"I'd be glad to," Haldoran replied. "The servants are sprinkling water on the flowers to keep them from wilting. It's most unkind of the duchess not to do the same for her guests."
Catherine chuckled as she seated herself on a chair near an open window. "Wellington should be here soon."
"When the French may already be in Belgium?" Haldoran whisked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and presented one to Catherine before sitting down beside her. "Surely the duke should be in the field, with his army."
"Not really. By coming here, he shows confidence and allays panic among the civilian population." She took a sip of the chilled, bubbly wine. "Also, with all of the top commanders at the ball, it will be easy for him to confer with them quietly."
"A good point." Haldoran's brows drew together. "The emperor is known for striking with great speed. If he advances on Brussels, are you and Mrs. Mowbry planning to withdraw to Antwerp?"
"My place is here. Besides, the question is moot. The duke will never permit Napoleon to reach the city."
"He may not have a choice," Haldoran said, his expression sober. "You are a brave woman, Mrs. Melbourne, but will you expose your daughter to the hazards of an occupying army?"
"The French are a civilized people," she said coolly. "They do not make war on children."
"No doubt you are right, but I would not like to see harm befall you and Mrs. Mowbry and your families."
"No more would I, Lord Haldoran." Catherine studied the tentlike draperies that fell in great swoops of gold and scarlet and black, and wished Haldoran would stop talking about her own secret fears. Though she didn't believe she was endangering her daughter, the uncertainty was enough to make any mother nervous.
The music ended and Charles Mowbry approached to lead her into the next dance. She rose. "Thank you for indulging my fatigue, Lord Haldoran. Until next time?"
He smiled and took her empty glass. "Until next time."
Charles was not only one of Catherine's dearest friends, but an excellent dancer. Their cotillion was a pleasure. They had just finished when the air was pierced by the skirl of bagpipes. "Good God, those devils in skirts are coming!" Charles exclaimed.
Catherine laughed with delight. "That sound always makes my blood stand up and salute." They turned to see soldiers from two Highland regiments marching into the ballroom, kilts swinging and feathered bonnets nodding to the wild song of the pipes.
In a stroke of entertaining genius, the Duchess of Richmond had engaged the Highlanders to dance. The guests drew back to the sides of the room as the Scots began whirling and stamping through their traditional reels, strathspeys, and one stunning sword dance. The contrast of elegance and primitive splendor was one Catherine would never forget.
Yet even in the eerie magic of the moment, her restless gaze never stopped seeking Michael.
Preparing his regiment to march kept Michael busy through a long day. It was late when he reached the Richmond ball. The room buzzed with excitement. An island of calm, Wellington was sitting on a sofa chatting amiably with one of his lady friends.
Michael stopped a friend, an officer of the Household Guards who was about to leave the ball. "What has happened?"
"The duke says the army will march in the morning," was the terse reply. "I'm on my way to my regiment now. Luck to you."
Time was running out. Perhaps it was self-indulgent to come to the ball, but Michael had wanted to see Catherine one last time. He halted by a flower-twined pillar and scanned the crowd.
She was not hard to find. Because her clothing budget and jewelry were modest, she dressed with relative simplicity, maintaining a stylish appearance by expertly changing the trimming of her few gowns. As a result, no one looked at Catherine Melbourne and remarked on the splendor of her costume or the sumptuousness of her ornaments. What they saw and remembered was her heart-stopping beauty.
Tonight she wore ice-white satin and lustrous pearls that set off her dark glossy hair and flawless complexion to perfection. In a room full of brilliantly colored uniforms, she stood out like an angel on loan from heaven.
Colin stood next to her, a proprietary hand on her elbow. It was obvious from his smug expression that he was aware of how other men envied him for possessing the most beautiful woman in a room full of beautiful women.
Face set, Michael began working his way through the crowded ballroom. After paying his respects to his hostess, he went to Catherine. Colin had moved away, but the Mowbrys had joined her.
Her eyes lit as he approached. "I'm glad you could come, Michael. I thought perhaps you had already been called away."
"I was delayed, but I would never miss such a splendid occasion." As-the music began, he said, "May I have this dance with you, Anne, and the one after with you, Catherine?"
Both women agreed, and Anne gave him her hand. There was strain in her eyes as he led her onto the floor, but years as an army wife had taught her control.
As they took their places for a reel, he said, "You look very fine in that gown, Anne. This isn't too tiring?" She smiled and shook her auburn curls. "I shall bubble with energy for another six or eight weeks, until I become the size and shape of a carriage."
They kept up an easy stream of talk as the pattern of the dance drew them together and apart. Yet as soon as he returned Anne to Charles, she forgot everything but her husband. Gazes locked, they moved together onto the floor. Michael uttered a silent prayer that Charles would survive the coming campaign; a love as strong and true as theirs deserved to last.
He turned to. Catherine and gave, her a formal bow. "I believe this is my dance, my lady?"
She smiled and swept a graceful curtsy. "It is, my lord."
He did not realize that he had claimed a waltz until the first bars of music were played. He had deliberately avoided the intimacy of waltzing at previous functions, but tonight it seemed right, for this would likely be their last dance. She came into his arms as if they, had waltzed a thousand times before. Together they flowed into the music, her eyes drifting half shut. She followed his lead as lightly as the angel he had thought her, yet he was intensely aware that she was a woman, a creature of the earth, not the heavens.
Dark tendrils of hair clung damply to her temples as they circled the floor without speaking. The pulse in her slim throat was beating rapidly from exertion. He wanted to press his lips to it. The delicate curve of ear showing below her upswept hair was an invitation to dalliance, and the tantalizing swells of her breasts would haunt his dreams for as long as he lived.
More than anything on earth, he wanted to sweep her into his arms and take her to the fairyland beyond the rainbow where they could be alone, and there would be no tormenting issues of war and honor. Instead, he had a bare handful of moments that were spilling away like cascading grains of sand.
Too soon, the music came to an end. As he let her go, her long lashes swept upward. Her expression was stark. "Is it time for you to go?" she said huskily.
"I'm afraid so." He looked away, fearing that his yearning must be showing. Across the room, Wellington caught his eye and gave a faint nod. Michael continued, "The duke wants to speak with me. By the time you return home, I will probably be gone."
She caught her breath. "Please-be careful."
"Don't worry-I'm cautious to a fault."