge had decreed that he must confront the same situation in which he had come to grief before, and this time master his dishonorable impulses.
On one thing he was grimly determined: he would not make the same mistake he had made before.
Chapter 4
Catherine walked slowly down the hall, not noticing her surroundings. After all her years among soldiers, she should be used to the fact that almost every man was handsome in a uniform. When Colin was in full dress regimentals, susceptible young girls had been known to swoon in admiration.
Even so, there was something particularly attractive about Major Kenyon. The dark green Rifleman's uniform was more austere than the garb of other regiments; however, it did wonderful things for his eyes, which were a rare, striking shade of true green. The uniform was equally complimentary to his broad shoulders, chestnut hair, and lean, powerful body....
But he was more than merely good-looking; like Wellington, he had the kind of compelling presence that enabled him to dominate a room without saying a word. She suspected that quality came from bone-deep confidence.
Though she had enjoyed talking to him, he was unsettlingly perceptive. She must take care that Major Kenyon did not get a chance to see below the polished surface she had worked so hard to perfect.
Odd that she was thinking of him so formally. Usually she preferred being on first-name terms with the officers around her. Her instincts must be saying that she should not let him get too close. Luckily she was an expert at keeping men at a safe distance.
Shaking her head, she went to her bedroom to work on a basketful of mending. There was nothing like darning to bring one down to earth.
* * *
Catherine was about to go downstairs to check on the progress of dinner when her husband came in.
"There are several new horses in the stables." Colin took off his black leather helmet and tossed it onto the bed. "Good ones, too. Have we acquired a new billet mate?"
She nodded and made a small, precise stitch. "Major Lord Michael Kenyon of the Rifles. He sold out last year, but Napoleon's escape persuaded him to return. He's on the duke's staff, at least for now."
Colin's brows rose. "One of the high-born officers that Old Hookey likes because they can dance as well as they fight." He took off his jacket and shirt. "Could be a useful man to know. Did he act like he might go all soft over you?"
She looked down and bit off a knot, wishing Colin wasn't quite so blatant in his self-interest. It was true that an attractive wife was an asset to an officer, but she hated it when he urged her to flirt with his superiors. The first time he had done that, she had balked. He had been quick to point out that it was a wife's duty to promote her husband's career. The unspoken implication was that she was an unsatisfactory wife in other ways. After that, she had done as he wished.
Though Lord Michael had obviously admired her looks, she was reluctant to expose him to Colin's speculations. Casually she said, "Major Kenyon showed no sign of being smitten by my infamous charms. I don't know about his dancing skills, but he fought in most of the major Peninsular campaigns."
"Sounds like a good addition to the house. Be extra charming—I'm overdue for promotion to major, and Kenyon must have influence with the duke."
"You'll get your promotion soon." She sighed. "There should be ample opportunities for glory in the next few months."
"I certainly hope so." As Colin began changing into his dress uniform, his brow furrowed. "Kenyon... The name is familiar." He snapped his fingers. "Now I recall. After the Battle of Barossa, he had a commemorative medal struck for the men he commanded. Said they had done such an outstanding job that they deserved to be honored." Colin laughed. "Can you imagine doing such a thing for a company of drunken soldiers?"
Catherine gave him a cool glance. "I think he's right—exceptional bravery should be celebrated. The Rifles are some of the finest troops in the army, and part of the reason is because officers are encouraged to know and respect their men."
"Common soldiers aren't like us. His precious troops probably sold the medals for drink." Her husband ran a comb through his light brown hair. "I'm going to dine with friends. It will probably run late, so I won't be back tonight."
She wondered with detachment who the woman was. The ladies of Brussels were most hospitable to the allied officers who had come to save them from having to endure the emperor's yoke again.
She rose and collected his crumpled shirt and linen for the laundry basket. "Have a pleasant evening."
"I will," he said cheerfully.
She didn't doubt it.
* * *
Michael dined with army friends who were posted in the area. It was good to see them, though he took considerable ribbing over the fact that he couldn't seem to stay away from the army.
Predictably, conversation centered around the military situation. While officially there was still peace, no one doubted that as soon as Bonaparte had consolidated his position in Paris, he would march against the allies.
Michael returned to his new billet late and let himself in quietly. Lamps turned low illuminated foyer and the upstairs hall. Catherine and Anne definitely ran a fine boarding-house.
A crack of light showed below the door opposite his, so he knocked there instead of entering his own room. Kenneth Wilding's familiar baritone told him to enter.
Michael did, and found his friend busy with a sketch pad. Kenneth was a first-rate caricaturist and draftsman, a skill which had aided his work as a reconnaissance officer in Spain.
Kenneth's eyes widened when he looked up from his drawing. "Good God, where did you spring from?"
Michael chuckled. "Didn't our lovely landladies tell you that I'm now occupying the room opposite yours?"
"I only got home a short time ago and everyone had already gone to bed." Kenneth rose an
d took Michael's hand. "Damn, but it's good to see you."
Dark, broadly built, and craggy, Kenneth Wilding looked more like a laborer than an officer and gentleman. He was one of the rare officers who had been promoted from the ranks, an honor generally reserved for acts of suicidal bravery. While still a sergeant, he had kept Michael out of trouble when Michael had been a very green subaltern with his first command. Friendship had grown from mutual respect.
Michael studied his friend's face as they shook hands, glad to see that some of the terrible tension left by the Peninsular campaign had faded. "I've some whiskey across the hall. Shall I bring it over?"
"I haven't had any of that rotgut since you left Spain," Kenneth said, humor lurking in his gray eyes. "I've rather missed it. Whiskey makes brandy seem overcivilized."
Michael went for the bottle, almost tripping over Louis the Lazy, who was sprawled in front of his door. When he returned to Kenneth's room, the dog followed, flopping so that his jaw rested on Michael's boot. He studied Louis with amusement. "Does this beast welcome all newcomers this way, or am I just unlucky?"
Kenneth produced two glasses and poured each of them a drink. "Consider yourself blessed. With Louis on guard, any potential assailant will die laughing."
After they had exchanged news, Michael said, "Are Catherine and Anne real, or products of my fevered imagination?"
"Aren't they amazing? I had the luck to share a chateau with them in Toulouse. When I found they were in Brussels, I came on bended knee to ask if there was room for a Rifleman. They are experts in the art of keeping men warm, well fed, and happy."
Knowing he shouldn't be so interested, Michael asked, "What are their fortunate husbands like?"
Kenneth swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. "You'll like Charles Mowbry. Quiet, but very capable and with a droll sense of humor."
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