Beckett had not spent much time eating at dinner so far. It was challenging to eat when his fists were balled tightly at his sides.

Penelope had taken his directive to flirt with anyone but Lawton very seriously. She was quite seriously flirting with everyone. Everyone but Lawton, of course. Lawton looked on from the end of the table, looking as irritated as Beckett felt. Although Beckett certainly hoped he was doing a better job at hiding it.

He did not know why it bothered him so greatly. It sounded as though Penelope's husband had given her very little attention prior to his passing, and Beckett could not blame her for seeking companionship elsewhere. After all, Beckett was of the mind that humans needed connection now and again. But in a genuine manner. Not in this over-the-top, ridiculous dallying.

"Leo, darling, tell me again what the name of the opera was that you went to while in Paris."

Penelope flourished a hand as she spoke, leaning forward in a seemingly purposeful way to expose more of herself than Beckett liked. Well, that is to say, he liked it. He liked it quite a lot. But he did not like that everyone else liked it as well.

Farrington smiled from his spot beside Beckett, going along easily with the lack of formality at the table. Beckett's eyes flicked to Lady Farrington next to him, wondering how she felt about the way Penelope had drawled Leo at the dinner table as if that were proper.

Her lips were tilted at the corners as she politely watched Penelope. Not an ounce of irritation was detectable.

"Don Giovanni," Farrington said with an amused curl of his lip. He glanced sideways at his wife, and Beckett did not miss the lingering heat there when he looked her over. "It is one of our favorites."

When Lady Farrington looked over at him with an agreeable nod, her husband winked. She flushed and took a sip of her water.

Beckett could quite simply choke on the frivolity at the table tonight.

"Scarlett quite thought I was as devilish as Don Giovonni himself when I first went about earning her affection."

Penelope laughed at that, drawing everyone's attention. Not that it had ever really left her.

"And weren't you?"

Farrington drew in a sharp, mocking breath, clutching his chest. "Of course not."

An entertained little grin grew on Penelope's face before she leaned back in her chair again. Beckett practically felt the collective relief and regret from the men in the room.

She was too alluring, too divine not to be pulled in. Her dress tonight was a mossy green color and gauzy in a way that made her appear as though floating on a cloud. Or better yet, among the ocean waves. Penelope could put sirens to shame with her laughter.

Beckett groaned at the directions of his thoughts. What the devil was wrong with him?

"You alright over there, Colonel?"

He glanced at Farrington, who had raised a brow curiously. Knowingly.

To hell with this man.

"Fine," he pushed through gritted teeth.

He was fine.

His only job was to secure evidence of Lawton's smuggling acts and keep Penelope safe while doing so. That was his only job. And it was going fine.

The gentlemen around the room might all look as though they wished to do a great deal of ungentlemanly things to Penelope, but she was all but inviting it. He could not necessarily blame them for their thoughts or their interest. Concern lingered in the back of his head, though. What happened when dinner was over and Penelope left all that unbridled tension on the table?

No one had told Beckett that this damn woman was going to be such a challenge. He was positive that she was inviting attention that she was not prepared for.

Especially with one, Mr. Creighton.

He was the one sitting beside the lady of the house, and she kept giggling at his jokes, ones that Beckett would cut off his tongue before laughing at. Not only did Penelope giggle, but she also placed her gloved hand on his forearm, not once but twice.

When dinner concluded, Beckett could not have been more relieved. He watched as guests were dismissed, and Penelope fled out of the room on the skirts of her housekeeper, Mrs. Fraser.

He suspected that they were attending to some detail or another for the following day or even the after-dinner comforts. Still, when Penelope did not return by the time the last aristocrat had retreated from the room, Beckett began to worry.

What if Creighton had cornered her upon her return? What if he had followed her? What if someone else had followed her?

Frustrated by her disappearance, Beckett grumbled as he walked up the stairs to their shared suite. He attempted to reason with his thoughts. Perhaps Penelope had simply retired to bed instead of returning to the dining room. Yes, that would have been sensible.

However, a reminder lingered in the back of Beckett's mind. Penelope was not precisely sensible.

Crashing through the door to his chambers, Beckett quickly made his way to the door that adjoined his room with hers.

"Penelope," he bellowed.

There was no response.

He waited until the count of five before pushing through into her chambers.

It was empty.

Goddamnit.

She meant to give him an early death, this woman.

His thoughts began to circle like a vulture in his mind once more, praying on his fears. What if Penelope went with Creighton because, god forbid, she wished to?

Beckett frowned at his shoes as he began pacing about the room. They were not particularly nice shoes, and he wished he had put a bit of shine on them before this evening. But with Penelope to chase about, he hadn't exactly had the time.

When the door to Penelope's chambers finally opened, and she finally slid inside them, Beckett froze, narrowing his eyes in her direction.

"Where were you?"

She jumped, a hand flying to her chest.

"Heavens, you startled me."

Beckett did not move. Did not react. He was waiting for her to answer his question. When she did not, merely brushing past him to her dressing table, he repeated himself.

"Penelope, where were you?"

"I was with Mrs. Fraser, of course. Did you not see me leave?"

"That was nearly an hour ago."

"Yes, well, if you have never managed a household, I suppose this might come as a surprise. But it is work, Colonel. My meetings with Mrs. Fraser are often that long. Longer."

Ignoring the irritating relief in his chest, Beckett strode in slow steps toward Penelope. "How am I supposed to protect you when I cannot find you in this goddamn house half the time?"

She rolled her eyes, stripping off her gloves in a manner that attracted far too much of his attention. He forced himself to halt, not daring to get any closer. "I have survived in this house for several years without your protection, Beckett."

His name on her tongue softened his nerves. But only slightly.

"It is not the same."

"How is it not the same?"

"Because then there was not an entire army of men ready to follow you and make good on all the promises you were giving them with your eyes."

She paused at that. Narrowing her gaze, Penelope walked across the room toward him, her skirts swishing against her legs.

"Perhaps that is what I wanted."

Beckett swallowed his irritation as she drew close. "If that is what you wanted, then you would not be here. You could have taken your pick."

She raised a brow that was indeed meant to tease him. "The night is still young, Colonel."

"Beckett," he corrected.

"Beckett," she drawled. "The night is young, Beckett. And I deserve someone to get my pulse thumping, do I not?"

Without thinking, Beckett raised his hand to her throat. It was such a soft throat, so smooth beneath his fingers. He wrapped them around her, feeling with his thumb for that little dent just below her jaw where he could feel her heart.

"You deserve it, Penelope." He caressed her pulse, loving the feeling of how alive she felt beneath his finger. "You deserve it. They do not."

She raised a brow, her breathing turning shallow as Beckett continued the soft circles on her neck. He tried not to let his gaze drift lower than his hand because if his eyes wandered to the rest of her, Beckett was not sure of what he'd do. Not right now. Not when he felt every breath she was taking in his bones.

When he spoke again, his voice betrayed him. Husky. Deep. "I would say, my lady, that your pulse is thumping quite nicely right here in this room."

"Yes," she gasped. "I suppose it is."

Beckett leaned in, molding into her skirts. He lowered his head, even though he did not trust himself. He did not trust what he was doing. "If you need someone to get your heart racing, you'll let me do it," he breathed, far too close to her mouth.

A whimper left Penelope's lips, and it taunted Beckett enough that he—

"Oh, my lady." Collette's surprised voice made Beckett spring back a step. "Pardon me."

Penelope gave her lady's maid a look that screamed for her to take that pardon me and leave. But she only tip-toed further into the room.

"It is only that your brother has arrived."

Penelope instantly straightened.

"He has?" The disbelief and pure joy in her expression overwhelmed Beckett. It was wholesome in a way he knew too well, with his own sister. He hated the warmth that flooded his heart.

Collette nodded, and Penelope rushed through the open door.

Beckett followed at a more leisurely pace, urging his own heart rate to slow. And other parts of his body to relax, for Christ's sake. But he'd be damned if he let Penelope out of sight again today. He reached the top of the sweeping staircase just as she was flying into a man's open arms. Her shrieks could be heard echoing through the corridor. And for some odd reason, it made Beckett smile.

Until the man—her brother—looked up.

"Griff?" he breathed.

Yes, that was definitely Griffin. That was the man who had saved his life on at least two occasions. The man that knew him better than any man who walked this earth.

Which meant that Beckett would now have to look his best friend in the face and somehow not let it show that if he had not arrived when he had, he most definitely would have torn all the clothes off of his sister.