After dinner he had to put in an appearance at two receptions, but he left both as quickly as possible. He needed a solid night's sleep. The previous night had been haunted by painfully vivid thoughts of Catherine. Whenever he closed his eyes, he had seen her candid aqua eyes, smelled the intimate fragrance of rosewater and woman on her satin skin, felt the seductive pressure of her body against his.
Finally he had fallen into a restless sleep, only to dream of making love to her in a world where she was free and they could be together without dishonor. He had woken exhausted and depressed. Why the hell couldn't he become obsessed with a woman who was eligible?
Because he had never done anything the easy way in his life. His friend Lucien had pointed that out upon several occasions.
The house on Rue de la Reine was still, though a scattering of lamps provided dim light. He was about to go upstairs when he heard a man's voice. Thinking it sounded like Kenneth, he turned down the hall that bisected the house. He came to the cross passage and looked left. Then he halted, feeling as if he had been punched in the stomach.
In the shadows at the end of the passage, Colin Melbourne was embracing his wife, his mouth devouring and his hand up her skirt. Catherine was flattened against the wall, invisible except for her dark hair and the pale folds of her gown. As Michael watched, paralyzed, Colin unbuttoned his breeches, then thrust into her. She whimpered with pleasure.
Michael suddenly had trouble drawing enough air into his lungs. No doubt the Melbournes should be envied for having such a passionate relationship after so many years of marriage, but seeing them together nauseated him. Thank God they were so engrossed in each other that neither had noticed his presence.
He was retreating when a female voice giggled. "Ah, mon capitaine, mon beau Anglais…"
He stopped dead, then swung around. Colin's forehead was pressed against the wall, revealing his partner's face. The woman was not his wife, but one of the Belgian maids, a dark-haired wench about Catherine's height. Her head was thrown back and her mouth was open, revealing large, irregular teeth.
Michael's sick feeling vanished in a flood of pure rage. How could the filthy bastard betray and humiliate his wife like this, and under her own roof? He deserved to be horsewhipped.
It took all of Michael's control to turn away. Blood throbbing in his temples, he climbed the stairs two at a time. He had intended to go to his room, but there was light under Kenneth's door. He knocked, then walked in without waiting.
His friend looked up from a letter he was writing. "What happened? You look like murder."
"I feel like it." Michael slammed his shako onto the bed, almost breaking the plume. "Colin Melbourne is down in the west hall humping one of the maids. Christ, has the man no decency?"
"Not much," Kenneth said calmly. "I've heard he'll mount anything in skirts. He's usually fairly discreet, but if a wench is willing, he wouldn't say no, even in his own house."
"How can he?" Michael growled. "How could any man with a wife like Catherine look elsewhere?"
"I wouldn't presume to guess. But why are you so shocked? Society is full of men with the morals of tomcats, and women who are no better."
Michael stalked across the room, knowing Kenneth was right, but still outraged. "Does-Catherine-know how her husband behaves?"
"I'd be very surprised if she didn't. She's an intelligent" woman, and she knows the world. In this case, rather better than you do. If you're thinking of-telling her what you. saw, don't. She wouldn't thank you for it."
"I suppose you're right," Michael said reluctantly. "But Catherine deserves better than a womanizing, narrow-minded oaf.-"
"Whatever his failings, Melbourne manages to keep his wife satisfied. It's none of your business if he has a regiment of dollymops, Michael." Kenneth's brows drew together. "Perhaps I should repeat that. It's none of your business."
Michael stared out the window into the night. Again, Kenneth was. right. No outsider could really understand a marriage, and he had no right to interfere, even for well-intentioned reasons. God knew, his good intentions had led him to hell before.
But this time was different. Was it, or was he merely, demonstrating his dangerous talent for self-deception? Saint Michael, going off to slay all the wrong dragons.
Behind him, Kenneth said softly, "She's married, Michael."
"Do you think I'm not aware of that every moment?" he said tightly. He took several deep breaths before turning to his friend. "Don't worry-I'm not going to lay a finger on her, or on him, for that matter. I just wish for her sake that her husband was decent and honorable, like Charles Mowbry."
"Maybe she's the sort of good woman who finds a wicked man irresistible," Kenneth said dryly. "I've never seen a hint that she regrets her choice of husband."
Michael smiled humorlessly. "There's a poker by your fireplace. Do you want to hit me over the head with it, in case I haven't gotten the message yet?"
"I'll refrain, unless I see you going after Melbourne with blood in your eye." Kenneth dipped his pen in the inkstand and absently sketched a tiny weasel in the margin of his letter. "Speaking of which, Melbourne has been amazingly polite to me the last few days."
Michael sank into a chair. "My fault. He irritated me so much that I told him about your noble birth. Sorry."
Kenneth's mouth tightened. "You've really got to do something about that temper."
"I thought it was under control, but Colin Melbourne seems able to make mice feet of my good intentions."
"Ah, well, it's amusing to watch him try to overcome past rudeness in the hopes that I might be useful to him someday. Little does he know what a waste of time that is."
Needing to get his mind away from Catherine and her husband, Michael asked, "Have you and the other intelligence officers learned what Bonaparte is up to?"
"Hell knows. Not being allowed to set a foot on French soil is damned limiting. I wish someone would declare war and make everything official. Do you have any good headquarters gossip?"
"The duke doesn't share his thoughts with underlings, but it doesn't take a genius to see trouble on all sides." Michael frowned. "The Prussians are being difficult. Prince Blucher is sound, but many of his staff are suspicious of the British, which is why their headquarters are a good fifty miles from Brussels. It creates a serious weak point between the armies."
"One which the emperor will be quick to exploit if he decides to invade Belgium."
"Exactly. My personal opinion is that Napoleon will march north very soon. So many French veterans have flocked to fight under the imperial eagles again that Bon-ey's army will probably be larger than Wellington's, as well as vastly more experienced."
"The combined allied forces will greatly outnumber the French," Kenneth pointed out.
Michael raised his brows sardonically. "Do you think Boney will give the Allies a chance to assemble into one great army? He's always preferred attack, and in his present situation audacity is his only hope. The longer he delays, the more time Wellington will have to whip this ragtag army into a real fighting force and to get his veterans back from America."
"In any equal battle, I'd back Wellington over Napoleon hands down," Kenneth agreed. "But now the duke is in the damnable position of trying to make bricks without straw."
"That was true on the Peninsula, too, and the duke never lost a battle." Michael smiled a little. "I'm about to become a handful of straw myself. I'm being breveted to lieutenant colonel and given a regiment of green troops with orders to make of them what I can."
"It's a better use of your abilities than being a staff galloper. What's the regiment?"