London, January 1885

Miss Moira Haggarty awoke with a profound headache, a pain so unnerving she feared her head might shatter into minuscule pieces on its own.

"Oh, good Lord," she murmured softly, yawning as she looked around.

She found herself in her own bed, at her home, with a man to her left and two women to her right. It was no surprise that she was stark naked, as the events of the previous night returned to her with full force. It was the New Year of Our Lord 1885, and Moira had celebrated it in her usual fashion—with copious amounts of spirits and debauchery on such a grand scale that Bacchus himself would blush with envy.

Though now nine-and-thirty, she had to admit that her capacity for drink was waning with age, while her prowess in bed remained her greatest ability to the date.

Moira slowly rose from the bed and made her way downstairs in search of fresh water to quench her thirst and soothe the burning sensation in her stomach. Before she could take a step toward the kitchen, a loud knock echoed through the house. Since she typically granted her servants the day off after they had catered to her guests during the New Year's bacchanalia, it fell to her to answer the door.

Scoffing, she opened the entrance door, shielding her eyes from the harsh morning light with a raised hand.

"Good morning, Moira. We need to talk," came a voice she knew all too well. "And for heaven's sake, could you not at least put on some clothing? Have you no shame in being seen nude by someone?!"

She stepped aside to allow her cranky guest to enter, scoffing once more. "Well, I live far from prying eyes, and if my memory serves me right, you have rather enjoyed seeing me in such a state, Your Grace."

Henry shook his head. "Not this time, Moira. And spare me the 'Your Grace' nonsense. I am Henry to you, and nothing more."

Moira closed the door behind her, then turned to Henry, motioning for him to follow. "There's a warm robe in my bathroom; allow me to take it as we pass by, and we proceed to the kitchen, shall we? Also, do tell me—I've heard your brother ceased to be and that you were coerced into marrying some American woman. I dismissed such gossip as mere idle chatter, for I could scarcely believe you were wed. But if Andrew is truly gone, that is another matter entirely..."

Henry let out a weary sigh, yet he began to recount the events of Andrew's death and how he came to be a married man. Moira listened closely as she busied herself preparing tea, her expression serious as she took in each word, then sat onto a chair beside him at the large kitchen table, nodding thoughtfully.

"You know how desperately I wished to avoid this fate," Henry murmured as his tale drew to a close.

"And yet I must agree with your uncle Giles—the more defiant you are towards your new station, the worse for everyone, yourself included. Which also leads me to another inquiry: what in the Lord's name are you doing here on this day? Should you not be fucking your dear wife, begetting heirs as your New Year's resolution?"

Henry's long, exasperated sigh betrayed the complexity of his situation, far beyond what he had initially shared.

Moira's eyebrows lifted in curiosity. "Is there something wrong with your wife?"

"Indeed," he responded, pressing his lips together under the weight of her questioning gaze. "She has... hips."

For a moment, Moira simply stared, before erupting into laughter. "It would be of far greater concern if she had none, would it not?"

"You misunderstand," Henry shook his head. "I cannot... last with that woman."

Moira's amusement softened into a knowing smile as she sipped her water. "And why, pray, do you find it so impossible to last with your wife, hm?"

The duke then indulged the miss in the rest of the details, sparing nothing even regarding the two times he was intimate with his wife. Moira listened intently, but her mirth faded by the time he concluded his story.

"Your idiotic behaviour you perpetually put on display is nothing new, Henry, and I'm relieved to hear you've recognised the pain you've caused her. I have to admit, she's far more gracious than I would be after being rejected by everyone and not being trusted during my most vulnerable state."

Henry drew a sharp breath through his teeth as Moira's words struck him deeply. Alas, he knew there was no way to reverse the clock and undo the wrongs he had committed.

"The other matter is," she continued in a measured, stern tone, "in my humble opinion, you cannot endure with her in your marital bed because you cannot control her. And we both know what you resort to when you find yourself at the mercy of another's will and whim. Your wife has upended your life quite suddenly, as has your new title, but this time, you cannot simply flee, can you? You are bound to your duties as a duke and a husband."

"I am not running away," Henry declared firmly, to which she offered a nod of approval.

"I am glad to hear it."

"But I am also not inclined to further exert myself in this marriage." He raised a hand to forestall Moira's inevitable interjection, as he desired to conclude his thought. "I spent most of my youth in celibacy, and I am no naive debutante with grand ideals, grander than the world itself. My wife may have arrived in England with a vision of finding her personal Eden here, but all I can offer her is fairness and civility."

Her brows arched, perhaps for the hundredth time that day. "You're... parting ways with her so soon?"

"If that is what it must be called, then yes, I am parting ways with her. I desire, no, I crave the physical aspect of being with a woman, and it seems we do not understand each other in that regard, my wife and I. If I continue to pursue—or, God forbid, press her into an intimacy she does not wish for, it will only breed resentment on both sides. I simply do not wish to make Sabrina my enemy. Considering the significant loss of trust between us, and the fact that I cannot seem to provide what she seeks, perhaps she may find it with someone else," Henry elucidated.

"And if she were to fall with child by this particular someone?" Moira pried.

"She will not. Sabrina may already be with child by me, but if she is not, she would not seek to become so by another—not anytime soon, at least, by her own admission."

His friend scoffed. "As if a rogue would seek her approval. Do you not comprehend, Henry, that you are placing her welfare in jeopardy? Your wife is new to our world, unfamiliar with the intricacies of our society... What if she truly does find herself enamoured with another? What if she decides to bear that man's child?"

Henry shrugged. "Should such circumstances arise, I shall address them as they come. Rest assured, I provide my wife with every means to ensure her safety should she choose to engage with a lover, be it one or more. Moreover, I do not consider her a reckless fool; on the contrary, she strikes me as a most intelligent and capable woman."

Moira clicked her tongue and leaned closer to Henry. "Sabrina may not receive such a proposition with calm. Can you truly envision her in the arms of another? Close your eyes for a moment and tell me, honestly, how it makes you feel."

Though hesitant, he obliged, and at once an image of Sabrina reclining nude on a bed appeared in his mind. The glow from the hearth bathed her skin in a warm light, just as it had during their last night together. But suddenly, a shadow was cast over her, a figure looming from the darkness, an intruder upon the scene.

"Envision her nude, about to be taken by a man mayhap younger than you, with a sizeable cock," Moira said softly, her lips close to his left ear.

Aye, the man was Sabrina's age, lean yet muscular; his form swooping over her with an ease that made her gasp, his lips devouring hers with an insatiable hunger.

"He's tender yet wild, knowing where to touch, lick, suck and slap."

The man in his vision was mayhap the Prince of Pleasure himself, for his skill with Sabrina not only left her eyes veiled with desire, but Henry's cock signalled his amassed arousal too.

"And you're there, observing the scene with your own eyes," Moira continued the narrative.

As the vision of the man began to tease her slit with his shaft, he turned his head to Henry and asked, How should I please her Ladyship, Your Grace?

Place my wife on her side, Henry heard himself tell the gentleman.

"But you're not a passive bystander, are you? You want to feel your wife come on her lover's cock, too."

The gentleman was already sliding his cock into his wife's glistening pussy as they lay on their sides, eliciting her moans, although Sabrina's gaze was fixed on her husband.

Henry, she called out in her sweet voice, gasping as his hand firmly grasped the hair on the nape of her neck.

I'm here, darling, he heard himself respond. Apologies, but your pussy may be sore on the morrow.

He then covered her lips with his while deftly finding her clit with the free hand. Sabrina began to whimper from the overstimulation, her toes curling from her lover's rhythmic tupping and the gentle pressure put on her delicate bud by her husband.

And when she cried out as she reached her apex, Henry was brought back to reality by the firm touch on his shaft hidden beneath the fabric of his pants. Moira knew her lover too well to apply the pressure and strokes in such a fashion that it took a little to push him overboard.

Henry gasped as his cock throbbed and released seed in such a mass that he momentarily felt as if he were sitting in a puddle.

"Fuck," he cursed between his shallow breaths. "Those were my favourite pants, Moira."

"You are a duke; you can well afford a hundred pairs of such fine pants," she sneered. "I thought you were exaggerating your inability to endure, but it seems your dear wife must have some effect upon you that leaves you as weak as a callow youth."

"And another two hundred pairs only with my wife's money, no doubt," Henry retorted, ignoring the latter part of her remark. "I'm going to the bathroom; would you be so kind as to fetch me a pair? I believe I left several here somewhere."

As he cleansed himself and awaited the pants, his thoughts returned to what had transpired in the kitchen. He was aware that the deed had strayed into a grey territory, imagining his wife in a delicate position while another woman assisted him in reaching his peak. It was not something he regretted, yet it was certainly not something to recount to his wife with any sense of pride. Henry had no intention of being unfaithful, and Moira's intent had been playful as usual when they sought intimacy, though this time he had meant to remain chaste.

"I do not believe you are being entirely honest with yourself," came Moira's voice from behind him, causing him to turn and see her holding out the fresh pants. "And so long as you remain in such a state, you shall not endure with Sabrina."

Henry scoffed as he began to dress. "I have been nothing but honest with myself."

"What is your wife's zodiac sign?" she inquired, dismissing his answer entirely.

He frowned. "How should I know? She was born in early October."

Moira narrowed her gaze. "A January Aquarius and an October Libra. Both level-headed creatures, yet your emotional detachment may well cause her great frustration. Do not be deceived by Libra being the only sign represented by an inanimate object; she may crave to unite with your very soul. I find it curious that communication between you seems so fraught, but perhaps Mercury is poorly aspected in your synastry. Still, if you can reach an understanding and build trust, the marriage could indeed prove successful."

The duke fastened the last button and sighed. "I see even your astrological hocus-pocus leans towards forging agreements."

"And who, pray tell, will be your favourites once you part from your wife?" she inquired, following him back to her kitchen as he reached for his greatcoat and hat.

"You, of course—Victoria and Caroline."

Moira's brows furrowed. "You are always welcome in my bed, though I daresay Victoria may take issue with being bedded by a married man. But Caroline? As in Caroline Clarke?"

At his nod, she scoffed. "Good grief, Henry, I find it quite atrocious to resolve a feud with your deceased brother in such a fashion."

"I'm not feuding with anyone, certainly not with my brother," he retorted. "She simply happens to reside under the same roof as I."

"And your wife too, I dare remind you," Moira remarked, trailing him into the entrance hall. "Sabrina will certainly be thrilled to know you're fucking your lover just a few doors away."

He opened the door, a sly smirk on his lips. "Should she object, I see no harm in lifting Caroline's skirts in the garden or the nearby woods. Good day, Moira; it has been a pleasure, as always."

Henry was about to leave when he felt her touch upon his arm.

"Lord Jamieson is hosting a gathering at his estate in Windsor this March—only select gentlemen, under the guise of discussing philanthropic pursuits. Informal and private, so no one shall judge your attendance, even with your dear wife in tow. I would be delighted to meet her."

"I do not recall being among Lord Jamieson's chosen," Henry remarked impatiently. "Besides, we are still in deep mourning, so I cannot promise anything to you today."

It was always philanthropic work, those orgies, and though it might serve to distract both him and Sabrina, it was a risk to be well-considered. Moira was on the verge of responding when the sound of a woman's cry echoed through the house.

"I didn't realise you had company," he remarked, his tone laced with amusement.

She smiled slyly and replied, "I always do, or have you forgotten?"

Later, Henry found himself seated in his townhouse, a glass of rum in hand. He had left the manor with the intention of spending the night in town after enduring several days of an icy reception from his wife. Indeed, it seemed she had seamlessly blended with his equally cold family.

Yet, every time he closed his eyes, he saw her again, softly moaning beneath him, utterly lost in the throes of passion.

He took a sip from the glass, feeling a growing unease creeping into his soul. As the hour grew late, he realised that if he did not leave his townhouse within a few minutes, he would miss the sight of his wife's sleeping countenance.

But where would she go? Why would he not find her at his home, where he had left her?

She had been so distant and cold during New Year's Eve... They exchanged only the most perfunctory of kisses upon their cheeks at midnight, after which Sabrina had retreated to her bedchamber while Henry remained in the dining hall, drinking in silence, his gaze fixed upon the empty chair and plate set in commemoration of their recent loss. He had only risen when the ever-concerned Giles gently urged him that it was time to retire.

Henry finished his glass and set it on the table nearby. Sabrina could be as cold and dismissive as she wished, but she was now his responsibility, whether she liked it or not. And he would be a fool, an idiot, to allow any harm to befall her, or to let her find herself in any sort of distress while he was absent.

It was past two in the morning when the duke, bearing a small candle, quietly entered his wife's bedchamber. He refrained from approaching too closely, lest the light disturb her slumber, but once he assured himself that she was indeed there, sleeping soundly, he returned to his own room.

He sighed with relief, but then his gaze fell upon the mirror, and he saw himself.

And for some reason, it was at that moment that Henry Clarke realised something was inherently wrong within him, though he could not yet discern what it was.

Indeed,it would take him considerable time to unravel this mystery buried so deep hepreferred to pretend it never existed; to understand himself, and to come toterms with the fact that certain experiences in youth shape us for the rest ofour lives.