London, March 1885

While Lady Clifton was, indeed, a charming woman whose flirtations certainly did not go unnoticed by Henry—feminine interest had long held sway over his masculine vanity, and God knew he got it in spades—she nevertheless struck him as perhaps too intimidating for his taste; and soon he reconsidered his fleeting thoughts of making her his next mistress. Not that he tossed his intentions of wooing his own wife aside—quite far from it—but he had to protect his aloof heart at all costs, did he not?

There was too great of a chance that he might encourage feelings he would rather avoid—Henry had witnessed many a man, his father included, chewed up and spat out for becoming weak fools in love.

Yet he couldn't resist glancing at his wife, who was standing in the back with Moira; his Duchess of Grantchester who, to his critical eye, possessed the greatest, finest rack in the ballroom. Certainly—to Henry's delight and amusement—Sabrina's appearance was nothing short of utterly enthralling despite the fiendish mourning gown she had to don due to the damned customs. The duchess attracted many subtle glances directed at her by gentlemen of varying age and rank, which stirred a strange sense of pride in Henry. The pride that stemmed from being married to a beauty who managed to sway so much interest in her wake.

However, he also had to remind himself that if she so wished, those same gentlemen would follow her like bewitched lambs to slaughter at the mere snap of her fingers, and that knowledge made him furrow his brow for a moment.

Hopefully he won't have to queue for his own wife's favour!

During a momentary distraction, when Lady Clifton's attention got diverted by another gentleman within their circle, Henry chanced another glance at Sabrina and saw the moment she took her leave of Moira's and Victoria's company, presumably heading for a refreshment to a withdrawing room. On second glance later, he observed that Moira had been joined by a gentleman wearing the most ostentatious feather in his hat—likely from an ostrich. And as if nudged by fate, Henry's gaze met that of the stranger. The man gave him a deep, arrogant stare, the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk, as if privy to some secret Henry had yet to discover.

"Grantchester, if we linger in this idle chatter, we may forego of your pledge to the good cause," Thylaine's voice broke through, drawing Henry's focus back to his earlier charitable endeavour.

Once the pecuniary deed in the drawing room was concluded, Henry hurried back to the ballroom, only to be immediately approached by Moira.

"Methinks I've made a grievous mistake," she proclaimed in a strained voice, subtly guiding him aside.

"What mistake? Besides that I discern you imbibed a lot more than is wise," Henry asked, his eyes scanning the ballroom in his search for any sign of Sabrina.

"I have indeed drank more than I should, and told your wife about the time when I asked you to think of her, leading you to spill in your pants," she blabbed quickly. "Also, it seems Victoria broke our relation."

Henry's brows furrowed deeply. "Why on earth would you tell Sabrina about that?!"

He barely contained his anger that soared with his friend's confession.

"She deserved to know," Moira defended her actions, though her speech was slurred. "And you, too, deserve to know something else."

"What is it, woman?!" he snapped.

Henry could only imagine the depth of Sabrina's anger, knowing well that even his best guesses still fell short of the reality, as confirmed by her sudden departure from the ballroom. He had to find her and explain himself before his plans to seduce her were thwarted for good.

"I love you, Henry. I've loved you since I first noticed you at the coffee house, and I'm convinced you harbour the same sentiments for me," Moira proclaimed, ending with a hiccup.

Grantchester could only scowl at his friend in silence, though after a moment, he managed a reply, "Moira, you're deeper in your cups than a seasoned sea captain. You surely cannot mean what you say, and we have already discussed this. I know at one point you believed yourself in love with me."

She groaned, her frustration palpable. "Yes, and thank you for that reminder, as if I need it! But I'm losing Vicky over this—she's convinced it's true and nothing I say seems to change her mind, perhaps only had I severed our friendship, it might!"

"Do you truly desire a lover who is obsessively jealous of me?" Henry inquired wearily. "I daresay she has done you a great favour by leaving, besides, you often boast of your supposed two wives and a husband—what need do you have of Victoria, exactly?"

Miss Haggarty began to regret confiding her heart's woes to a man as cold and aloof as Henry. She opened her mouth to object, but her intention was interrupted by the arrival of two new gentlemen and a lady, much to Henry's dismay. As a newly minted duke and a well-known figure from his days as an archaeologist in the field, he was expected to be received by society in one fell swoop, so any abrupt departure in search of his missing wife might fuel some unwelcome rumours.

After all, she had not been gone that long, had she?

"And where, pray tell, is you charming wife?" asked the lady.

"I'm certain she has gone to the withdrawing room and will return shortly," Henry replied confidently, though the lady raised her brows in mild surprise.

"I've just come from there, and I assure you it was quite empty during my stay," she responded.

The duke cursed inwardly. "Ah, then she must've sought fresh air in the winter garden."

"I do believe this estate has no winter garden," remarked one of the gentlemen.

Henry drew a deep breath, attempting to formulate yet another excuse for Sabrina's absence, but fortunately, his salvation came at the most opportune time. Lord Jamieson called for everyone's attention, informing about the informal event that was about to begin and encouraging guests to decide whether to remain or depart.

The lady and gentlemen in Henry's circle drifted away with polite apologies on their lips, hence he took the opportunity to corner the host of the event and have him to himself. As the duke approached Jamieson, the man visibly paled and gulped almost simultaneously.

"Where is my wife?" Henry growled in a low voice.

"At the far end of the main corridor, behind the left-hand door, though I'd strongly advise against going there, Your Grace," Arthur stammered, his voice uncertain.

Henry took a step forth but paused, turning back to the host. "What happened? You and my wife," he added, observing the brief flicker of apprehension in the lord's face.

"I'm afraid your wife fell prey to a gentleman with a seduction prowess far superior to all of London's greatest charmers combined," Jamieson responded defensively. "I swear, I haven't wronged her in any manner."

"You'd better not have," Henry remarked before taking his leave.

As he entered the dimly lit corridor, a strange sensation prickled his awareness, as if he were being observed by unseen eyes, though he dismissed it and continued on to the destination of his purposeful stride.

The eyes of a satyr gleamed in the shadows, a wicked grin of sharp teeth curling beneath.

Opening the door to the chamber, Henry found Sabrina sitting on the bed, her face flushed and her posture tense. He sighed in relief, but was immediately greeted by her fury.

"You goddamned flapdoodle! Useless hornswoggler! Vazey ratbag!" she hissed, her voice being the sharpest of the blades.

Henry's brows shot up in astonishment, nearly disappearing into his hairline. Sabrina's chest heaved, as though she had more venom to unleash, but then halted in sudden realisation—when had she become so English?!

"Are you finished, or shall I fetch a lexicon of vulgarities for you?" he taunted, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Do, and I shall shove it right up your arse!" she snapped.

It was clear as day that she was seething with rage, though the reason had yet to be confirmed. His eyes quickly surveyed the room, noting the small holes in the wall, then Sabrina's discarded clothing strewn beneath. Henry's gaze narrowed as he approached the wall, peeking through to find Lady Shrewsbury straddling her husband's cock while Lord Galway, standing aside, partook in debauchery by stroking his shaft. It was hardly a surprise—an open secret that these particular individuals indulged in such trysts and threesomes whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Henry stooped to retrieve the painting and rehung it, covering the holes, then stooped again to gather his wife's discarded garments. He placed them on the bed, only for them to fall once more to the floor, then sat besides Sabrina, his angered lioness flaring with temper so vividly it seemed she might bite him at any moment.

"Is it common in America to spy on others during their amorous pursuits?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement.

Her lips curled into a mocking smile. "Ah, there is nothing that cannot be excused by my origins, is there? She is uncouth—because she's American. She bares her emotions freely—because she's American. Her mind works working counter-clockwise—because she's American. She must be mad, wanton even—because she's American!"

"Who feeds your mind with such nonsense?! You're speaking gammon and spinach, Sabrina."

"Feeds me?! No one need to feed me anything," she retorted, her face flushing as her thoughts immediately flicked to the vision of Damon's spurting cock in her mouth and her swallowing his product, causing her to blush anew. "And the best part? It's all true! I'm fucking depraved, Grantchester," she declared with a scoff.

Sabrina's wrath surged unchecked with the need for retaliation, and nothing seemed to halt its course. "What do you know—I may have sucked cocks in every parlor in New York. I may have had men break their tongues on my cunt while I writhed in pleasure. Yes, this is the woman you wed—a ravenous harlot with needs no different from your own."

His brows arched again. "That's a bold statement, coming from someone who, not so long ago, was a virgin."

"And I find it fucking audacious that you would make me feel less adequate than your mistresses. Yes, Miss Haggarty enjoys gossip and spilling secrets, and she's such a strong, beautiful, independent woman—I daresay, given her self-assuredness, she would hardly entertain wasting her time with what you have provided me thus far in our marriage bed. Well, Grantchester, let me tell you something! I, too, am a strong, self-sufficient woman, and I have no need for your pity, manipulation and deceit!"

Henry's gaze narrowed. "I cannot recall ever pitying you, though I may indeed have done things to find my way between your sheets, if only to prove you that I'm not the incapable man you think me. As for deceit, I am lost at your accusation—when have I lied to you?"

"You demand me not to be intimate with anyone tonight, and yet you steal away to a chamber with that blonde harlot? Do not try to convince me you weren't having intercourse with her."

Sabrina's voice faltered, as if defeated, and she struggled to meet her husband's eyes—her apparent distress stirred something deep within him. Gently, Henry reached out and lifted her chin, guiding her gaze to his own.

"The closest I came to having sex tonight was imagining my cock between your magnificent tits."

She shoved his hand away in indignation. "More lies, Henry? It is your prerogative to sleep with other women, but do not expect me to sit idly by and not do the same with men."

The duke shook his head. "Why on earth would I lie to you if such were the case, to what avail? We have an agreement, Sabrina, there is no good reason for me to be an arse about it. Indeed, Lady Clifton tried her best to become my mistress, but I decided not to take her up on her offer."

Her face betrayed her disinclination to trust his words.

Henry continued, "At least five witnesses can vouch that I was in their company in the ballroom tonight, so who told you I went to have sex with that woman? Blast it, with so many eyes on me tonight, I doubt I could even breathe without being noticed, let alone sneak out so easily!"

A pair of golden eyes flashed before Sabrina briefly, causing her to swallow hard.

Idiot, Sabrina, you are a crowned idiot for believing yet another stranger so easily.

"It is of no consequence," she replied, turning her gaze aside once more.

Henry could be an idiot on occasion too, but where his wife's well-being was concerned, he was not. "I'd wager it was that scoundrel who brought you here. Jamieson told me the man is a veritable Lothario, a debauchee nonpareil. Do you even know the fellow's name?"

"I do," Sabrina replied defiantly, but could not hold his piercing blue gaze for more than a fleeting moment.

"Did you take any precaution against disease or... conception?"

The silence spoke for her.

"Christ, Sabrina," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I hope you understand that becoming with child is among the least of your concerns at present."

She knew it—oh, how painfully aware she was of the possibilities, but what was done, could not be undone. The knowledge left her numb, the thought that she might carry another man's child despite his conclusion had been in her mouth. It was the second most opportune outcome of her reckless behaviour, after remaining both childless and free of diseases.

Thus, when Sabrina felt the blanket slowly pulled from her, revealing her nude form to Henry's gaze, she made no move to cover herself or shy away from his scrutiny.

"I do not wish any harm or sickness upon you," he said in a voice that could barely hide his growing arousal as he gently touched one of her nipples and observed as it hardened to a tiny peak. "You are still my wife and you will remain one until my last breath."

Sabrina felt her heart racing as he finished speaking.

"Would you be so bold as to tell me what he did to you? Was he any good at all? For future reference, of course," he continued, a roguish glint in his eye.

Henry couldn't think about unpleasant things that may have happened or may still happen to his wife, particularly not when she was laid bare in front of him, otherwise he would probably find himself screaming, throwing and breaking everything in his vicinity. No, he had to keep his mind occupied in order to maintain his sanity intact for the most part.

Sabrina observed as Henry freed his cock from the confines of his pants and began to stroke it gently, causing her to lick her lips. It was madness, and they were both equally mad to reach for intimacy as if it were an ointment to heal all their hurts and disappointments, but how could one resist its potency?

Thus, she began to recount her nocturnal meeting with her lover, leaving no detail unsaid sans the name of her seducer as Henry gently toyed with her tits. Her husband didn't once interrupt her effort, but rather basked in the sight of her body and her masterful storytelling, reaching his climax when she concluded with the description of Damon licking his come off her.

Henry breathed quickly, taking shallow breaths and time to regain his composure, then grasped the hem of Sabrina's mourning gown, which he happened to be spurting generously over, to clean his shaft of the spunk that trickled down his glans. Her eyes widened with the realisation he had soiled her clothes.

"That's my gown!" she exclaimed in dismay.

"My gratitude, my dear, how fortuitous. Now, let us see you properly dressed again," he said in a voice dripping with indifference.

Sabrina scoffed in disbelief. "Surely you jest! It's ruined!"

"Why, it suits your character perfectly, I daresay."

Before she could kick him in the ribs, he swiftly rose from the bed, evading her attempt.

"Prick!" she growled.

"Wagtail," he countered. "Shall I assist you in dressing, or do you wish to parade about in nothing but your chemise?"

Her glare was full of daggers aiming at his head—much to his amusement—but then she sighed, reluctantly yielded and allowed him to help her dress and even attempt to fix her coiffure, though it was a far cry from impeccable.

When they returned to the ballroom, most of the guests were gone, though a few stragglers remained, flocking to the duke and duchess with curiosity in their eyes and wealth of unspoken questions.

"Apologies," Henry began, his thick tone and benevolent face betraying his smug satisfaction, "but as you know, ours is a rather newly-forged union, and at times the fire proves difficult to rein in."

Lady Horton chuckled, glancing knowingly between them. "Ah, I see, Grantchester. One can only hope that soon we might hear of the joyous tidings that an impending heir to the duchy is upon us." She then turned to Sabrina with a smile. "And my dear, I must commend your choice of perfume—what a lovely scent!"

Sabrina's cheeks flared up with embarrassment, and she wished fervently that she and Henry took their leave very soon. It felt as though she were drowning in his essence, yet as if he sensed his wife's discomfort—or perhaps even revelled in it—Henry continued to introduce her to the plethora of acquaintances he had made during her absence.

The duchess knew well enough that her duke was deliberately and subtly humiliating her for what she had done, and God knew they were far from the simple fellows joined in an ordinary marriage, thus his conduct was hardly unexpected.

Suddenly, she recognised the hat adorned with an ostrich feather, though the gentleman stood with his back to her, conversing with none other than Moira Haggarty. Upon noticing Henry and Sabrina, Moira beckoned them to join her.

"Your Graces, may I introduce Mr. Damon Gray?"

Henry immediately recognised the man he regarded as a potential threat, and he also did not miss the faint smile or the hunger in Mr. Gray's eyes as they scrutinised his wife.

A quick glance at Sabrina's slightly flushed face only confirmed his suspicion—this was the scoundrel who manipulated her into yielding to his advances.

"What an intriguing choice of fragrance, Lady Grantchester! So... musky! Pray, do you recall what it is?" Moira exclaimed, masking her nervousness with brimming enthusiasm.

"Damned if I knew," Sabrina muttered sarcastically under her breath, but aloud, she replied a far more proper answer.

Damon, too, seemed to notice the scent, and Henry caught the narrowed gaze the man cast his direction. Though the words remained unspoken, the sentiment in his eyes was clear:

The message has been received, but it shall not keep me from her.

The growing tension between the trio was palpable to everyone except Moira, who, still in her deep cups, continued her long monologue, while Damon kept ogling Sabrina, particularly her rack, much to Henry's mounting dismay.

At certain point, Sabrina caught Henry's eye with a silent plea.

Please, please, please, let us depart. Now.

Suddenly, Mr. Gray extended his hand discreetly, his palm revealing several white pills. "Your Grace, one of these may help soothe your nerves."

"What are they?" Sabrina asked, her curiosity momentarily piqued.

"Drugs. You shall not take any of those," Henry said firmly, gently clasping her hand that reached towards one of the pills, urging her to decline the offer.

The last thing he needed at the moment was for his wife's whoring tendencies to be multiplied by some questionable substance by the knave who had her at his will.

"You wouldn't allow yourself and your dear wife an hour or two of merriment?" Damon asked with a smirk.

Henry smiled coolly. "I must decline. My wife is weary, and we must return home."

"Ah, what a shame, He—Your Grace!" Moira exclaimed, taking one of the pills from Damon's hand. "Hopefully next time you will be more amenable to new experiences."

"Maybe. Good rest of the evening, Miss Haggarty. Mr. Gray."

Henry didn't wait for Sabrina to offer her farewells, nor did he intend to seek out Jamieson to inform him of their leave. For their first outing as a ducal pair, it had been quite enough.

The ballroom, now filled with scantily clad dancers moving to the rhythm of the tambourine, became a scene of ever-growing licentiousness as the women teased each other to reveal their most intimate parts. As Sabrina attempted to slow her pace to take in their sensual movements for a fleeting moment, Henry murmured close to her ear,

"Once undressed, they are auctioned off for intercourse with the winning benefactors and the proceeds will go to the evening's charity."

"How... generous," was her dry reply.

In the carriage on the way home, Sabrina couldn't help but regard her husband's contemplative gaze staring absently ahead.

"You can be so cruel, Henry."

Her words drew him from his reverie, and his eyes met hers.

"As can you, darling."