London, March 1885

When Moira Haggarty ventured into the dining room, she found Lady Victoria Bellamy already pouring tea into small porcelain cups. She approached her frequent lover, pressed a kiss to her lips, and then seated herself across from her, taking the cup into her hands.

"What a fine morning we are having," she remarked.

Victoria chuckled softly and replied, "It is nearly noon, my dear. Have you any plans for the day?"

"I am to meet cousin Peter at the coffee house, and then I shall join my family for dinner," Moira said with a smirk, reaching for the newspaper on the table. "Pray, Henry has not yet arrived, has he? He sent word that he would stop by after attending to matters at the university, picking up some books if I recall correctly. The poor fellow has yet to reconcile himself to the fact that he commands an army of footmen to attend to such errands."

Victoria's countenance darkened slightly. "He has not. Are you still... intimate with the man?"

"That remains to be seen," Moira replied without looking up, her fingers idly turning a page of the newspaper.

"He is married, Moira. I daresay his wife would not be pleased to discover her husband still keeps mistresses—or that he cannot keep his cock within the confines of his tight pants."

Moira sighed and finally regarded Victoria. "My dear, it's not that his pants are tight, besides, you are well aware of the sort of man Henry Clarke is. He imagined another woman while being intimate with the one he claimed to love! The scoundrel is incapable of fidelity and has never truly loved anyone, save perhaps Andrew 'The Protected Imbecile' Clarke."

Victoria shook her head. "One must consider that Henry was a young and foolish fellow then; now that he has matured, he truly ought to focus on his marriage and the myriad of responsibilities stemming from his new station. You should not entertain him intimately for a moment longer of your life."

"I implore you, do not darken this lovely day with a bout of jealousy," Moira retorted, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Victoria's own marriage had been utterly devoid of love and respect, leaving her with wounds from which she would likely never recover. Her husband, may the devil spike his soul for eternity, took mistresses to the very bed where he forced her to perform her wifely duties.

"You are still in love with him," Lady Bellamy remarked softly, swallowing hard. "You call yourself a hedonist, but what I see is someone who lacks the decency to do what is right."

It took Moira a full minute to compose a reply that neither sounded defensive nor dismissive of her friend's sentiments. "I have loved many men over the years, and women too. And I am certain I love you, Victoria. Yet... you knew well what it entailed to be in a relationship with me."

Victoria nodded. "I was mistreated by Lord Bellamy for far too long, so it is little wonder I clung to the first person who showed me kindness and affection, though you may not be the partner I need. But without respect, Moira, I might as well be out of your life for good. Do not misunderstand me—I am not opposed to our engaging with unattached fellows, but I do have some integrity to avoid those who are already wed."

It was Moira who gently took Victoria's hand, offering a tender squeeze. "I understand, my dear. If my dalliance with Henry wounds you so much, I shall end it. You are right—such a rogue is not worth the loss of you."

She lifted Lady Bellamy's hand to her lips, pressing a tender kiss upon her soft skin. Victoria offered her lover a small smile but added, "I shall always be grateful to Henry, for despite my trauma, he restored a small measure of my trust in men. Yet, I have observed him over the years, and I am convinced he carries a great burden of his own. His fear of commitment and his reluctance to allow himself to love... Moira, something terrible must have befallen him—something so dreadful that he is still unable to reckon with it."

Moira's brow furrowed. "But would he not confide in us, at the very least? I doubt he maintains any other friendships as close as ours."

"Do you remember how he always ended his stories about Andrew?"

"That he would never speak a word to a living soul, for fear of harming his brother," Moira replied, leaning back in her chair.

"That he would never speak a word to a living soul, for fear of harming his brother," Victoria echoed.

They had little time to further discuss Henry's predicament, for Moira's footman soon announced the duke's arrival.

"Ladies, always a pleasure to behold your beauty," Henry greeted them at once, offering each woman a kiss upon her cheek in gallant fashion.

"Henry, so good to see you after such a protracted time!" exclaimed Victoria cheerfully, though there remained a subtle wariness in her gaze as she observed the interactions between Moira and Grantchester.

"You could show me how much you missed me when we go upstairs," he quipped with a playful wink, seating himself at the circular table so that he might regard both ladies at once.

Moira cleared her throat. "On that matter, Henry... Victoria and I have discussed the situation, and out of respect for one another, we have agreed to cease any further... intimacies with you, given your current status as a married man. I trust you can understand."

Henry raised an eyebrow, but one glance at Moira's expression made it clear who was the instigator behind such a resolution. Though he enjoyed his friends' embrace and threesomes, this sudden decision did little to ruffle him. After all, they were hardly the only women in the realm, were they?

"I'm certain he can understand," Victoria added with an air of nonchalance. "After all, there's still one rather willing sister-in-law to see to his needs," she quipped with a hint of irony.

Indeed, while Sabrina rejoiced in Arthur's arms—making good use of his other limbs, too—Caroline, mustering what courage she had, sought out Henry to ask forgiveness for the discord she caused the other day. She had explained the entirety of the situation from her perspective and shown her remorse, offering to make amends to his wife herself. However, upon learning that Sabrina was out on her usual afternoon stroll, the duke took full advantage of Caroline's willingness unrelated to her apology, ensuring she parted her thighs wide for him once more.

And again, there had been nothing ceremonious about their coupling—merely two people fulfilling their needs before parting ways soon after. Yet Henry could vividly recall how—again—his thoughts had drifted immediately to Sabrina, as he returned to his study. She had occupied his mind more frequently than he would ever admit aloud, and he even caught himself wondering whether his duchess ever thought of him. Perhaps she did, but he wouldn't be surprised if her thoughts were coloured solely by resentment, disdain and inferno wished upon his lordly head, and that despite the civility they've been treating each other as of late.

"I gather you disapprove of my dalliance," Henry remarked with a faint smile.

"I'm beginning to question your sanity," Lady Bellamy replied, a mischievous pout forming on her lips.

Moira, uncertain whether this was the spark of playful banter or a quarrel, interjected, "Pray, let us not mar this splendid day with verbal sparring."

"I assure you, we are not arguing, dear," Henry said, his gaze still fixed on Victoria. "Though it appears our friend remains unaware of the arrangement between myself and my wife. I take mistresses, and she, too, takes her lovers, without any grievance from me."

"And has she taken one yet?" Moira inquired, hoping to further preempt a possible spat between her lovers.

The duke inclined his head. "Lord Jamieson, surprisingly enough given the man's reputation. I'd have thought he preferred the company of men."

Moira raised her brows and scoffed. "I've heard such rumours, too, but truly, I believe them to be nothing more than idle gossip. I've never witnessed Jamieson in any undue closeness with another man, though I've certainly seen women making fools of themselves for a mere smidgen of his attention. And good Lord in Heavens, he's quite adept at playing with their affections!"

"What of Mr. Gray? I see him in Jamieson's company with great frequency. Are they not... rather close?" Victoria inquired, sipping her tea.

"My dear, Jamieson's flamboyance no doubt tempts people to think him an admirer of both sexes, leaning, perhaps, towards men. But I know what I've seen on certain occasions—the man is a passionate lover of women," Moira replied, then turned her attention back to Henry. "I presume you've not been intimate with your wife since that dreadful Christmas?"

Henry nodded, a sigh escaping him.

"And will you ever seek to be intimate with her again?" Moira pressed, her curiosity clearly piqued.

That was the very question Henry often posed to himself, especially when he saw her leave the house, well aware that her destination was Jamieson's cock. And soon, Henry realised how dangerous it was to dwell on such thoughts—his wife entertaining her lover—for such sinful musings invariably stirred all manner of desires within him.

There was another question that plagued him: Were he to find his way back into her favour and her bed, would he take her out of mere convenience, or something more... sinister? Sinister, as in the word that begins with L?

"I very well may, now that I am down to one willing paramour," Henry responded with a crafty retort, concealing his true thoughts on the matter.

Sabrina was his wife, goddammit, who else should he tup but the woman fate thrust into his life's path with such a ruthless force? She also conveniently resided beneath his roof—what more was there to discuss?! Aye, she can keep the plethora of her lovers, but he ought to come first—always!—and be the chief source of her pleasure.

Yet he knew his approach must be subtle, even sophisticated. Being brutish and full of judgement toward Sabrina had brought them nothing but mutual frustration. His wife, beautiful, shrewd, and fiercely independent, would not be swayed by further displays of his ineptitude, nor be satisfied with how poorly he had treated her in their marriage bed.

A sudden idea struck him.

Turning his gaze to his two steadfast companions, the duke inquired, "What do you ladies do for relief during your monthlies?"

Henry soon found himself jotting down notes, oblivious to Moira and Victoria exchanging knowing glances.

By the time he returned to Windsor, it was well past midnight, and he found Sabrina soundly asleep. The duke had no way of knowing that his wife had narrowly avoided becoming the plaything for a crowd of drunken lords at Jamieson's, which had driven her to seek her bed earlier than usual. The light spilling from his chamber roused her briefly, but as Henry quietly closed the door behind him in his retreat, Sabrina turned to the other side, dismissing the fleeting illumination as a mere part of her vivid dream.

Before the break of dawn, Sabrina was already awake, suffering as her monthly cycle had finally caught up with her, though later than she was accustomed to. The delay had caused her some concern that she might have been with child, but now, she sighed with a mixture of relief and accompanying great discomfort.

When Henry noticed the empty chair in the dining hall and was informed that the duchess had declined to eat her morning repast, he knew the cause of her sudden loss of appetite. He beckoned a footman, gave several instructions, and then made his way to the cellar.

Sabrina stirred at a gentle nudge on her shoulder, which only grew more insistent as she attempted to ignore it. Finally, she opened her eyes to behold Henry's face and sighed.

"This had better be important, or Heaven help me during this wretched time—"

"Come with me," Henry interjected. "I've prepared something to ease your suffering."

"What is it?" Sabrina asked, her eyes fluttering closed once more.

"You shall see soon enough. Don your robe and let me guide you to something that I'm certain you will appreciate, you stubborn mule," Henry insisted.

Or so I hope, he thought silently. When she did not stir further, he pressed her shoulder again with more unyielding force. Sabrina groaned and slowly sat upright.

"What is the meaning of this?! You were not this persistent when it came to matters of intimacy," she grumbled, her brow furrowing, but she rose and reached for her robe, draped over a nearby chair.

Henry observed the languid, listless manner in which his wife moved, but he was determined not to relent. He doubted whether any man had ever made such an effort to tend to her in this way, or that there would be any in the future.

"Where are we going?" she asked irritably as they descended the staircase, but Henry remained tight-lipped, much to her dismay.

They came to a stop before a large door, which he opened with a single motion. A wave of fragrant herbs and warm steam enveloped Sabrina, causing her lips to part in surprise. She was familiar with Roman-style baths and had even visited such establishments in New York, but she had never imagined having a private version of one at home.

Indeed, she bathed upstairs, yet no one had told her of the existence of this marbled chamber with a grand window overlooking the garden, now awakening with the first signs of spring.

The bath—a pool—was fashioned for two occupants, with its waters inviting one to recline comfortably. Chamomile and lavender blossoms floated atop the surface; the refreshing fragrance mingled with the steam rising from heated stones, which sat on a pedestal built into the back wall, protruding slightly into the room. Each wall was dominated by large mosaics using warm colours, and Sabrina noted a similar square motif upon the floor. In every corner stood a gilded sculpture of a Roman deity, lending the bath an air of opulence reminiscent of the grandest spas she had seen.

"I have prepared a bath for you, my wife," Henry remarked, observing her awe. "Chamomile to ease your cramps and lavender to relax both body and mind. I've also added geranium oil and salts to the water, and eucalyptus burns over the stones—all for your comfort."

He gently tugged at the belt of her robe, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Sabrina allowed him to begin undressing her. A soft blush tinted her cheeks, feeling quite ghastly in her current state, bloated as though with child, but the allure of the warm water soon outweighed her shyness. Her second hesitation came as she prepared to remove her pad and the hidden suppository, but Henry, surprisingly gallant as never before, produced a discreet basket for such linens.

When he noticed her hand lingering between her thighs, his brow arched in curiosity. "You need not be shy before me, Sabrina."

"I fear I may drip, and bloodying the mosaic is hardly my wish," she replied, stepping into the bath.

Henry swiftly set the basket aside and offered his hand, acknowledging the flow being a rather unpleasant ordeal to women. It was no wonder his wife appeared so pale and dismissive of sustenance as if she stood on the very brink of death—her pad had been stained, the cloth suppository soaked, and he had glimpsed a few drops of blood on her palm as she steadied herself entering the water. It was a wonder she remained upright at all!

Once submerged, the water rising almost to her chin, the bath's soothing effects took an immediate hold. Her muscles relaxed, and the cramps began to subside. Henry tended to the fragrant oil, pouring the mixture over the heated stones, which sent thick clouds of scented steam swirling across the sunlit room. Then, reclining on his elbow at the pool's edge, he watched his wife with a thoughtful gaze.

He wore a thin, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and pants that were evidently well-worn. Sabrina noted that he was barefoot, like a pauper, though this only lent him a youthful air, especially with his slightly tousled hair and the faint smile playing on his lips. The only thing missing were his spectacles, which he had left at his desk, likely to avoid them misting over in the spa's warmth and dampness.

Sabrina discerned the youthful spirits he displayed that day—a boy who had emerged from hiding to play with her. Yet his game could just as easily bear a sinister edge, for Henry was no boy, but a man who had once vowed never to care for her.

"Tell me, is this how you intend to beg me for sexual favours?" she inquired with a teasing smirk.

They both could play this game and, for reasons she could scarcely explain, the prospect thrilled her.

"Damn, my ruse is as weak as my wife is witty."

He smirked mischievously as he rested his chin upon his hand. It was then Sabrina noticed the prominent bulge in his pants, wondering whether it was a sign of arousal or merely his natural form.

"I thought you would be repulsed at the sight of me," she said softly, her gaze lingering shamelessly upon his groin.

"There is nothing repulsive about you, wife. I believe I made that quite clear during those two occasions when I had you beneath me. You made me ravenous and utterly captivated by your features. I find your form fatally alluring. Does such admission suffice?" Henry inquired, his tone playful and smile lingering.

There was not enough colour on an artist's palette to fill her cheeks as they became ablaze at the flattery, even her heart felt giddy by his proclamation!

A sudden cramp caused Sabrina to shift uncomfortably, and at once Henry recalled the last thing he had prepared for her. Reaching behind, he grasped a glass of red wine that Sabrina had noticed upon her arrival, though she had dismissed it as his drink for the occasion.

"'Tis the prize of conquering them all," Henry said as he extended the glass to her, only to withdraw it just before she could take it. "Before you indulge, know that I have added a potent remedy which will rid you of the pain you now endure, but it may cause you to slumber for half an hour, or perhaps longer."

Her hand darted out for the glass. "I would give a kingdom for such relief."

Henry grinned and handed the glass to his flow-ridden wife, watching with amusement as she downed it all at once. He then took and set the glass aside, reclining beside her at the pool's edge—the intimacy of the moment, and the relaxation of it, stirred his cock gently.

"Are you trying to win my favour?" Sabrina asked suddenly.

"I'm begging for sexual favours, have you forgotten already?" he replied in a teasing tone.

Sabrina sighed as the effects of the mixture began to take hold. "This... this drug works swiftly," she murmured as her eyelids grew heavy.

"Do not resist it. I shall care for you while you rest. Have no fear—I shall not lay a hand upon you."

"Grope away," she mumbled, already halfway into the realm of dreams, "I shan't know."

He chuckled softly, steadfast in refraining from acting upon his desires. There was a faint swell somewhere within him, a conviction, a feeling... or it seemed so... that perhaps, just perhaps... he had earned a small measure of her trust that day.