London, January 1885

Shortly after the break of dawn, Sabrina was roused from slumber by a sharp pain low in her abdomen. Though the pain came upon her suddenly and caused her to briefly whimper, for it felt as though a dagger had been thrust into her very core, she also experienced a profound sense of relief. There was no child growing within her womb.

Moreover, being a virgin no longer, she could now employ a thicker cotton suppository, then she donned a clean nightgown, for the one she wore bore fresh smears of red upon its fabric. Thankfully, the bed remained untouched by the sudden arrival of her flowers, allowing her to return beneath the warm sheets.

Yet, soon enough, the relief gave way to tears and a deep sense of displacement. Sabrina yearned for the embrace of those she knew—her dear family and friends—but she was now so far removed from them, so distant from the warmth and mirth she had always known and perhaps taken for granted. She envisioned herself as Mrs. Scott, bearing the children Rodney had so fervently desired, living a comfortable life with her dear friend who would never have thought to cause her pain. Also, his family would surely have welcomed her with wide open arms.

She thought of Amanda and her husband, that lovable, slightly wild pair who was the very embodiment of joy and jest. She recalled Patricia chiding Alice for her daring ideas, only to kiss her forehead afterwards, while Mr Worthington, her husband, would remark with a smirk that they were too tenderhearted as parents to their daughters.

And she had to reproach herself for such foolishness, such a preposterous decision to give up all of that kindness, and to what avail?! She surrendered her independence to some cold man whom she couldn't trust only because of her unwillingness to part with such a vast sum of money.

They had all been right, those who urged her not to leave New York, but she had believed herself wiser, had she not? Now, all that remained were the occasional letters she could exchange with her loved ones—though she had yet to muster the will to pen a single response.

Sabrina reached out to retrieve the letters from the nightstand, where she had placed them and had returned to them time and again for solace of their comfort. In the depths of her sorrow, there was little to do but embrace the stack of papers, clutching them to her chest as tears streamed down her cheeks.

She had made a mistake; of that, she was certain. How on earth could she have been so convinced that starting a new life in a place where no one sought to know her, where no one even cared, was a sound decision?!

And so, Sabrina had spent hours in self-reproach, feeling the weight of despair despite knowing well that this state would last only a day or two; that the dark clouds would eventually lift, and the sun would rise again. She needed only a little space and solitude to regain her strength, muster the resolve to explore new avenues to happiness, and hold her head high in the face of whatever obstacles lay ahead on the path she was so determined to carve.

When she did not appear for the morning repast, Henry's brow furrowed slightly, but he thought little of it, given the many obligations that awaited him. However, when she also absented herself from the afternoon meal, he knew he must intervene, regardless of his duties or Giles' admonishments.

Henry approached her bedchamber swiftly and opened the door ajar without a moment's hesitation nor a knock, striding toward her bed. She still clutched the letters to her bosom, one hand laid across them. When Henry gently attempted to remove the stack of papers, she stirred and awoke. As their gazes met, he was immediately struck by the sight of her bloodshot, puffy eyes. The once-proud Amazon now resembled a wounded fawn, and the sight of her defeated countenance tugged at his heart with unexpected force.

"Is something the matter, Sabrina?" he asked, his hand still resting on the stack of letters.

"What are you doing here? This is my room," she retorted, attempting to shake off his touch.

"You're going to ruin your letters," he replied softly. „Why were you crying?"

"Why do you care?" she shot back, her words cutting deeper into him than he anticipated.

Henry harboured no intention of causing her distress deliberately, let alone something worse—such was never his aim. While he had never entertained the notion of being particularly enamoured with Sabrina, he certainly did not wish any ill to befall her. He was not so heartless a rogue as to take pleasure in her unhappiness, even if he was its source—on the contrary, it filled him with shame.

"You're my wife and I do not wish you to suffer. Any husband would say he does not wish to see his spouse suffer, but I am earnest in my desire to make amends and alleviate whatever sorrow you bear. Do you understand?"

As he finished, Henry found himself wondering why it had suddenly become so important to him that Sabrina finds some measure of peace against all predicaments that may have tormented her. There was but one reason he could discern, though he resisted acknowledging it ever so stubbornly. His wife's gaze remained stern, but after a moment, her expression softened.

"It is that time of the month for me."

It took Henry a moment for his figurative candle to light up in comprehension. Usually, women in his life rarely have spoken of their monthly plight, save the times when he asked for intimacy and they refused, citing their cycle to be the reason. It seemed they were tiptoeing around the subject out of shame he never fully grasped, and in the end, it left him ill-prepared to offer much comfort to his wife now.

"Is it painful?" he asked, his tone softened by genuine concern.

Sabrina nodded. "Very."

"Shall I summon the physician?"

She shook her head. "No, I am not ill and will feel better by tomorrow. It worsens on the third day but improves after that."

"You should eat something," he suggested, trying not to sound admonishing.

"I cannot; it will only make me ill," she replied, settling herself back onto the bed and turning onto her side. "Trust me, I am well."

But there was nothing in her demeanour or appearance that seemed well to him. Yet, for the moment, he chose not to press her further.

It was well into the evening when Sabrina's senses were tantalised by the irresistible aroma of freshly baked bread, which caused her empty stomach to rumble with unexpected intensity. She had not fully realised how ravenous she was until she opened her eyes and beheld Henry reclining beside her, holding a tray of warm bread, each slice delicately topped with melting butter and lightly charred.

As Sabrina's gaze met Henry's, he offered in a gentle tone, „I thought you might appreciate a modest repast. The bread is still warm and lightly sprinkled with salt, just as I enjoyed in my youth when I was unwell. Pray, partake of it, lest you greatly offend the cook who had to knead a fresh batch and serve my lordly whims after completing her duties for the day."

He broke off a piece of bread and extended it toward her lips, which appeared paler than usual in the dim light. Sabrina hesitated momentarily, but then parted her lips and accepted the offered sustenance. A curious flutter in her heart quickened its beat, for there was something profoundly intimate about being fed by another, as if she were a helpless creature incapable of attending to her own needs.

Sabrina had been accustomed to caring for herself for as long as she could remember, particularly since her father had been frequently absent more often than remaining under the same roof as his daughter, endlessly pursuing new enterprises. Throughout her upbringing, she had been attended by several governesses and tutors, yet her father had never introduced her to any lady who might potentially become her stepmother. It was a source of occasional speculation for her—perhaps he had no intention of remarrying and had found his own clandestine means of contentment without the desire for a formal commitment.

"I have a proposition for you," Henry announced, placing another morsel into Sabrina's mouth with deliberate haste to forestall any inquiry or response from her.

As her lips brushed gently against his fingers, Henry drew in a sharp breath. The contact, though innocent and unintended, was enough to provoke a response that stirred an undeniable effect within his breeches. Apparently, I remain very much tempted by everything she does towards me, he pondered before continuing,

"I have been reflecting upon our relationship, Sabrina, and I am convinced that you would agree with me—our marriage has been sealed largely due to our mutual reluctance to relinquish our fortunes. In my own folly, I have undoubtedly done much to forfeit your trust, and I am well aware that you may wish to keep me at a distance when it comes to matters of intimacy. Or am I mistaken in this belief?"

Sabrina, her mouth occupied with a piece of bread, could only shake her head that he, indeed, was not mistaken in his belief. Henry's countenance softened momentarily with a hint of a smile, but his expression soon turned grave once more.

"I do not wish to impose things you find unwelcome, nor shall I ever attempt to force myself upon you. However, I must also be candid—I cannot envision a life devoid of sex, and you, too, should have the opportunity to explore your own desires with a paramour of your choosing. At present, fairness is the only thing I can offer."

Sabrina swallowed and met Henry's gaze with her sharp, penetrating eyes. "I was convinced that you were tupping Caroline this whole time."

"I assure you," Henry replied with a firm tone, "I have not. Nor have I been with any other woman—this is the final time I shall make this assertion to you. Truthfully, I may resume this dalliance which may seem illicit in the eyes of others, but I could also recommend several gentlemen to you, so that you might not feel wronged or deprived of... pleasure. All I ask in return is your discretion and careful judgement in whom you choose to entertain."

She discerned the sincerity in his gaze and accepted another piece from his extended hand. Her thoughts momentarily wandered back to the masked gentleman who had taken his time to provide her with the most memorable of intimacies, and suddenly, Henry's proposition began to resonate with a new clarity.

"Unless you have personally lain with these gentlemen, I scarcely believe you could offer an unbiased recommendation," Sabrina retorted with a sharp edge, eliciting a wry smile from Henry. "And to be perfectly honest, I am indifferent to whom you choose to consort with, though I confess I cannot fathom what they find appealing in you," she added, gesturing dismissively towards him. "If your paramours are satisfied with your... performance in bed, they may fully retain you to themselves for all I care."

Henry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, though his wry smile remained fixed. He had braced himself for a far more vehement reaction—perhaps a tempest of fury, a dramatic outburst, or a barrage of invectives that could cover the pages of many lexicons. He half-expected her to denounce him as a disreputable libertine, to condemn the arrangement with fervour, or to cast him into the most infernal depths.

Yet, she appeared... almost unmoved?

Her stance seemed to evoke both amusement and concern in him, though he was resolute that this was indeed the only path forward to achieving a degree of mutual amiability and a semblance of functional marriage where they could tolerate one another's company. After all, how many arranged or enforced unions possessed such a luxury?

"Are you displeased with the suggestion of us parting ways where intimacy is concerned?" Henry asked with careful consideration, to which Sabrina responded with a vehement shake of her head.

"No, the idea is quite sensible to me, and I am almost vexed that it did not roll off my tongue sooner! I have, on occasion, contemplated such a scenario. There is no affection between us, as you so candidly observed, and I have experiences of my own to compare with and set my eyes and loins upon."

There were barbs sharper than any knives concealed within her spoken words, of that he was certain, and all of them were precisely aimed at his head.

"Pray tell, Henry, do you intend to bed women willy-nilly or do you have a select circle of designated lovers? I'm asking whether I should anticipate you becoming riddled with diseases sooner or later."

He found himself stifling a chuckle at her choice of words, though he could hardly blame her for being so wary and mistrustful. "Sabrina, over the past decade, I have been intimate with only two women—Miss Moira Haggarty and Lady Victoria Bellamy. Moira resides in a household with her so-called wives and a husband who pursue no other arrangements, while Victoria's liaisons are confined solely to myself and Moira. And Caroline, who seems to be always at home, I suppose limits her affections to me alone."

"Am I then restricted to three lovers?"

Henry, recognising the astuteness behind her gaze, anticipated that further queries were forthcoming.

"You are free to have as many lovers as you can manage," he replied promptly. "However, I would advise caution. It would be prudent to avoid any maladies or unwanted expectations, for which I shall provide you with appropriate measures to prevent conception."

Sabrina nodded thoughtfully. "And should I become enceinte despite these precautions?"

Henry's lips pursed briefly. „Then you will bring forth a fruit of your affair—can you bear that knowledge? I assume you prefer to remain childless, and I shall support you in this decision."

He placed the final morsel of bread into her mouth and then rose from the bedside, carrying the tray with him.

"And should I choose to have a child?" she inquired, her brows lifting in curiosity.

Henry's gaze fixed upon her, and she felt a shiver of unease at the intensity of his look. There was a coldness in his blue eyes that hinted at disdain and deep-seated animosity. "Whether you choose to bear a child with me or with one of your paramours," he replied, his voice clipped, "we should both fervently hope it is a daughter. For should the child be a son, he shall be sent from this household the moment he is born."

"Why?" Sabrina asked immediately, her voice tinged with confusion, but her only answer was the resounding slam of the connecting door as he exited.

In his bedchamber, Henry approached the mirror and scrutinised his frowned countenance and the palpable contempt emanating from his eyes. Though she was his wife, it didn't make her entitled to all his answers, or did it?

Nay, there shall be no son, no heir to carry on my line, he mused fervently. The Providence itself must deem it unjust that Giles was not made the Duke of Grantchester.

No boy shall witness nor endure the trials I faced, none at all. I desire not a son riddled with maladies of mind akin to Andrew.

He gulped and only then realised how quick and shallow his breaths were, and that his heart pounded with an unholy rhythm.