There was one thing that Beckett was absolutely sure of, and that was that Penelope was not fine.

Her muffled groans from the opposite chamber throughout the week were all but driving him up a wall. Mainly because she denied him as if she did not require help whenever he offered to assist her. But Beckett was more than aware that she could barely move without being in all sorts of pain.

So he sat, disgruntled, in his chambers. Waiting.

What, precisely, he was waiting for, Beckett could not be certain. But he also could not get himself to leave. He had no confidence that Penelope wouldn't try something utterly ridiculous if she were left unattended. She kept raving about that blasted ball and insisting on preparing for it when she could barely hold a book in bed without wincing.

"What are you doing?"

Beckett looked up from the letter he was writing to the Queen, an account of their findings thus far in Southampton. Which, incidentally, did not include much.

"Sending correspondence to Buckingham," he replied to Griffin. "Detailing how little we've discovered regarding Lawton."

Griffin dropped into the seat across from Beckett, but he remained quiet. Doubtful he wanted to, though. He had a sort of pinched expression about him, like he was withholding words.

"What?" Beckett grumbled.

"You have been in this room for the better part of today."

"What is your point, Griffin?"

"And yesterday. Perhaps if you actually left your chambers, you might be able to speak to Lawton and uncover more."

Beckett shifted in his seat. "I have spoken to Lawton plenty, and conversation with the man is the worst sort of punishment."

"And that is why you refuse to try harder to gather intel?" Griffin shot him a disbelieving look. "Because the man is a bore?"

Beckett merely grunted in response. Which he immediately realized was a mistake as it seemed to give Griffin the idea that he had free rein to continue talking.

"I have never known you to create excuses when it comes to your duties, Beck."

"I am fulfilling my duties," he said, giving a pointed look to the cracked door between his chamber and Penelope's.

Griffin scoffed. "I think you are taking your instructions to keep an eye on Penelope far too seriously. She is confined to her bed, Beckett. She does not require this amount of attention. And if there is anything that she does need, she has a whole team of servants plus me who can attend to her. Remember? I am here for her."

"She is supposed to be confined to her bed, yes." Beckett lowered his voice. "But each time I hear you depart, she attempts to defy those instructions. I only mean to ensure that she does not hurt herself further because God knows that her maids cannot stop her if she insists upon being stubborn."

Griffin chuckled a little at that before sighing. "Surely she cannot get far with how uncomfortable I know her to be. Although, she did seem in considerably less pain today."

Beckett leaned forward with interest. "Really?"

He was glad to hear it. Perhaps he would not have to listen to her damned noises all night long, then.

With a nod, Griffin stood and walked over to the door. He inched it open with his foot, and Beckett watched as his shoulders immediately slumped, a deep sigh releasing from his friend. A tightness formed in his own chest.

"She's gone, isn't she?"

Griffin looked back at Beckett, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah. She's gone."

****

"I thought perhaps I'd find you here."

Penelope had been examining something on the far end of the ballroom, but her eyes lifted at the sound of his voice, meeting Beckett's in defiance.

Beckett had split from Griffin as they both took off in search of the missing marchioness. And at this moment, Beckett found that he was rather glad that his friend was likely on the other side of the estate.

Penelope wore a simple morning gown, far less extravagant than anything he'd seen her in before. Her hair was pulled back but not in any of her usual elegant twists or curls. And in the middle of such a sweeping ballroom, full of opulence, she seemed somewhat out of place for the first time.

At least until she straightened to her full height and gave him a withering glare. Yes, there she was.

"I wished to ensure that the set-up was going to plan," she said, ambling across the ballroom. Beckett could not help but notice how uneven her gait seemed, and he could only attribute it to the accident. He hadn't thought that she'd injured her lower extremities, but then again, he could imagine how the blow—and the consequent landing—might have caused pain throughout all her limbs, not merely where she'd been struck.

"Penelope, you should be abed," Beckett said tersely.

"I thought you were not to worry about me, Colonel. I thought that was now my brother's responsibility."

The way she said it made it very clear that she did not think she should be anyone's responsibility.

"He is looking for you as well," Beckett answered.

Her eyes rolled up. "There are things to be done. For crying out loud, I have guests which I have not seen for days."

"I am certain they understand, given the circumstance."

"It is not good form, Colonel."

"Neither is this." He waved a hand over her slow movements and had to hold himself back from doing something further about it, such as picking her up and carrying her back to her chambers, even if she screamed the entire way. "The idea of having a ball this week is ridiculous, Lady Hutton. If I might give my opinion."

Her dismissal was immediate. "I am not interested in your opinion."

Of course she was not.

"You will not even be able to dance," Beckett pointed out. He did not particularly enjoy crushing Penelope's spirits but deemed it a necessary evil at the moment. "And what is a ball without dancing?"

Penelope stuck her nose up. "I will be able to dance perfectly fine."

"Penelope..." Beckett sighed.

He was only several paces away from her now, and she stopped short, giving him a once-over. 

"Shall I prove it to you?"

"No." There was nothing Beckett needed less than for Penelope to try to stubbornly prove something only to injure herself further. "That will not be necessary."

"Come now," she said. Her brows lifted in a beckoning way. "It is only a dance."

Beckett ground his heels further into his spot by the doorway. Even more than he did not want Penelope to dance, he did not want to dance.

"It would be much easier if I had someone to help support my arm," Penelope said, and Beckett merely gritted his teeth together. Of course the first time she requested his help this week was for this purpose—a ridiculous one.

"Fine," Beckett muttered, closing the distance between them in a brisk walk. As much as he did not wish to do this, he also hoped that perhaps it might prove a point to Penelope. She was not yet well enough to host an entire ball.

Penelope could not mask her shock as he walked toward her, and he found her surprise somewhat satisfying.

He had danced very few times in his life, at least not like this. And certainly not sober. Hell no. He knew not of country reels or dances spun for courting folk.

He cleared his throat and addressed her with mocking formality. "How does my lady wish to dance?"

When Penelope spoke again, her voice was relatively soft. A subdued version of herself. "Something slow to start, I think."

Relieved, Beckett nodded. He raised his hand, palm up, waiting for Penelope to place hers in it. As she lifted her arm, he watched for any hints that she might be in pain. Penelope's lips flattened into a line as she positioned herself, but otherwise, she did not react as her hand slid into his.

She was not wearing gloves; it was clear that Penelope had not planned to see anyone outside her room. Beckett hated how his skin tingled where they were touching. He could not remember the last time he had held hands with anyone. It served absolutely no purpose except for sentiment, and there was little of that to go around in his life.

Beckett's other hand found her waist. He gripped her firmly because his manners were anything but genteel, and she responded with a slight gasp. Beckett assumed it must have been from how she lifted her other hand to hold his arm; pain clearly sifted through her expression now. He could only imagine the tension this created in her shoulder.

"Penelope—"

"Shall we?" She attempted a smile, but it did not fool him.

Beckett bit his tongue down on a retort. Any other day he would have unleashed it, but Penelope appeared so small in his arms. So tired and worn. And if this damned dance could wash a little bit of that away...well, he supposed it would be worthwhile.

He sighed. "There is no music."

"Shall I hum it for us?"

Her eyes were bright when he tipped his head down to look at Penelope. Perhaps a little bit of that shininess was pain, but there was also a liveliness there.

His lips twitched. "I do not think that will be necessary, Lady Hutton."

"Penelope." Her eyebrows dipped in reprove. "I require all of my dancing partners to call me by my given name," she scolded despite biting back a smile. It was almost as though the familiarity of their bickering gave her comfort.

"Do you now?"

From what he knew of the ton, that would be highly inappropriate. But Penelope was a wild card when it came to propriety.

Her head dipped ever so slightly in the faintest nod. A loose auburn curl fell from behind her ear. Beckett released her hand so he could place it back where it belonged. "Fine, Penelope."

Once he captured her hand again, Beckett pushed off in a slow, fumbling waltz. To his surprise, Penelope did not say a word about his missteps. Instead, it seemed like she was too focused on her own steps to notice. He might have even considered her concentration adorable if it weren't for how he knew it stemmed from her injury. Beckett doubted that a marchioness like herself usually required such caution when partaking in this a waltz—if this could even be called a waltz. He was sure it wasn't quite right.

"Penelope, you are in pain," he muttered. Without thinking, he pulled her in closer—as if he could erase it. Erase the hurt.

"I am fine," she muttered, her breath fanning against his jawline. At that, Beckett lowered his gaze, realizing just how minuscule the distance between them was as they continued to move in a slow circle. When her chest rose and fell, it brushed against his. And hell, that did something dreadful to Beckett inside.

He tightened his grip around her and realized how much support he lent her stilted frame.

He pursed his lips. "I do not trust the other dolts in attendance to step one foot onto this dance floor with you."

"You do not believe them to be capable?"

"Absolutely not," he grunted. And then he added, "If you were wise, you'd postpone the ball."

Penelope shook her head. And even from that slight movement, she tensed.

Goddamn this stubborn woman. But though Beckett knew he should stop, pull away, cease her little demonstration of willpower, he did the one thing he knew would test his sanity instead. Because hell, he could not help it. Moving his hand to the small of her back, Beckett pressed her into him even further. No more space, even enough for a breath, existed between them.

She breathed his name, tipping her chin up to meet his gaze. Sparkling eyes drew him in, and Beckett barely kept from swearing beneath his breath. Her lips parted, and she drew her bottom one into her mouth, chewing on it.

Penelope was tempting and stubborn and sure to be the end of him.

He swallowed a groan from how good she felt against him and reminded himself that this woman was Griffin's sister.

"I am finding it increasingly hard to protect you." He punched the words out through gritted teeth.

A smile formed on Penelope's face, and then it twisted wryly as she took in his words.

"From myself?"

God, yes. Yes, definitely that. But it hadn't been what was on Beckett's mind. Not in the slightest.

"From me, Penelope."