"A provisional outfit called the 105th. It's made up of a handful of experienced British regulars who are being thrown in to season a mix of green soldiers and half-trained militiamen. The duke hopes the veterans will provide enough starch to make the whole regiment effective."
"You'll have your work cut out for you."
"I don't have to teach them anything difficult, like skirmishing or scouting. All they'll have to do is stand in one place and shoot their muskets, preferably not at each other."
"While cannonballs are tearing off the heads of their comrades, imperial guards are marching toward them to the beat of the death drums, and dragoons are charging on huge, iron-hooved horses. What could be simpler?" Kenneth said ironically.
"Exactly. Nothing at all complicated about the business."
Compared to restraining himself around Catherine, turning raw recruits into soldiers would be dead easy.
After dressing with extra care, Catherine went downstairs to go to the musicale. Michael was waiting for her in the foyer. The dark green Rifleman uniform fitted like a glove, and she'd never seen another man who looked so good in it. Trying not to stare, she said, "I'm looking forward to this evening. Except for events given by the duke, I've hardly been out in weeks."
"It's my pleasure." He offered his arm, and a smile that started deep in his eyes. "You look very fine tonight."
She took his arm and they went out to the carriage. Michael's long legs brushed hers as he folded himself into the cramped space. A slow burn of attraction began humming through her veins. This time she recognized it immediately. Familiarity made it less disquieting than the night in the kitchen. In fact, she found it possible to enjoy the sensuality since she knew her companion would not drop a hand on her thigh or try to force a kiss on her. Her desire was simply like a craving to eat fresh strawberries-real, but not dangerously powerful.
Lady Trowbridge's town house was not large, and the receiving line was in the same salon where guests were talking and laughing before the music program. The high-ceilinged chamber shimmered with candles, flamboyantly costumed officers from half a dozen nations, and almost equally colorful ladies.
"A brilliant scene," Michael remarked. "Brussels has gone mad for all things military."
"Once peace returns, the army will go out of fashion again," Catherine said tartly. "There is nothing like danger to make everyone love a soldier."
He gave her a glance of rueful understanding. "Yet when Napoleon is defeated, officers will be retired on half pay and common soldiers will be thrown back into civilian life with little to show for their service except scars."
"Until the next war." Catherine studied the crowded salon more closely. "Perhaps it's my imagination, but the atmosphere seems strange tonight-a hectic kind of gaiety."
"It's like this throughout fashionable Brussels, and the fever mounts with every day," Michael said quietly. "People are waltzing on the lip of the volcano. As in war, the possibility of danger heightens the intensity of living."
"But the danger is an illusion," Catherine said, her voice edged. "If Napoleon were to approach Brussels, most of these glittering people will fly back to their safe homes in Britain. They won't stay to face the guns, or nurse the wounded, or search the battlefield for the bodies of their loved ones."
"No," Michael said, his voice quieter yet. "Few people have the courage of you and the other women who follow the drum. You belong to an elite sisterhood, Catherine."
She looked down at her gloved hands. "I'm proud of that, I suppose. Yet it's an honor I won't mind forgoing."
Their turn had come to greet the hostess. Lady Trowbridge exclaimed, "How lovely to see you, Catherine. Your admirers will be in ecstasy. How do you manage to look so beautiful?" She gave Michael a droll glance. "Catherine is the only diamond of the first water I know who is genuinely liked by women as well as adored by men."
"Please, Helen, spare my blushes," Catherine begged. "I am not such a paragon as all that."
Lady Trowbridge rolled her eyes. "And modest as well! If I was not so fond of you, Catherine, I swear I would hate you. Be off, now. I shall see you later."
Cheeks flushed, Catherine took Michael's arm and moved on. "Helen does rather exaggerate."
"She seems to have spoken the truth," Michael said as several guests of both sexes started to move eagerly toward them. "It doesn't look as if I'll be needed until it's time to go home. Do you mind if I leave you?"
"I'll be fine," she assured him. "Enjoy yourself."
He inclined his head, then moved away. She sent a wistful glance after him. She wouldn't mind more of his company, but it was wise of him not to hover over her. That might have caused talk, even about "Saint Catherine." Society loved clay feet.
Several of her officer friends arrived and swept her into a lively conversation. Soon she was enjoying herself thoroughly. Perhaps it was foolish not to come to functions like this alone, but when she had tried that, she had felt pathetic.
A few minutes later, Lady Trowbridge approached with a man on her arm. "Catherine, do you know Lord Haldoran? He has just arrived from London. Lord Haldoran, Mrs. Melbourne."
Haldoran was a handsome man of about forty with the powerful build of a sportsman. As Helen turned away,
Catherine offered her hand. "Welcome to Brussels, Lord Haldoran."
"Mrs. Melbourne." He bowed over her hand with practiced grace, and with an equally practiced meaningful squeeze.
Knowing from experience that she must make her position clear immediately, she removed her hand and gave him her best frosty look. As he straightened, she saw that her message had been received and understood. For a moment, she thought that he was going to make a heavy-handed compliment. Instead, his languid expression changed to a stare that bordered on rudeness.
Catherine said sweetly, "Is it so obvious that my gown has been remade several times?"
He collected himself. "Forgive me, Mrs. Melbourne. A woman of your beauty could wear sackcloth and no man would notice. I was merely startled by your eyes. They are so unusual-neither blue nor green, and as transparent as gemstones."
"I've heard that before, but since my parents' eyes were the same, I think of mine as nothing out of the common way."
Something flickered across his face before he said gallantly, "Nothing about you could be common."
"Nonsense," she said coolly. "I am merely an officer's wife who has followed the drum, learned to keep household when pay is months in arrears, and taught my daughter how to recognize the best chicken in a Spanish market."
He smiled. "Fortunate husband, and fortunate daughter. Do you have other children?"
"Only Amy." Preferring less personal conversation, she asked, "Are you in Brussels in the hopes of excitement, my lord?"
"Naturally. War is the ultimate sport, don't you agree? As a lad I considered asking my father to buy me a commission in the 10th Hussars. The uniforms were very dashing and the hunting was excellent." He inhaled a pinch of snuff from an enameled box. "However, I changed my mind when the regiment was transferred from Brighton to Manchester. It is one thing to risk one's life for one's country, and quite another to be exiled to Lancashire."
The flippant remark was in keeping for someone who had wanted to join the 10th Hussars, the most fashionable and expensive of cavalry regiments. Yet in spite of his banter, Haldoran was studying Catherine with disturbing intensity.
"A pity you didn't join when the regiment was sent to the Peninsula," she said dryly. "I'm sure you would have found it grand sport to pursue creatures that could shoot back. So much more exciting than foxes."
He laughed. "You're right. Hunting Frenchmen would have suited me right down to the ground."