"I do believe they are staring at us."

Following Lord Farrington's gaze, he turned to find Penelope and Lady Farrington lounging on the lawn. And they were, in fact, staring. Or at the very least, looking intently.

Penelope ducked her head when Beckett caught her watching, but Lady Farrington appeared to care less about being discovered. She smiled at the two men and raised her glass—what Beckett presumed to be lemonade.

Beckett dipped his head in return and then waited, hoping that Penelope might cease her preoccupation with the pattern on the picnic blanket.

"Why, is Penelope Chapman blushing?"

Lord Farrington sounded like a gossiping child, making Beckett want to roll his eyes. Not knowing what to say to that, he twisted back toward the earl and grunted. It typically sufficed as a response in most situations.

"You two seemed to have warmed to each other," Farrington continued.

That was an understatement if Beckett had ever heard one. Is that what it is called when a lady gets on her knees for a man? Warming to each other?

Beckett grunted again.

"Aw," Farrington chided, giving him a nudge with his elbow. "And here I thought you were suddenly opening up to me."

Beckett bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something he might regret. Yes, he could admit that he had been more loose-tongued with the earl this afternoon, but the man had opened a conversation about a trip he had taken to the continent, and Beckett found it easy to speak of travel. He'd spent many of his years constantly on the move.

"I am not going to discuss my and Penelope's relationship," he grumbled.

"Oh?" Farrington's brow rose, and he raked a hand through that blonde mop of hair of his. "So there is a relationship?"

"Sod off, Farrington," Beckett said, pushing up from the table. "Is it not time to gather for dinner yet?"

Farrington waved a hand toward Penelope, who had returned to chatting animatedly with Lady Farrington. "Our hostess is still here, so I cannot imagine dinner will start without her."

Well, Beckett would have to do something about that, then.

"Lady Hutton," he called, marching over to the picnic blanket and swearing beneath his breath when her large, luminous eyes met his. God, all he could imagine was the sight of her looking at him with those eyes while her lips had wrapped around his cock. Damn him for letting her do that. He would be unable to survive the rest of this assignment without another minute of peace.

Although truth be told, Beckett had not had a moment of peace since he had arrived and walked into his chambers to find Penelope half dressed.

Perhaps if she'd only had her clothes on at that moment...perhaps they would not have gone down this road.

He knew that was not true, though. He knew the pull was more than simply clothes could prevent.

"Yes, Colonel?" she asked when he had yet to say more, too lost in his damned thoughts. Since when did he agonize over women in such a fashion?

He cleared his throat. "It is growing rather late."

She took a quick look around, surveying the dusky sky.

"So it is. I suppose we should ready ourselves for the evening."

When Penelope made to get off the ground, Beckett was more relieved than he liked to admit. He put out his hand, offering assistance. Penelope's gloved fingers slid over his, and when she looked up, he caught her gaze.

She stilled momentarily, and Beckett held his breath.

He had a feeling he would be spending a lot of time holding his breath in the next days. Penelope was simply that stunning, and he was simply that damned.

****

Beckett had been seated next to Farrington at dinner.

And since it was a blatant breach of propriety, considering that Farrington was an earl and Beckett was untitled, Beckett had to assume that it had been due to some sort of meddling.

He figured it was likely the man to his right's fault.

While it was awfully difficult to avoid a man as persistent as Farrington, Beckett found it easy enough considering how the conversation flowed across the table, keeping the earl at bay for the time being.

Penelope drew his attention, laughing at some jest made by Creighton. Beckett could tell that her smile was not genuine in the way he had seen it before, though. Still, he could not believe how she even had the stomach to entertain some of the men at the table after what they had heard the evening of the ball. After knowing what they thought of her.

Personally, Beckett had been a proponent of kicking the whole lot of them out, but Penelope insisted that would interrupt the discovery of the men's potential illicit activities.

As far as Beckett was concerned, they could simply lock Lawton up right this very second, and the smuggled goods be damned.

Penelope's smile faded again, and her eyes flicked to Beckett's quick before lowering to her food.

Suddenly he was awash with heat, and it had only taken a single second. Only a single flick of her eyes to his and Beckett felt like his pants were too tight.

Penelope pushed her food around on her plate, keeping her gaze trained on the utensil in her hand. Her breasts heaved over the top of her bodice as she took deep breaths, and a flush worked its way up her neck. He wished to see that flush everywhere, all over her.

Beckett wrenched his attention away and shifted in his seat just as a new voice began speaking, one he hadn't heard often at all of these stuffy dinners he had been attending.

It was a younger woman who sat in the middle of the long table. She was strikingly blonde and soft-spoken as she detailed the events of a horse race she attended. From the corner of his eye, Beckett noticed Penelope stiffen in her chair. He frowned.

Was it talk of horses that alarmed her? That could not be it. After all, she had no qualms about riding with him.

"That is Lady Caddel," Farrington said lowly, leaning toward Beckett so that no one else would hear their exchange.

Beckett nodded, his recollections growing clearer.

"What is her significance?" he asked Farrington.

"Her sister is the woman who Lord Hutton took as his mistress."

Oh, hell.

"She is quite nice," Farrington went on, "but the resemblance between sisters is uncanny. And I have noticed that it is often distressing for Pen."

"Why the devil would she invite the damned woman, then?"

Beckett remembered. He remembered the moment this blonde woman walked through the doors on that very first evening and how Penelope had reacted similarly. Physically stunned. Bothered.

"It would have been a slight not to, given Lord Caddel's connection with her family. And Penelope is nothing but a gracious host."

Beckett longed to kick Lady Caddel out immediately. He did not care if she was kind. Lady Caddel could have been a saint, and Beckett still would want to see her removed. She could join Creighton, Whitlocke, and Lawton on the way out the door. Beckett was anything but gracious.

Penelope had a sharp tongue. He wished she would use it more often on those who deserved to be cut down. Or even those who didn't.

"It caused quite the spark of gossip, you know," Farrington said, dropping his voice another degree. The rest of the table was still engrossed in a conversation about the upcoming races.

"What?"

Beckett was not one for gossip, but when it came to Penelope....

"When Hutton left." He sighed. "Penelope is the daughter of a duke. She was raised to believe she should forever be a shining star. And when Hutton departed for the continent, I think she believed herself to have fallen. To have failed."

"Damn him," Beckett grunted, wanting to bring the ass back to life just so he could kill him again himself.

"I quite agree." Farrington paused, considering. "Although I do believe she is better now. In the end. Don't you?"

He was caught off by the question but glanced at Penelope while he thought of how to answer.

She was radiant.

But there was also a somberness there, and he longed to take it away. To be rid of it.

"Yes, I think so," Farrington said beneath his breath, answering himself. "I think so."

Beckett shook his head, turning back to his own food. And he could not have been happier when the last course ended, and he was finally able to retreat.

Penelope typically lingered in the evenings to entertain her guests, but tonight she slipped away. Beckett barely caught sight of her rose-colored gown as she strode past the parlors and drawing rooms and continued down a dark hallway.

He followed, his pulse ticking up.

He knew he should not follow. He had been following her for weeks, but he knew he should stay put tonight. An energy thrummed in his veins, and he knew that if he were alone with Penelope, he might say something he regretted. Or do something.

But Beckett needed to follow her.

That was what this had turned into.

He worried something was wrong, that the reminder of Hutton's mistress had planted some ridiculous seed in Penelope's head. And he'd take the night to squander any ideas that might be confusing her about her worth.

"Penelope," he hissed just as she turned yet another corner, bringing them deeper into the belly of the manor.

She spun, surprise flooding her expression. But she stopped, which had been what he wanted. Catching up to her, Beckett dragged Penelope into an alcove at the end of the hall, ignoring her questions until he was confident they were alone with the shadows.

"Where are you running to?"

Penelope's brows drew together. "I need to meet with my housekeeper to plan for tomorrow."

Beckett knew that was not all, not the only reason for running. "You do not usually dart away so quickly."

"I—" Her gaze flicked around them, landing anywhere but on him. "I suppose I am tired tonight."

He did not buy that for a single moment. Every time his eyes had connected with Penelope's today, she was startlingly awake. Alive.

Stepping in closer to her, he asked, "Are you?"

Glancing away, she nodded.

"Penelope, look at me."

"Please, Beckett," she whispered. He did not like to hear her pleading in this sort of a way. It tugged on heartstrings he did not even know he had. "I simply need a moment."

Beckett closed his eyes momentarily. "Can I kiss you first?"

Penelope's breath hitched as she tipped her head back to finally look at him.

"What?"

"I want to kiss you," Beckett said plainly.

Something in the back of his mind told him that Penelope was not kissed enough. She was not appreciated enough. She did not know what lengths a man might go to just to feel what her lips felt like. She should know that.

"Someone might see," she whispered, though her wide eyes kept falling to his lips.

Beckett cupped her face, drawing his thumb across her cheek. "No one will see."

It would be easy to detect footsteps coming their way, and the two of them were hidden enough that not even the candles lining the hallway reached them.

Penelope's dainty hand came to rest on his chest as she leaned into him. They fit together perfectly.

"All I could think of through dinner was kissing you," he admitted huskily. "All I could think of was you."

"I cannot be that interesting," she said with a fluttered laugh.

He could tell by how she said it: she believed it. And why shouldn't she when her husband left her as he did?

"You are easily the most interesting woman I have ever met," Beckett said before pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

Penelope responded with a gasp, and Beckett groaned softly.

"Can I?" he repeated, his lips barely brushing her skin.

"What?" Penelope sounded dazed.

"Kiss you."

"Yes," Penelope said, gasping again, and Beckett swooped in to capture that little sound with his mouth, kissing her soundly on the lips.

She immediately arched into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and attaching herself to the kiss, returning it. She was so beautifully attuned to him, to his body.

With one quick stride, Beckett backed her into the hard wall of the alcove. He tipped his hips forward, wanting Penelope to feel how much he'd thought of her. Just how much he wanted her. She groaned, fingers pulling on his hair as he continued to tease her mouth with strokes of his tongue. And hell, he had to rip himself from her before they became carried away.

"I will never understand," he said, panting heavily. He tipped his forehead against Penelope's. "I will never understand why any man would leave you."

"I—" Penelope sucked in. "I do not wish to speak of it. It has been years, and I never cared for him anyway. It does not matter."

Lies.

"It matters," Beckett growled, part angry at the marquess and part angry at Penelope for diminishing what he'd done. "It matters, and there is nothing wrong with that. You deserve more."

She shook her head. "I do not want to talk about it," she repeated, leaning back into him. "I simply want to kiss you again."

It was Beckett's turn to shake his head. His hands traced her curves, roaming her body even though he knew he should stop.

"I want that too," he groaned. "Lord, I want that, too."

"But?"

Penelope breathed the word that she must have known he would say, and the brokenness on her face tore him up inside.

Beckett nipped at her bottom lip, unable to help himself. "But when I take you for the first time, I do not want it to be in his hallway, Penelope. And that will be what happens if we are not careful."

She blinked up at him, eyes bright in the dark. Heat unraveled in them, but also disbelief. It made him want to chuckle. She had no idea, did she? She did not realize how much he desired her and how he already knew he would need her more than once. God, yes.

Tonight—later—he would make her understand.

All of it.

"Take your moment, Penelope." He forced himself to release her, wanting to give her the space she had sought after dinner. He understood what it was like to find peace in solitude. It was what early mornings on his ship had been like. "I will be waiting for you in your chambers when you return."

And with that, Beckett walked away.