"No need," Michael said tersely. "I'd do the same for anyone."
"No," Colin corrected him. "You're doing it for Catherine 'cause you're in love with her."
Michael went rigid.
"Everyone's in love with her," Colin said drunkenly. "The Honorable Sergeant Kenneth, the faithful Charles Mowbry, the damned duke himself dotes on her. Everyone loves her because she's perfect." He belched. "Do you know how hard it is to live with a woman who's perfect?"
Kenneth snapped, "That's enough, Melbourne!"
Relentlessly Colin continued, "I'll bet your noble lordship would like nothing better than to roll Catherine into the hay and make a cuckold of me."
Michael stopped in his tracks, his fists knotting with fury. "For Christ's sake, man, shut up! You insult your wife by suggesting such a thing."
"Oh, I know she wouldn't go," Colin assured him. "It's not for nothing they call her Saint Catherine. Know why the original Saint Catherine was made a saint? Because the silly bitch-"
Before he could finish the sentence, Kenneth pivoted and gave Colin a short, sharp punch to the jaw.
As the man's dead weight sagged between them, Kenneth said dryly, "I thought I had better do that before you murdered him."
Kenneth saw too damned much. Grimly Michael continued his part of the job of hauling Melbourne inside and up the stairs to his bedroom. When they got there, Kenneth rapped on the door.
A minute passed before Catherine opened it. Her dark hair was loose over her shoulders and she wore a hastily tied robe that revealed too much of the nightgown beneath it. She looked soft and slumberous and infinitely beddable. Michael dropped his gaze, blood throbbing in his temples.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Don't worry, Colin isn't hurt," Kenneth said reassuringly. "A bit drunk, and I think he bruised his chin falling in the stable, but nothing serious."
She stood back, holding the door open. "Bring him in and lay him on the bed, please."
As they carried Colin into the room, Michael saw her nostrils flare slightly as the scent of alcohol and perfume wafted toward her. In that moment, he realized that Kenneth had been right: Catherine knew about her husband's other women, but whatever his failings, she accepted them with dignity. Michael admired her even as he wanted to beat Colin to a bloody pulp.
They tilted Melbourne onto the bed and Kenneth pulled off his boots. "Can you manage the rest, Catherine?
"Oh, yes. This isn't the first time." She sighed, then said with forced good humor, "Luckily, it doesn't happen often. Thank you for bringing him up."
Her words were for both of them, but she did not look directly at Michael. Ever since that day in the garden, they had avoided meeting each other's gazes.
The men said good night, then left the room and walked silently toward the other wing. Privately Michael acknowledged that his fury had not been merely because Melbourne's comments had been crude, vulgar, and unbefitting a gentleman.
The really upsetting part was that everything the bastard had said was true.
Chapter 9
Early the next morning; Michael was finishing a quick breakfast when Colin entered the dining room. Since no one else was there, it was impossible to ignore the man.
"Colin headed straight for the coffeepot. "I have no memory of it, but my wife says that you and Wilding brought me in last night. Thank you."
Glad the other man didn't remember, Michael replied, "Your horse deserves most of the credit for getting you home."
"Caesar is the cleverest mount I've ever had." Colin poured a cup of steaming coffee with an unsteady hand. "My head feels as if it was hit by a spent cannonball, and I deserve every ache. At my age I should know better than to drink beer, brandy, and wine punch the same night."
His expression was sp ruefully amused that Michael could not help smiling back. He was struck by the uncomfortable realization that if Colin were not married to Catherine, Michael would like him well enough. At least, he would have been tolerant of the other man's failings. Trying to treat Colin as if Catherine didn't exist, he said pleasantly, "It sounds like a wicked combination. You're lucky to be moving this morning."
"No choice." Colin put sugar and milk in his coffee and took a deep swallow. "I have to get out to the regiment, then back here in time to take my wife to the Richmond ball."…
It was, after all, impossible to forget about Catherine. Michael said in a neutral voice, "She'll be glad you can attend."
Colin made a face. "I dislike such functions, but it's too important to miss."
"I'll see you there, then." Michael finished his own coffee and left the dining room. It was ironic that he wanted to despise Melbourne, yet for Catherine's sake he must hope that her husband was kind, decent, and reliable. Why did life have to be such a damned muddle of grays? Blacks and whites were easier.
Outside, he looked up at the fair morning sky and rubbed his left shoulder. The storm was drawing nearer.
The footman intoned, "Captain and Mrs. Melbourne. Captain and Mrs. Mowbry."
Catherine blinked as they stepped into the ballroom. The scene was dizzying, the light from the brilliant chandeliers reflecting from the richly colored draperies and rose-trellised wallpaper, then spilling through the open windows to the Rue de la Blanchisserie outside. Beside her, Anne murmured, "The air fairly burns with tension."
"By this time, everyone in Brussels has heard of the three different dispatch riders that came galloping into the duke's headquarters this afternoon," Catherine replied. "Obviously something is happening. The question is what, and where?"
The best guess was that Napoleon was invading Belgium. Even now, his army might be marching toward the capital. They would all know the truth soon enough. She glanced at her husband. He was strung as tightly as harp wire, almost quivering with anticipation of the action to come. He was never more alive than when in battle. Perhaps the pursuit and conquest of women was his way of capturing some of the same thrill in mundane life.
After arranging later dances with Colin and Charles, she set herself to enjoying the ball. God only knew if there would ever be another such occasion. Every important diplomat, officer, and aristocrat in Brussels was present, so there was no shortage of partners. Catherine even discovered Wellington's surgeon, Dr. Hume, lurking in a corner. Since he was an old friend from the Peninsula, she coaxed him onto the floor.
Expression martyred, Hume said, "I would do this only for you, Mrs. Melbourne, and only because you're such a fine nurse."
"Liar," she said affectionately. "You're enjoying yourself."
He laughed and agreed just before the figures of the dance separated them. When they came together again, he said, "Your friend Dr. Kinlock arrived in Brussels today."
"Ian's here? How splendid! But I thought he'd left the army after two years in the Peninsula."
Hume's eyes twinkled. "He went to Bart's Hospital in London, but he can't resist the prospect of a lovely assortment of wounds. Several other surgeons have come over with him."
Catherine had to smile. "I should have guessed. You surgeons are such ghouls."
"Aye, but useful ones." Hume's expression became sober. "We'll need every man who can wield a knife soon enough."
It was another reminder of war in a night that was saturated with a sense of impending doom. As the evening advanced, Catherine noticed officers from more distantly placed regiments quietly supping away. But the man she most wanted to see had not come. Even when she was dancing, she unobtrusively searched the room for Michael. He had planned to attend, but what if he had already left to join his men? She might never see him again.
Lord Haldoran, the sporting gentleman who had decided against the army rather than go to Manchester, came to claim her for a dance. She still found him disquieting, and not only because of the predatory expression she had sometimes seen in his eyes. However, he had made no improper advances and his anecdotes were amusing, so she gave him a polite smile. Fanning her heated face, she said, "It's dreadfully warm in here. Would you mind if we sat this one out?"