London, March 1885

Sabrina regarded the thick folder of handwritten pages and sighed. She ought to send it to the printer in New York soon, yet something held her back from doing so; likely, her mind being consumed with thoughts of Henry and Damon that she kept forgetting about this small yet increasingly pressing duty.

They occupied her mind constantly, along with the outline of her new book—which felt strained to produce, the ideas and words coming less swiftly than usual, sometimes bringing her to the verge of tears.

"Blasted men," she muttered and as if the Almighty Himself intended to chastise her for the language right then and there, the chamber door opened, and a figure strode purposefully towards her.

"Are you deliberately avoiding me now, Sabrina?" Henry inquired, halting by her desk.

She swiftly grasped the thick folder and tucked it into the drawer of her desk, causing his brows to raise with suspicion.

"What are you writing?"

"Letters," she replied curtly. "And no, I'm not avoiding you, Henry, I simply prefer to retain my appetite during repasts; hence, the reason you dine alone."

Her reply sparked a wry smile on his face. "I thought we were above such pettiness."

"I wouldn't dare venture to say that we address our grievances in no other than a mature manner," Sabrina retorted indignantly as she rose from her chair. "I need only recall the charity event and how you left me to walk among the attendees with your product all over my gown!"

"Ah, good times," Henry said, now with a nostalgic smile. "This is what happens when you cross the agreed boundaries, wife: you gain a husband who cannot control himself and comes back at you. But you know that, for you are made of the same clay as I. And I cannot recall a single person in my life who has made my blood boil quite like you."

She sighed, glancing towards the window. The weather was fine—too fine to engage in yet another spat with her husband, no matter what "flattery" he offered.

Henry continued, "You were correct, I had considered our agreement long before I saw you in the eye, for I had my life neatly ordered by that time. Why alter my ways when they had brought me contentment? But then I beheld you, and I decided to give our marriage the best chance, though I remained intent not to give up the comfort of my own freedoms should we find ourselves unsuitable."

Sabrina returned her gaze to Henry. His eyes behind spectacles seemed to convey nothing but honesty and... perhaps a touch of regret too?

"But my best was, it seems, wrong and insufficient for you, Sabrina. Perhaps I was naive in thinking that our agreement would serve us both in different ways. But now that I see how stubborn and reckless you can be... I question if it was the wisest course after all. I worry greatly for you and would sleep more soundly if you didn't associate with men I find... problematic. Be it myself, I would never endanger either of us by dallying with women of ill repute."

I do, I decide, I control and let the devil worry about what you feel or desire–is that your true message to me, my dear husband? Sabrina thought, her fingers tingling with the temptation to provoke a quarrel.

"Very well," she said after a long minute of silence.

Henry didn't believe her agreement for even a split second, his feeling based solely on her recalcitrant gaze, but he had no time to challenge his wife further as she began to usher him out of her chamber.

"I'm going on my customary stroll, Henry, hence would appreciate it if you would go on with your pursuits as well."

Go bother Caroline for heaven's sake, she thought, biting back the words.

He parted his lips to say that he had decided to join her, but then reconsidered, watching Sabrina's proud, stiff back as she withdrew from his midst. Henry's gaze then lingered on her door before he turned... but then his intrusive thoughts won and he re-entered her domain, striding directly to her desk.

It had only struck him the previous night that he knew remarkably little about his wife, and if he was to succeed in his quest for her regard, he would have to resort to a different tactics.

Mr. Gray may have been ruthless with his bed sport prowess, but Henry decided to be ruthless in getting to know his wife on a more than a superficial basis as he wasn't ready to give up just yet.

Hence, with no further hesitation, he drew open the desk drawer, withdrew the folder, and seated himself at her desk. Examining the cover page, he noted the handwritten labels:

Bryant Alsher

Tempting The Hermit

"Interesting," he murmured, then inspected the author's name more closely. His finger travelled slowly from one letter to the next.

Could it be so?

"S... a... b... r... n... a... H... r... t... l... e... y..." Henry had to chuckle at her puzzle. "Perfection."

With that, he turned the page and began to read.

Meanwhile, Sabrina strode purposefully towards Lord Jamieson's house, not quite sure of her reason for doing so. Or perhaps she knew very well, but chose to remain in denial: her husband's admission had left her deeply disheartened, and she did not wish to be sad—not today. And not ever, if she could help it.

She longed for someone to converse with, to soothe the shadows of her mind, and the only person she could consider somewhat of a friend was her erstwhile lover, who was also still miffed by her cold behaviour at his recent event.

And perhaps Damon would there too, although Sabrina did not rely upon his presence. In truth, Henry's cautious words had somewhat rubbed off on her—for Mr. Gray had already proven that lying without a flinch was indeed his strong forte.

Henry had no reason to be jealous. Or perhaps he did, given that Damon couldn't be much older than her? Maybe he perceived her lover as a genuine threat, a possible lure to keep Sabrina away from her husband?

But Henry, by his own words, didn't care about her, so why should he be so prickly about this particular dalliance? All this, despite having his own share of mistresses?

Many spouses in aristocratic marriages led entirely separate lives once the vows were taken or an heir was produced, for heaven's sake. Perhaps this was the solution for them both to find contentment at last—if they continued to cross paths and get into each other's hair over a particular dalliance or another, they might never achieve the amiability necessary for coexisting.

Sabrina sighed in frustration, finding it nearly impossible to understand the man to whom her life was bound and likely would remain so until her or his last breath.

Upon entering Jamieson's residence and being guided by a servant into the drawing room, Sabrina was surprised to find him in company. Besides Damon, four other gentlemen were seated on the floor—or rather cushions—around a low, round table littered with various articles—mostly decanters, glasses and devices used for smoking tobacco.

"Ah, welcome, Your Grace, it is a indeed a pleasure to behold you once again," Arthur greeted her, though she could not miss the sarcastic undertone in his voice. "Allow me to introduce some very fine gentlemen here."

The men rose from the floor, each offering a polite smile.

"Allow me the honour, my dear friend," Damon interrupted Jamieson in his endeavour, approaching Sabrina his friend. "It is my family, after all."

"Very well, as you wish, my dearest of friends. Lady Grantchester, I beg your pardon, but I urgently must speak with my majordomo and housekeeper regarding our guests' sleeping arrangements."

With a bow, Arthur left the room, leaving Sabrina to regard Damon with a question evident in her gaze, but he only took her hand and gestured towards two young men who made her question her eyesight. Never in her life had she seen two men who looked entirely identical, from their faces to the very fibres of their clothing. She recalled one of them, in fact, from the day she first met Damon within these walls.

"Your Grace, may I present my cousins, Lords Adam and Ethan St. Arcey, or precisely—Marquesses of Rycroft. It is our family jest‚ ‚one title, twice the marquess'."

While Adam appeared to be more of the shy sort, Ethan had not hesitated to raise her gloved hand to his lips, planting a gentlemanly kiss upon it before giving her a conspiratorial wink. This act convinced Sabrina at once that he was indeed the one who had dared to pull the blanket from her form those months past.

"Do not exert yourself too boldly, lover," Damon chided gently and as he guided her to meet another gentleman.

This man was imposing, with a strikingly dark complexion, and though clearly young, he was completely bald. On closer inspection, she noted he also lacked both brows and lashes as well. Perhaps to distract from his hairless visage, he wore the most ostentatious gold earrings, set with elaborate rubies that glistened in the light. The most arresting feature, however, were his large, verdant green eyes.

"The current Earl of Darlington, Lord Javier Rafael Castillo López de la Vega Kendall. Hopefully I haven't left any part out, it's a damn long name you have, brother," Damon remarked with a smirk, to which Javier responded with a warm laugh, his gleaming pearl-white teeth starkly contrasting against his skin colour.

"Not at all," Javier replied in a thick accent, earnestly shaking Sabrina's hand. "Pleasured to make your acquaintance, Your Grace."

The last gentleman in their gathering bore a resemblance to Damon, even sharing the same golden eye colour, though he appeared closer to Henry's age, his raven hair touched by the first hint of silver.

"And this is my brother Jason Gray, concluding the few members of my family who still choose to be in contact with me."

Jason greeted her with a smile and shook her hand, though she caught his raised brows as he noted the familiar way Damon behaved towards her, especially the manner in which he held her hand despite both their ring fingers bore the unmistakable confirmation of their marital status.

As introductions concluded, Sabrina glanced about the room and quickly noticed the keen gazes upon her; there was a silent recognition in their looks, as if they already knew who she was to Damon. In that instant, she saw them as the satyrs no different than Damon, making her heart flutter with nervousness.

"I do beg your pardon if I've intruded upon your private gathering, perhaps I should return on another day?" she said, taking a hesitant step back, but Damon's gentle grip on her arm did not allow her to retreat just yet.

"Nonsense," her lover opposed, his eyes twinkling with good humour. "Stay with us, Your Grace, I promise, we shan't breathe a word of you joining us on the floor like common folk."

After a moment's hesitation, she settled upon a cushion between Damon and Jason, though she couldn't help but notice the lusty, wandering eyes of the twins resting a touch too freely upon her décolletage as everyone gathered on the floor.

"Pray, forgive the twins, Your Grace; they have spent precious little time in polite society," Jason said with a smirk as he began to fill his pipe with an unfamiliar herb.

"Blame their mother's rather sheltered approach to their upbringing," Damon added.

"Does the dowager marchioness even know her sons are here?" Javier inquired with a chuckle, as he too reached for his pipe, following Jason's lead.

Jason took a deep draw from his pipe, held it in his lungs for a moment, and then exhaled a thick, white smoke with an earthy, rather pungent smell that struck Sabrina as somewhat unpleasant.

"I should think not," Damon replied, taking the pipe from his brother. "She'd have my head if she knew her sons were in the care of a nefarious libertine's, as she likes to coin me. The bitch is dreadfully sensitive when it comes to her children—especially now that uncle has kicked the bucket."

"Damon! You ought not speak of our mother so, do show some respect!" one of the twins exclaimed with a frown, while the other shook his head.

"It's nothing but the truth!" Damon protested. "You're grown men, oblivious to society's schemes and lures! Any debutante with her wits the size of a pea could trap you both into marriage before you'd know it!"

"You'd give the world to have a wife as dedicated to ‚sheltering' your children," Jason remarked, which promptly silenced his brother's outburst, who bit into his lip in resignation.

"It seems we are all touchy on some matter today," said Javier in his languid voice laced with a softened, yet distinct accent, lighting his pipe with a taper. "Yet no one here is wholly wrong, I'd say."

Damon sighed and turned to Sabrina. "Where are my manners?" he murmured, offering her his pipe. "I'll light it for you, should you feel inclined."

Sabrina hesitated, but then gave a slight nod,watching his nimble hands as he lit the herb.

"Take a draw," he instructed softly.

Her first attempt made her cough, and Damon suppressed a smile.

"Slower draw," he said, lighting the pipe again. "Draw only a little. Now hold. And release."

She felt the effect immediately—as if her soul became much lighter and her mind slipped out of the restraints made of apprehension and heavy thoughts. The feeling was so glorious that Sabrina closed her eyes to surrender to the powerful sensation.

"Yes, let it course through you," Damon murmured, burying his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of her neck.

"Well, as a happily married man, I know when to make my retreat. I've no wish to indulge further in folly of yours, gentlemen," Jason quipped, standing up from the cushion.

"Yours is a marriage to envy," Javier remarked as Jason whistled a tune on his way out of the drawing room.

The Spaniard then crouched to Sabrina, leaned closer and lightly stroked her cheek, prompting her to open her eyes.

"Belleza deslumbrante," he said, smiling. "Means ‚ravishing beauty'. Your husband must be the happiest of men."

She scoffed. "He's not."

"Then he is the greatest fool in this world, for there are thousands of men to appreciate you, to love you. That's why Spanish women do not suffer so—there's always a man to appreciate other man's waste."

Sabrina could not hold back a chortle, while Damon laughed, remarking, "My friend, I'm certain you did not mean to call Her Grace something discarded."

"Oh, qué vergüenza!" Javier exclaimed with a sheepish grin. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I? Perhaps I've had enough too. I think I'll make myself comfortable here while you two fuck like bloody hares."

And as he said, the man prostrated himself right there on the hard floor, cushioned only by the thick carpet, taking scarcely half a minute to commence snoring.

"He's rather endearing," Sabrina observed, turning to regard Damon.

"Indeed, Javier is a fine fellow," he replied, drawing her closer to press his lips upon hers in a passionate kiss. When they parted for breath, he added teasingly, "If he had his way with you, I daresay you'd have little reason to entertain my company further."

Sensing eyes upon them, Damon glanced towards the table to find the twins observing him and Sabrina with bated breaths.

"What are you two gawking at, you fresh-faced chits in breeches?" he asked them playfully. "You'd have the lady with child before you knew the colour of her eyes."

"Could we... observe you, though?" one of the young men ventured boldly.

"Well now," Damon chuckled, casting Sabrina a glance. "What do you say, my dear? Shall we allow these virginal gentlemen a lesson or two?"

Sabrina regarded him with a steady gaze and replied, "Actually, I'd hoped we might speak."

After all, she longed to be heard, but his look and manner suggested she might leave only semi-contented after this encounter.

"Speak?" her lover asked, mischief lingering in voice. "Well, I'm certain our bodies could do all the filthy, sinful talking for us."

He resumed his attentions to her lips, this time trailing kisses along her neck while his fingers remained tangled in her hair. The other hand, however, slipped beneath her skirts and soon gripped her thigh. Sabrina sighed and closed her eyes, allowing herself to become aroused by the caress of Damon's deft fingers.

It served no future purpose for her to become a plaything in the hands of a shrewd man—she was well aware of that—but the drug had mellowed her conscience, and she eagerly welcomed the satyr's influence. Damon asked her no stinging questions. He did not pry, nor offer outrageous remarks, though he was prone to talking at length about nothing. His easy-going nature made it simple for her to keep him company, though she rarely had the opportunity to express herself, verbally or otherwise.

When Sabrina opened her eyes again, her lover laid her on the cushions with her skirts wrapped around her hips and bodice lowered so that her tits came out of their hiding. Damon regarded her with a lustful gaze, and in that moment, she noticed his circular silver earrings.

"I hadn't known you wore such things," she murmured, reaching out to touch them with both her hands, feeling his cock gently, slowly filling her wet quim.

"Indeed, though I was forced to part with much of my jewellery. But Javier was kind enough to gift me these," Damon replied, propping himself up on his hands as she bent her knees and raised her hips a little to allow her lover to penetrate her deeply. "Good Lord, you will never cease to amuse me, darling," he purred.

"Why?" Sabrina pressed as if unfazed by his words, to which he merely smirked and shook his head.

"Why did I take to wearing earrings? My father saw fit to pierce my ears when I came of age, just as my grandfather had his before him—a family tradition, it would seem, though my mother and grandmother were all but prepared to dispatch their husbands to meet their maker for their audacity."

Dastardly knave, evading my question as though it were the plague, Sabrina pondered, opening her mouth to pose another inquiry, but his hand forestalled her attempt, placing a palm over her lips.

"Ah, Sabrina, if your intention is to make me sustain for longer, know that I cannot come once I've indulged in the devil's weed," Damon said as he began to pound her hard, which eventually shifted her focus on the pleasure he was ruthlessly pushing her towards, although this time it took considerably longer for her to climax.

Later, as she made her way back to Westhill, Sabrina heaved a sigh. It seemed that these blasted Englishmen were filled to the bring with shite along with secrets buried deeper than the bottom of a sepulchre—and she liked it not one bit!