London, March 1885

A boy dashed through the rear entrance doors into the garden, calling, "Missy! Missy! Come to me, Missy!"

But his pet did not turn up, causing the little boy's heart flutter with growing sense of fear that something awful had befallen to his dear furry friend.

"Missy? Missy!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Cease this ruckus at once, Henry!" his mother's sharp voice called from the window. "Mrs. Flinch has called upon us! Stop immediately or else...!"

Was the window on the ground floor or the first? It mattered not anymore.

The next scene saw a disheartened Henry trudging back to his nursery room, only to find the most hideous of all sights—his little ginger kitten lying on his bed, its head twisted back at an unnatural angle. Its little beady eyes were wide open in a frozen terror, utterly devoid of life.

The boy screamed.

Then another scene followed, his older brother punching him in the face, then kicking him violently in the stomach as he fell to the ground.

"It was just a dumb cat! Why can't you die, Henry, why?!" Andrew shouted.

Evening had embraced the country and the mansion—was it in Gravesend or Windsor? Did it matter at all?

Henry noticed a faint light emanating from behind the slightly ajar door of his father's study. He crept closer, hearing the voices from within.

"Richard, there is something deeply wrong with Andrew, you must've noticed it too! His behaviour is becoming truly alarming!"

"Nonsense, Giles!" Regina snapped at her brother-in-law. "You know very well that the main instigator of trouble is Henry, always has been! That boy is so wild—I shudder to think of the man will he grow up to be!"

Henry felt a presence in the corridor—he was no longer the sole eavesdropper on the elders' discussion. As the Lucifer himself had sent him, it was Andrew standing to his brother's right, his eyes shining strangely in the pale moonlight, and his skin a grisly shade of green and blue. Something glimmered in his hand—a small dagger.

"Run," Andrew hissed viciously, then grinned, revealing two sets of spiky teeth.

Henry awoke, drenched in his sweat, his heart beating frantically and his breathing shallow. He rolled out of bed and sat on its edge, feeling blindly in the dark for the glass of water he usually kept on his nightstand. Taking slow sips, he tried to overcome the feelings of hurt, fear and helplessness that clung to him like a cobbler's glue, seemingly permanent and painful to get rid of. One would think that the aftermath of his nightmares would lessen with time, but sadly, the opposite seemed to be true. And as his gaze settled upon the connecting door, a fresh tide of paranoia swept over his soul.

He had to go to her room—he had to ascertain she was still there, still breathing.

Once Henry recognised Sabrina's peaceful face illuminated by the faint moonlight, and observed her stir beneath the sheets as if troubled by some unsettling dream, a profound sense of relief washed over his entire body and mind.

Good God, let her be with child at worst, I cannot imagine her gone, nor her death. I can wholly accept even a bastard, but not her loss, I implore you.

It dawned on him all of sudden, as if a divine force had struck him over the head with a stone right then and there. It had happened, the change he had been avoiding for so long.

He cared.

There was no other reason for him to be so protective of his wife, so anxious for her well-being, to the point that his heart imploded at the thought of her passing, and perhaps he has been that caring for quite some time now, unconsciously.

Fuck. Fuck this agreement, I should have foreseen this. I should've expected Sabrina to make mistakes. She's too innocent to navigate her desires utterly unaided.

There would be no mistakes in the future, that much he had sworn to himself. And as for Damon Gray, he resolved to reach out to his contacts in order to make discreet inquiries and learn everything about the man, so he could warn Sabrina of his true nature and, ideally, keep him as far away from her as possible.

Oh, aye, he could break the agreement, and he had certainly contemplated the possibility, but it wouldn't resolve their marital issues, would it? Evidently, they were both too stubborn and too wounded by past experiences to communicate properly, thus, Henry felt an innate need to resort to a different, much more unconventional venues to gain Sabrina's trust, once his anger had abated.

If it could be done at all.

Sabrina was acutely aware of Henry's continued displeasure with her since their return from Jamieson's damned event. It was the third day since, and for three days he had offered her nothing but icy indifference, if not outright ridicule. What came as a further surprise to her—though she couldn't decide whether it was a welcome change or not—was that she now took her meals alone in the great dining hall.

Lone soul in the morning, a sole person in the afternoon, and a single existence in the evening.

At first, she wondered if the rest of the family had departed altogether, but then she crossed paths with several of Henry's cousins, along with their spouses and children, and while they were by no means hostile to Sabrina, they also did not exactly radiate warmth towards her person either—not when they were convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that she had deliberately shunned them.

And the duchess herself was at a loss as to whether this was Henry's way of punishing her, or if she had truly fallen out of his favour for good. Barely able to catch a glimpse of her husband, he deflected all her attempts at conversation with a barely a word, citing his ducal responsibilities and pressing calls from important figures among London's ton.

His avoidant behaviour only caused this strange hurt to envelop her heart, as she fought teeth and nail against the sentiments of great desertion, plunging into writing.

Three chapters remained to be written before she could send her manuscript across the sea to Rodney's printing house. At the thought of her best friend, Sabrina realised the mounting pile of correspondence she had yet to reply to—her family were quite prolific letter writers, though for Sabrina, composing letters was currently a far more dreadful task.

If there was one thing that Sabrina loathed from the depths of her heart, it was the pretence she was forced to keep up with her loved ones, having to feign a lot of contentment in her letters, as to not give them any causes for concern regarding her well-being.

On the seventh day, she could at least proclaim that her latest novel, Tempting The Hermit, was complete, including with the necessary revisions. For some inexplicable reason, however, the usual satisfaction of such an accomplishment eluded her spirits. As she laid down her pen, Sabrina sighed and buried her weary face in her palms.

No, I cannot indulge in self-pity now, she thought.

The weather beckoned her to leave the shell that was her bedroom, and thus, she dressed in her daily attire and took leave of her chamber. As Sabrina descended the grand staircase, she nearly collided with Caroline Clarke emerging from a side corridor.

"Apologies," they said in unison, exchanging an awkward glance, but when Sabrina moved to continue on her way, Caro barred her path once more.

"Excuse me, Lady Grantchester, I wished to offer my thanks—you know, for stopping your husband from sending me back to my family."

"Ah, my husband mentioned that you sought to convey such sentiments the other day. It is of no consequence, really," Sabrina replied cordially and tried to pass her, but Caroline stepped in her way again.

"Why? You could have crushed me under the sole of your boot, as you once swore you would, and yet you haven't."

There was no malice nor disdain in Caroline's fair green eyes, just candid curiosity.

Sabrina cast a faint smile as she replied, "Well, perhaps I have seen how miserable you are, Lady Clarke. It would hardly be Christian of me to add to your mountain of misery, would it?"

Caro returned the smile. "I'm aware that I may be overstepping with my words, but I see something of myself in you—a part of me that withered not long after I joined this madhouse and allowed the spirit of the Clarkes to taint my soul. I fear, Your Grace, that the same may be happening to you."

Sabrina's expression faltered. She parted her lips to retort, but Caroline interjected, "You're as miserable as a puppy cast out into the cold of winter. I tried to warn you, I truly did, but you seemed so ruthless and sure of yourself at the time. One has to suppose that even the fiercest of the sharks can sometimes bite off more than they can swallow, don't you think?"

Caro then sighed and glanced briefly at the floor. "Fuck, I sound just like her, don't I? The dowager." The lady then lowered her voice, so that Sabrina had to read her lips as she whispered, "Beware of that woman, Your Grace. Beware of her feigned indifference, for that's when she strikes from the shadows, and you won't see it coming."

Sabrina's brows furrowed. "If we're to be so candid with each other for a full five minutes, might you reveal why you are so intimate with my husband? Henry is your late husband's brother, surely he cannot be so different from the late Lord Andrew, or am I mistaken?"

Lady Caroline scoffed and Sabrina didn't miss the faint twitch of her lips, though she could not tell whether it stemmed from merriment or pain at the memory. "That marriage was a sham in which I lost the best years of my life—and my baby, the only being I might have loved unconditionally, with the hope of my love ever being reciprocated." She drew a deep breath and added, "I lie with Henry because he's so, so unlike his brother, yet still a cold, selfish bastard in his own right. There is... this emptiness in my soul that, for a fleeting moment, his borrowed attention seems to fill—but worry not, once I've found my sure footing in this world, and this goddamned mourning is behind me, our affair will fade."

"You intend to marry again?" Sabrina inquired, her curiosity piqued.

Caro nodded. "Indeed, if that's what it takes to escape this nightmare. Oh, how much I rue the day I first crossed the threshold of this fucking manor!" she hissed indignantly before shaking her head. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I'm expected elsewhere."

With a swish of her skirts, Caro swiftly vanished from Sabrina's sight. The duchess lingered, as though rooted to the spot before making her way outside, her thoughts still swirling with what Caro had revealed.

The most troubling notion concerned the dowager. Regina had indeed been cold to her daughter-in-law, if not outright avoiding Sabrina, for which the duchess had felt nothing but relief—but now, as uncertainty crept in, could there be a shred of truth in Caroline's words?

And perhaps she's merely trying to manipulate me, Sabrina pondered. But that would mean too many people at once manipulating me for their own gain.

Half hour later, she stepped into a wood glade, inhaling the crisp air deeply, letting the sun touch her skin, and caring very little that it might tan her like a peasant. It brought both peace and ease, for no one was around to witness her outrageous behaviour and nag her about it, starting with her exposed skin and ending with her hair tumbling freely over her shoulders.

Her mind, however, could not rest as it wandered again and again to that night, just a week past. Her feelings remained in great tumult—over both her husband and the man who had, with such a masterful ease, made her his lover, promising to return for more.

He was a man of danger, his body perfect with burning passion running so deep, that she feared it might scorch her and turn into ashes. A stranger she had eagerly embraced, surrendering to the gaze of his unusual golden eyes. A threat, looming over her like a heavy shadow, and Sabrina knew not when and how it would claim her, as promised.

Damon Gray had made it clear he was in relation with Arthur Jamieson, yet did not hesitate to take her, ravish her beyond her wildest imaginings. Was it simply a means of revenge—an attempt to strike back at Arthur for his infidelity with her?

Or had Damon lied to her all along, only to drive her away from Arthur?

If that were the case, then... it was entirely possible he had also lied about Henry and the blonde lady merely to clear the way for him to plunder her cunt, because the affair certainly tastes sweeter when the other partner in this dance of infidelity is convinced that their spouse is up to the same sort of filth.

"Oh, dratted, dratted man!" she exclaimed, kicking the nearest stone with indignation, sending it rolling a few feet away.

All of sudden, a distinct feeling crept across her mind that something, or someone, was watching her.

And when she turned, her body became ensnared in a strong embrace, two arms wrapping tightly around her. She gasped, losing her balance, causing both characters tumble to the ground in a matter of seconds.

Sabrina fought against the assailant, but he easily overpowered her, pining her wrists above her head as the weight of his body pressed her into the earth.

She whimpered when he exhaled against her face, causing the strands of her hair flutter asides.

"Oh, unhand me at once, you godforsaken prick!" Sabrina cried once she recognised the satyr's playful gaze before her.

"Why, you relished it the last time I had my way with you," he taunted and sneered.

She groaned in dismay. "And I have regretted it ever since!"

"Pity, for I haven't," Damon retorted. "And as you can see, I have returned just as promised."

He pressed his lips on hers with unabated desire, but quickly recoiled when Sabrina bit down on his lower lip.

"Ow! That was uncalled for!" he exclaimed with amusement in his voice.

"That was very well deserved, methinks! You fucking liar! The tale about you and Arthur! About my husband taking some mistress at the event!"

Damon laughed heartily. "And you devoured it all as if it were the finest fare served on a golden plate. I confess my sins—I wanted you for myself and still do; the same cannot be said for your husband, can it? I do not recall you two being truly committed to one another, but perhaps you could shed some light on the matter and correct me if I'm wrong. Does he even care? Does he know where you are at this very moment?"

His remarks tugged at her heart. "But he... I..." she stammered, her squirming ceasing as she closed her eyes.

Does he care? Only in my wishful thinking.

Damon released her wrists and gently cupped her face. "You're neither the first nor the last victim of a convenient or forced arrangement in which love usually has no place. But, Sabrina, we need not to remain unhappy. Surely you feel the deep connection we have shared ever since the day we met."

His lips touched hers once more, this time with a slow, deliberate tenderness, savouring the taste of her skin, and gently inviting Sabrina to join him in this dance of intimacy unfolding in the secluded clearing of sparse trees, close enough for any passerby from the manor to see.

When, at last, she yielded to his pressing hunger, Damon lowered his lips beneath her chin, tugging at her collar a bit. Then, with a sudden nip at her skin, a sharp pang of sensation made her gasp aloud. And yet, it only stoked the fire in her loin, causing her fancy bits ache for this rogue's cock.

God, she almost begged him to take her right there and then.

"I have to return to the house," Sabrina said in a strained voice, overruling her treacherous desires and gently pressing palms against his chest clad in a long coat.

"Pity," he replied with a sigh. "For my intention was merely to lift your lovely skirts and laying my tongue—"

"I don't want you to," she cut him off sternly.

Damon lingered for a moment, as if hoping she would reconsider, but stood up and helped Sabrina to her feet, entwining his fingers with hers. When she tried to pull away, he only drew her closer and kissed her hand.

"I'm staying at Arthur's house for a time."

"You ought to stay with your children," she rejoined, stepping away from him.

Damon observed her prideful figure retreat towards the house, a smile forming under his nose. She was his, no matter how much she resisted him; her eyes, veiled in primal lust, betrayed her ever so easily.

Sabrina marched directly into the dining hall, where—to her great surprise—she found Henry seated in his usual place. As she took the chair besides him, he regarded her from behind his spectacles, lifting his gaze from the newspaper he was reading.

"You know, as a duchess, sooner or later you would have to take your proper place at the other end of the table."

"I can't seem to care a fig," she retorted in a low voice.

Henry smiled, amused. Spicy, he thought.

"On the seventh day, you decided to descend from your heaven merely to remind me of some dratted etiquette?!" his wife continued indignantly. "Who do you presume yourself to be, the Almighty himself? Where is everyone, why am I alone most days now?! Is this one of your grand plans to punish me?"

She cares too.

"No one dines here in this room when my mother and uncle aren't present. I too had to depart quite abruptly for several days due to issues reported by the tenants. See, no slight was intended," Henry explained calmly.

He observed the flush of colour spreading across her face, then leaned closer, picking a leaf from her long, slightly tousled hair.

"I see you've been quite occupied yourself," he remarked as he twirled the leaf between his fingers. "Went for a stroll, Sabrina?"

"Yes," she replied, her eyes locked with his, sensing her nervousness rising in her core.

"Did anything unusual occur during your stroll?"

At that moment, the servants entered, bearing the afternoon repast.

"No, nothing unusual, I merely walked."

"Are you quite sure?"

She knew the moment called for honesty, yet instead she heard herself say, "Yes."

Henry leaned closer once more, his fingers brushing her collar as he lowered it slightly. "Hmm, Jamieson's doing?"

Sabrina glanced aside. "Yes," she replied, though her voice trembled.

"Nay," he opposed coolly. "Jamieson would never risk provoking my ire. I take it a message then. Is that black, short stump your lover now? Seems a considerable fall from Jamieson, if I may be frank."

"Any lover is a step up from you," Sabrina shot back indignantly.

"Touché," her husband said with a slight, amused smile. "But perhaps you might be interested to know your latest acquisition in bed sports has a wife who disappeared without a trace four years ago. He also has three children and deep, empty pockets, nothing to say about his devil-may-care disposition. Would you insist he's a gentleman worthy of your attention?"

"Your dearest friend recommended him to me," Sabrina retorted, fully aware of how juvenile her words were.

Henry offered her a derisive laugh. "Forgive me, but despite being my closest friend, Moira is seldom capable of giving a sound advice to herself, let alone to others."

"And whose advice was it to unbind our marriage and seek lovers, pray tell?" she inquired in a caustic tone, forking a morsel with a palpable disdain. "You knew it, Henry, you made that decision long before I arrived to this godforsaken place to marry you, that you would give neither me nor our marriage any real chance. Isn't that true? If you pride yourself on being so honest and forthright, could you tell me the truth just this once?"

His lips curled into a sardonic smile. "You lie to me openly about your activities and yet demand the truth from me?" Henry rejoined, though her words stung him to the core, for her convictions weren't entirely true. "That's hardly the manner in which one should foster trust in one's spouse!"

Sabrina scoffed. "Oh, and what difference does it make who inserts themselves in my snatch, as long as I bear the consequences? Why is it such a issue that it is Mr. Gray all of a sudden?"

"Sabrina, I have just told you—he's an unscrupulous man with a questionable history, who may be involved in his wife's disappearance," Henry explained in a composed tone, though he couldn't quite hide his irritation. "As your husband, I'm responsible for your safety and I strongly urge you to reconsider your relation with him."

The duchess rose sharply from her chair. "I will not forsake Damon. He has chosen me."

"I'd wager he has chosen your money," Henry retorted, feeling the vein on his forehead throb as her stubbornness frayed his nerves considerably. "And the advantages that come with you being a titled lady."

"Fuck his reasons! He chose me and makes me feel content with no expectation in return," Sabrina exclaimed, struggling to contain her emotions so the servants wouldn't hear her outcry, "and as someone who has never felt chosen nor cherished, I will take any pretense of being wanted over being merely tolerated!"

With those searing words, she swept out of the dining room.

"Bloody hell!" Henry exclaimed, hurling the silverware onto the table with a sharp clatter.

So much for protecting her from the inferno she was willingly rushing towards.