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desk. "May I?"
    "If you like."
    Michael smiled at the caricature Kenneth had been working on. "Clever the way you drew Bonaparte as a leering gargoyle. You should sell this to a print shop so it can be reproduced."
    Kenneth shrugged off the suggestion. He invariably dismissed compliments by saying that his talent was no more than a minor knack for drawing.
    Michael flipped through the pages of the sketchbook. After several architectural studies of a richly baroque guild hall, he found a drawing of Amy Melbourne and the Mowbry children playing. With a few swift lines, Kenneth had caught the fluid motions of a running game, plus the character of each child. It never ceased to amaze Michael that his friend's large hands could draw with such subtlety and grace.
    "This is a nice sketch of the children." As he turned the page, he added, "The first thing Molly said was that you were teaching them how to draw."
    Kenneth smiled a little. "Both girls are good students. Jamie isn't interested in anything that doesn't have four hooves, a mane, and a tail."
    After more sketches of the children and one of Anne Mowbry, Michael turned
the page and found himself looking at Catherine Melbourne. His heart constricted
at the image of her standing on a rocky shore, her expression otherworldly. A
sea wind unfurled her dark hair like a banner and molded her classical tunic to the curves of her splendid figure.
    He studied the picture hungrily, in a way that would have been rude with the real woman. Trying to sound casual, he said, "A good drawing of Catherine. Is she meant to be a Greek goddess, or perhaps the legendary Siren whose songs lured men to their doom?"
    "The Siren." Kenneth frowned. "The picture isn't that good, though. Her features are so regular that she's difficult to draw. Also, there's a sort of haunted look in her eyes that I didn't manage to catch."
    Michael looked at the picture more carefully. "Actually, you did get some of that. What would haunt a beautiful woman?"
    "I have no idea," Kenneth replied. "In spite of her easy manners, Catherine doesn't reveal much of herself."
    There was definitely something his friend wasn't saying, for the very good reason that Catherine Melbourne's private life was none of Michael's business. Yet as he turned to the next page, he said offhandedly, "If you ever do a sketch of her you don't want, I'll be happy to take it off your hands."
    Kenneth gave him a sharp glance, but said only, "Take that one if you like. As I said, I wasn't satisfied with it."
    Michael removed the drawing, then continued paging through the sketchbook. He was a damned fool to ask for the picture of a woman who could never be part of his life. Yet when he was old and gray, if he lived that long, he would want to remember her face, and the way she had made him feel.
    Wellington was right that the situation was a shambles. As soon as Michael appeared at headquarters the next morning, he was thrown a mountain of work involving supplies and equipment. As the duke said tartly, Major Kenyon might not be a quartermaster, but at least he knew what fighting men needed.
    The work required total concentration, and by the end of the day, Michael's intense reaction to Catherine Melbourne was no more than a hazy memory. He headed back to the house on the Rue de la Reine for dinner, thinking it would be good to see her again. She was a charming, lovely woman, but there was no reason for him to behave like a love-crazed juvenile. A second meeting would cure him of his budding obsession.
    Catherine had mentioned that the house custom was to gather for predinner sherry. After changing, Michael went down and found Anne Mowbry
and a gentleman already in the drawing room. "
    "I'm glad you could be here for dinner tonight, Michael." Anne turned her head, setting her auburn curls dancing. "This is my husband, Captain Charles Mowbry."
    Mowbry greeted him with a friendly handshake. "I've been admiring your
horses, Major Kenyon. It doesn't seem