London, March 1885

Sabrina eagerly dipped the pen into the ink with the intention to write down one of the very last chapters of her novel, but then her attention caught the birds flying behind the windowsill and allowed her thoughts to take off with those critters too.

She could not stop thinking about how unexpectedly generous the duke was the day he made her a herb-infused bath. The scent of eucalyptus got imprinted in her sheets even.

Once Sabrina woke up from her brief slumber, still seated in the pool, she had seen her husband pouring water over the stones to summon thick clouds of steam.

"You're awake," he said, approaching the pool to test its temperature. "You've got mayhap no more than a quarter of an hour left. Then, I shall dry, attire and guide you back to your bed."

The duchess, still somewhat drowsy from sleep, merely nodded in agreement, and later, as she sat upon her bed, Henry had appeared with a tray of buttered bread, just as he had done the first time she was going through her pains.

And again, he fed her, treating her as though she were a helpless child.

"Why do you do all of this for a person you claim not to care about?" Sabrina asked, no longer able to bear the ignorance of the elephant in the room. "Is it purely to persuade me to allow you into my bed?"

"Why, is it working?" he quipped with his brows arched playfully.

She scoffed and shook her head. "It would take an eternity of such care to even begin reconsidering my sentiment!"

"Then I find that a promising prospect," Henry responded, and for a fleeting moment, Sabrina saw the playful boy peeking from within his character once more.

Not only that, she could imagine them sharing a good marriage brimming with love and quips, and perhaps even with the two daughters he so fervently desired.

She blinked twice, dispelling such fantastical foolery and returning to the present day—similar visions were unreachable, and entertaining such musings only tugged at her heart. No, the duchess was clearly not prepared to risk being hurt by his dismissive character, which could return the moment he got satiated with her, or bore his child before at least the very minimal affection was formed between her and the man she was bound to by sheer folly of their fathers. Nor was she prepared to face the sting of his possible rejection due to her impairment.

Sabrina caught sight of a figure in her peripheral vision, which startled her, as it often did. She dropped the dip pen, ruining the parchment she had intended to fill with words.

"Hopefully you haven't spoiled an important letter," Henry said as he approached her closely. "I knocked, but you did not respond, so I allowed myself to enter just to ascertain whether you were here."

"If I'm not responding, then perhaps I seek uninterrupted solitude," she snapped with such a vigour that Henry's brow furrowed at the sudden hostility.

Sabrina regretted her tone the moment the words left her lips, but alas, they couldn't be taken back, hence she cleared her throat and inquired with a more amiable voice, "What may I do for you, Henry?"

"I received a note, and I'm here to inform you that tonight we are to visit your lover's abode—we've been invited to a charity event, followed by an unofficial gathering."

Henry knew damn well what such an informal gathering entailed, but remained tight lipped, curious about his wife's reaction once it dawned on her.

"Jamieson's?" she asked, to which he countered, "Do you perhaps have another lover I'm unaware of?"

She did not. In truth, Lord Jamieson got snubbed by her ever since Damon revealed the true nature of her paramour's character and their clandestine liaison. Yet, this was hardly something to proudly boast about to her husband, was it?

Sabrina shook her head and placed the pen back into the inkwell. "I'm only surprised we are attending an event, given that we are still in mourning."

The duke nodded. "We shall arrive late, just in time for the final hour of the charity, to demonstrate that the Duke and Duchess of Grantchester remain generous despite their circumstances. Most of the nobles will likely leave by the event's end, but those who stay will form a more intimate circle, where we may mingle without concern for propriety. Mainly my good friend, Miss Moira Haggarty, is particularly eager to make you acquaintance."

Moira! Sabrina's eyes flickered with a new light. And the informal setting sounded like the perfect opportunity to find herself a new lover, or two! She needed to, otherwise there was a real risk for her to see something in her husband, something likely born as a result of her wild imagination and wishful thinking...

But as they approached Jamieson's residence, Sabrina felt the first stirrings of apprehension. The only thing that could betray her tonight was her infirmity, and she prayed fervently that it would not come to such a dire revelation at this gathering.

"Before we enter, a quick reminder—we are still in mourning and likely the only members of ducal rank here. Even if we stay for the latter part of the evening, I suggest we refrain from getting frisky and intimate with anyone, tempting as it may be," Henry warned her, to which she nodded, allowing him to take her arm as they made their way towards the entrance.

Arthur was quick to welcome them once they entered the ballroom, though Sabrina could not miss the worried glance he directed at Henry, nor the questioning look he cast upon her. It was apparent he harboured questions aplenty, and the opportunity to ask them came rather quickly.

"Your Grace, if you wish to make a donation, kindly follow my dear friend, Lord Thylaine, to the drawing room, as he is the one overseeing the accounts."

Baron Thylaine, having greeted the ducal pair alongside the host, took Henry with him.

"Why did you cease your visits?" Arthur inquired without much preamble, his disappointment evident in his voice.

Sabrina's brow furrowed gently. "Must I truly elaborate?"

"Indeed, you must," he replied spiritedly, his voice lowered. "Forgive me for placing you in danger, but I swear I had no idea the hunting party would arrive a day earlier than expected!"

"So that is all? Nothing more comes to mind for which you owe me an apology? Any chance you recall your deft manipulations, or the false pretences under which you lured me into your bed?"

Arthur frowned at her accusation, parting his lips to answer, but all of sudden, a melodic female voice interrupted him.

"My dear Arthur, is it whom I think it is?"

Jamieson took a deep breath, then turned to acknowledge the lady. "Your Grace, allow me to introduce to you one of my esteemed friends and benefactors, Miss Moira Haggarty. Miss Haggarty, this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Grantchester, Lady Sabrina Clarke."

The women shook their hands politely, and Arthur quickly excused himself, taking his leave with the utmost courtesy. Moira, all smiles and glee at finally meeting the one lady her paramour couldn't seem to satisfy for anything in this world, beckoned towards the rear of the ballroom.

"Your Grace, I beg you to follow me over there," she indicated a grand Grecian column. "It hardly befits one to have a public quarrel with one's lover," Moira added conspiratorially, winking at the duchess.

Sabrina inhaled sharply through her teeth in indignation, but then again—why should she be surprised her that Henry and Moira would discuss such private matters, given their decades-long friendship? Hence, she followed the bold miss, hoping to glean some insight into the darling she had married. Perhaps Moira would be more than inclined to spill a secret or two, her cheeks vividly crimson, betraying the miss' slightly inebriated state.

"He is no longer my lover," Sabrina said as she accepted a glass of wine that Moira snatched from a passing servant's tray.

"Good, for you deserve someone far more formidable than a mere bawdy poet—someone with more... edge, if you understand me," Miss Haggarty replied with a mischievous gleam, casting an appraising glance over Sabrina's figure from head to toe. "If I may suggest, you should aim for Mr. Gray, though he is... exclusive goods, shall we say."

The duchess took a sip from her glass, not entirely sure what to think of a man being compared to an item one would buy at a shop, when her gaze fell upon Henry conversing with some woman. It appeared that he and Thylaine had yet to reach the drawing room, their endeavour being halted by acquaintances. Even from a distance, Sabrina noticed the lady was much younger than herself, and the differences did not end there—she was also shorter, slender, and blonde; simply put, she was a complete opposite to Sabrina. Also, it was all too clear the woman fancied the duke, as evidenced by her touches on his arm here and there, on top of the smiles and yearning glances beneath long fluttering lashes.

"I must confess, I'm unfamiliar with Mr. Gray," Sabrina heard herself say, forcing her gaze to be torn off her husband and the lady who might soon become his next paramour.

"I haven't chanced to see the gentleman yet, but he is known to arrive only for the latter part of the evening," Moira replied, offering Sabrina another playful wink. "He's raising three children at present, so I daresay he's quite tightfisted with his purse strings currently."

Moira then leaned in closer to Sabrina, her fan raised to conceal the view of her lush lips from any prying eyes. "Got a strong seed, that one, should Henry prove unwilling."

Sabrina's brows furrowed, finding the remark somewhat offensive. "Why would my husband be unwilling, though?"

At that moment, another figure appeared besides Moira.

"Ah, my dearest!" Miss Haggarty exclaimed, introducing Lady Victoria Bellamy to Sabrina.

The duchess cast a brief glance at Lady Bellamy, quickly assessing the woman to be of a rather timid and shy character.

"Oh, I did not mean unwilling unwilling, of course, I simply refer to your... troubles in the marital bed," Moira said, without familiarising Victoria with the topic of conversation. "Which I find quite incomprehensible, as Henry is quite the lover—very focused on a woman's pleasure, and being exceptionally skilled at it."

Lady Bellamy's expression turned slightly sour as she observed that her friend's boldness and impertinence was the result of liberal imbibing of wine, which might have further loosened her tongue and revealed all manner of unpleasant information to Sabrina, who might well take offence, and rightly so.

"Is there anything else I ought to know about my husband?" Sabrina inquired, her tone growing sharp.

It seemed Henry was perfectly capable of pleasing any other woman but his lawful wife. And for some reason, this realisation struck her like a blow to the chest, as though she were somehow unworthy of such attention. As though he withheld from her what he so willingly bestowed upon others, for some cruel or malignant reason.

Sabrina's mind appealed her not to be unreasonable, nor unfair to Henry, for he had shown her tenderness and attentiveness on more than one occasion; after all, it was she who had barred the door to her husband, putting his further attempts at intimacy to a halt. However, if there was a pitfall in her character—a trap to which she often fell—it was being poisoned by the very venom she had administered to herself; feeding a vicious, never-ending cycle of a highly addictive habit.

"Aye, when he came to my house right after the New Year, I told him to imagine you being tupped by another gentleman, and when I grasped his manhood, he spent his seed near instantly. Which means, methinks, that the poor fellow is utterly besotted with you, Your Grace."

Another sharp pang struck Sabrina's chest, this one more piercing than before. Because—if her quick reckoning was correct—they had not come to their arrangement until much later in January. Now, she was certain—he must have known all along, Henry must have planned it from the very beginning, that he would cast her aside as his wife and continue his affairs.

His words, spoken in the drawing room when they met for the very first time, were not simply the outburst of an angry, wounded man, who suddenly found himself in a life-altering predicament and burdened with responsibilities he never sought. No, Sabrina could see them for what they were now—a deep seated convictions of a man who had resolved, from the outset, never to give his marriage, nor his wife, a true chance.

"Moira, that's quite enough!" Victoria scolded, taking the glass from her friend's hand as Moira scowled in return.

They began to bicker, though Sabrina paid them no mind. Her eyes searched for Henry across the room, and she found him still in the company of that fair-haired young woman. But once her gaze returned to Moira and Victoria for a brief moment, an instant, cruel revelation gripped her heart, nearly crushing it into a mass of black nothing.

Moira, Victoria, and that wench Henry now conversed with—they were all petite, slender blondes. Even that fucking Caroline Clarke, a harridan nonpareil, had been of the very same sort.

I never stood a chance, did I? Sabrina asked herself inwardly, her hand tightening the grasp around her glass.

She threw it to the ground in a surge of unparalleled anger, accompanied by a cry of fury, which compelled everyone to turn and regard the myriad of shards adorning the floor akin to a starry sky; their faces clearly appalled at the madwoman who had done this.

But she tossed that confounded glass only in her imagination; outwardly, she maintained her calm, though her heaving bosom betrayed the chaos within.

"My apologies for my friend, Your Grace," Victoria said to the duchess, being acutely aware of the storm of the century brewing in Sabrina's soul, based on the pallor covering her face and the darkness spread in her eyes.

"No harm done," Sabrina replied with a faint smile, though her eyes refused to participate in this charade by becoming quite watery with unshed tears. "I greatly appreciate Miss Haggarty's efforts to inform me of my husband's... vices. Now, if you will excuse me, ladies."

Victoria observed Sabrina's stiff back as she exited the ballroom, then turned to Moira, who was pouting over the confiscation of her wine. "What in heaven's name do you think you're doing?!" Victoria verbally leaped at her akin to an enraged hound, barely restraining her voice.

"She has a right to know, doesn't she? You, of all people, with your propensity to truth and honesty, should understand," Moira retorted with a slurred defiance, then hiccuped.

Her friend scoffed, her expression hardening. "All I see is your jealousy that Henry did not choose you—not now, not in a decade, nor he ever will. You would stoop to any depth to drive a wedge between him and his wife to keep them apart, wouldn't you?"

Moira's eyes widened, her lover's admonishment having quite a sobering effect. "That's not true, Vicky!"

"See yourself to some water before you make the biggest fool of yourself this evening, you foolish hussy!"

Victoria then shook her head, and turned on her heel, taking her leave in a brisk, determined manner. Moira's eyes darted around nervously, checking to see whether anyone stood witness to their heated altercation, but thankfully, no one seemed overly interested in the ongoing drama between a widow and a spinster.

Meanwhile, Sabrina wandered through a softly lit corridor, without any sense of where she was headed, driven by a singular need—to escape the suffocating crowd, and especially her damned husband, the core of her torment. Eventually, she came to the end of her path and entered the first door on her left, closing it with a soft thud.

Candles flickered throughout the room; in fact, there were so many of them it felt almost like a place of worship to her, although she quickly realised it was likely a guest bedchamber, with a large canopied bed in the corner of that spacious room. For some reason, the sight of this piece of furniture gave her goosebumps all over her body, but she decided to stay, no matter what might come, or who might have revealed her presence in this place; after all, she had always been crafty with excuses.

Sabrina let out a pained sigh, closing her eyes as tears spilled over her cheeks, which she wiped them way with swift indignation. Her husband dearest—whatever were his intentions behind the pretence of care—deserved not a single tear from her. No, he was unworthy of her touch, unworthy of her trust, and unworthy of any intimacy. If only Henry said the plain truth, the painful, brutal, obvious truth—that he could not sustain in bed with her because she was not to his taste... But no, he resorted to deceit. Cruel, cold one at that.

There would be no more toying with her heart and mind.

She would wager that the bloody prick was maliciously amused, laughing at her in secret. To have her inquire whether he was doing all these acts of care for renewed intimacy, knowing full well he was only setting her feelings for a cruel awakening. He must have been thinking of one of his fair-haired favourites when he was in his wife's company.

"Fatally alluring my arse," Sabrina murmured bitterly into the quietude of the room.

The duchess felt stupid, idiotic beyond belief. Her chest constricted painfully within the confines of the stays under the black mourning gown, her heart aching from the wounds caused by the revelations she had learned thus far.

I indeed care very little about you, nor will I ever care about you at all.

Henry had spoken those very words—the truth—on the day they met for the very first time. Everything that followed from his lips later on had been his manipulation, and cunning tactic to ensure that things between them would proceed in accordance to his will. And his desire to father nay sons? That, too, could be attributed to his disdain for her, a woman who did not match the image of a petite, slender and fair lady he would have preferred to continue his lineage with. And perhaps, all this while, he had been in love with someone else, this someone being permanently beyond his reach. All the pieces now fell into place, revealing a mosaic that Sabrina could scarcely bear to gaze upon due to its horrifying design.

Fucking amiability, she pondered bitterly, exhaling with frustration as she briefly pressed her fingers to her temples. I'm wed to a dreadful, dreadful man.

She sighed once more and resolved not to sulk in the room further, for anyone might come looking for her—perhaps Henry himself—and Sabrina didn't wish to make a fool of herself at this event by succumbing to despair. The pretence must be maintained, though back at home she would unleash the inferno upon him, that much she vowed. No longer would she spare him the full weight of her scorching thoughts about his corrupted nature, which he had kept to her conscience thus far.

Just the very second she intended to turn, though, a pair of strong hands encircled her body like some tight hoop appearing out of nowhere. She gasped, parting her lips to scream, but a hand swiftly covered her mouth, making it impossible to do so.