In the House of Secrets

Chapter Seven | Beckett and the Bath

"Dusk is close to falling, Lady Hutton."

She plucked a piece of grass, the same thing she had been doing for far too many hours now.

"Yes, I see that."

"Do you not think that your absence has been noticed?"

Penelope waved the strand at him like it was some sort of weapon. "Explaining an absence is far, far easier than explaining a ripped bodice, Colonel Ash."

She sniffed and threw herself back onto the grass. Beckett attempted not to stare, but it was really rather hard. This entire afternoon had been a testament to his restraint.

Not that he would ever advance on an unwilling woman or any woman of the ton. But this was more than that. He found himself having to control everything he did. His eyes from raking over her exposed flesh. His body from reacting to what he saw. His mind from envisioning more.

Penelope was bloody annoying, but she was a well-endowing, warm-blooded woman who was lying there beside him in her undergarments. Unphased.

He was in hell.

Especially when Penelope opened her mouth again.

"If I am to be ruined, I should at least like to reap the benefits from it."

Beckett had never jerked his head up so fast in his life. He had to work to school his expression before opening his dry mouth.

"You were married, my lady. Surely you cannot still be ruined."

He decided to focus on the beginning of her statement and not the end.

Penelope's brows drew together as she looked over at him. She chewed on her lips for a second before clearing her throat.

"Perhaps not ruined, but scandal is attracted to a woman at any age. And despite my pursuits, I am quite good at avoiding it."

Beckett nearly choked on air for the second time in less than a minute. This time he could not ignore what she'd said.

"Pursuits?"

"Well, yes," Penelope said, rather matter-of-factly. "My husband is gone. Why should I not enjoy the occasional night of comfort?"

He was alarmed and surprised at how callously she spoke about her husband's death. Surely it would be respectful to remember him in more loving terms, even if there was no love lost between them. And then there was the other part, but Beckett could not bring himself to think about that. Not when she tossed one arm above her head, languidly stretching out in her thin chemise.

Hell. In absolute hell.

"Your relationship with your husband was...." Beckett trailed off, not sure what he was trying to ask or imply.