London, April 1885

The beginning of April held the promise of spring, with a warmth that at last warranted the abandonment of heavy greatcoats. Sabrina delighted in the sun as she strolled her usual path, though a lingering nervousness clung to her mind and body.

No, her nervousness was not due to her husband who was once again distant and cold to her. Whatever happened between them in his study, she had resolved to put little importance to it, though it was impossible to banish the memory of Henry's remarkable intimate prowess. It seemed something changed—shifted—within the man, but perhaps it was nought but her wistful imaginings, and lately, she had been plagued by such fanciful notions, which had no place in the pragmatic reality of life with His Grace.

Sabrina's apprehension partially stemmed from her manuscript—whether it was delivered to Rodney Scott's hands without incident as she had scarce time to replicate her words onto a second set of pages, should the original suffer some mishap during its delivery. Thankfully, the story was hers, still completely memorised in her mind, down to the smallest detail.

Yet, her greatest unease lay elsewhere.

Her monthly course was late.

Not by a mere day or two, in fact, an entire week had passed.

And there was no chance that the baby was fathered by Henry, but by the dark seducer with the golden gaze. Sabrina imagined giving birth to a child with a crown of black hair, a miracle that would kindle a love so strong it would make her forget all the pain and humiliation in the world. But then Henry appeared in her vision and said in a voice as cold as ice,

"You cannot keep your son."

His hands then pried the babe from her arms, leaving her bereft, wailing in anguish not to be parted with her newborn.

A shiver coursed down her spine as she gulped and sighed deeply, feeling the tears gather at the corners of her eyes. Would he be so brutal to her, would he truly get rid of the boy? Henry had spoken with unyielding conviction when he claimed he would give up any son, no matter who fathered the child.

But why? What drove him to think so cruelly, take such a hard stand?

There is so little I truly know about the man I'm married to, is it not? she inquired inwardly. The thought made her feel guilty, guilty of not putting more effort to pry under his skin and reveal what lied deep within his soul, rather than accept the carefully crafted facade of his pride and self-importance.

After all, was it not easier thus? It was always simpler not to delve into someone else's psyché when one had their own secret to guard, with the fervent wish for it to remain unravelled.

Her attention was drawn to a movement in her peripheral vision, and her gaze fell on Lord Jamieson astride his stallion. He glared at her with palpable contempt and seemed rather reluctant to acknowledge the duchess, but then the propriety prevailed and he urged the horse to approach his erstwhile mistress.

"Hullo, Lady Grantchester," he greeted her stiffly.

"Hullo, Arthur," she returned.

He gave a curt nod and intended to depart, but her voice stayed him.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

It was evident to Sabrina that he contemplated replying to her from the saddle, but after a moment, he sighed and reluctantly dismounted.

"Because you were the first to avoid me, Your Grace, do you not recall? I waited for you to call upon me after the hunting party left my house, yet you never came. Should've known you would succumb to Mr. Gray's charms the moment I left you in his company. And then, you never found the guts to tell me you ended our connection yourself—you sent your new lover to deliver me such good tidings instead!"

She frowned at his insinuation that she was a hoyden. "I ceased visiting you because of your deceit! You lied about that poem being your own, and you surely failed to mention you were bedding men, or that you also were entangled with Mr. Gray as well!"

His eyes widened in disbelief. "Very well, I admit—I wrote the poem with Damon, but what in utter balderdash...! I prefer inserting my cock in a cunt, thank you very much, and so does the viper whose venom is now clearly running through your veins!"

Arthur raked his blonde hair back and forth in a frustrated motion while Sabrina felt the weight of the revelation settle on her chest.

"That duplicitous scoundrel!" she exclaimed lividly with her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Do tell, is he still lodging in your house, Arthur?"

He hesitated, but once he nodded in agreement, the duchess strode purposefully towards his home with the lord trailing close behind, her skirts swishing furiously with each step. Jamieson did not mount the horse, nor did he try to speak much, given how upset Sabrina seemed to be, lest for some reason he would incur the wrath upon himself as well.

They soon arrived at the estate, and Sabrina swept into the drawing room, where all the men were present, just as they had been on her last visit. Instead of sitting on the floor, the room was now dominated by a table, its design meant for games of chance, and each of the gentlemen held several cards in their hands.

"My dear Duchess of Grantchester," Damon greeted her first in a cheerful tone and arose from the table with the intention to kiss her hand.

He was all smiles and mirth, only until the moment his face was intimately introduced to her open palm, causing his head to turn sideways. The resounding slap resonated through the room to the gaping astonishment of the assembled men.

"La mujer picante," Javier murmured with a smirk, earning a chuckle from Jason and the twins.

"I suppose I deserved that," Damon admitted as he regarded Sabrina again, his expression flickering between surprise and rueful amusement. He touched his cheek, feeling the searing pain that flushed with red-orange colour.

Her fury unabated, Sabrina fought the urge to yell at him, spilling forth the torrent of words. Yet, she resigned without uttering a single word, turning sharply on her heel and marching from the room, her gait resolute and her head held high.

"Sabrina, wait!" her blackguard lover shouted after her, though it did not slow her down.

Only when a pair of strong arms encircled her, effectively halting her progress, that she relented. Damon's masculine strength overcame her feminine resistance, pinning her firmly against the wall, though she kept pushing against him with all her might, her face frowning.

"You manipulative, lying bastard," she hissed in low voice, eliciting his sneer. "Is there any length you wouldn't go to make me lie with you?"

"There's no fair play in love or war," the satyr quipped in his usual playful manner, which only spurred her attempts to free herself more vigorous.

"So you admit to all your schemes?!" Sabrina demanded in between the huffs.

Damon seized her wrists, pinning them against her form, ceasing their further scuffle. "Aye, I wanted you to sever your ties with Arthur, so I lied—lied about us being lovers. Then I lied to you about Grantchester taking a mistress at Arthur's event, because I'm utterly riddled with the desire to make love to you. I'm also fairly convinced that your buffoon of a husband is an idiot to let other men have their way with someone as precious as you. Do you know why I've done this, why I've woven a web of deceit around you? Because I chose you, Sabrina," he answered his question, his eyes blazing with emotion. "And I want you to choose me in return."

Her eyes widened, the weight of his words striking her. "Damon, I am married, as are you. We have both chosen our paths."

He released her wrists, but took her hand in his. "Come with me, there is something I must show you."

Damon led her into what appeared to be his bedchamber and approached a tall cabinet. Opening it, he retrieved an item that made Sabrina gasp as she recognised the item in an instant.

"My hat!" she exclaimed.

It was the very hat she had lost upon her arrival at London Port, snatched by a gust of wind. How much had changed since that day!

For instance, she had learned that her marriage was a sham. And yet, despite all the trials and pitfalls she had faced, she never truly ceased hoping for love—a love that seemed elusive... or unattainable, perched high on the shoulders of a man whose ego peak couldn't be seen from the face of the earth.

Damon, noticing her cheerful expression turned into a rather crestfallen one, remarked, "I happened to be at the harbour that day and noticed you, vowing to pursue you if fate allowed our paths to cross again, so I kept your hat as a token. You see, I chose you then—while your husband dearest could not even trouble himself to meet you."

An image of Henry flashed before her eyes, his lips forming the word phenomenal. She recalled his voice, that attractive, deep rasp thickened by desire that took reins over his senses, and the way his touch stirred something primal, yet longing within her soul.

But Henry had never truly chosen her, had he? Unlike Damon—whose child she suspected she may be carrying.

As she realised it again, Sabrina felt a sharp twinge in her stomach.

"Are you quite well, my love?" she heard Damon asking, and felt the touch of his warm hands clasping hers. Only then she noticed she was gripping the hat so tightly that her knuckles had turned pale and the fabric crumpled a tad.

She loosened her hold and allowed herself to sink into Damon's tender embrace.

"Today, we are bound to others, but tomorrow... tomorrow, Sabrina, our story may be different," he said with a steadfast determination.

Her curiosity finally overtook her. "Where is your wife, Damon?" she asked, unable to suppress the question any longer.

He exhaled a long, weary sigh. "She is gone," he said at last. "My wife disappeared more than four years ago. I have no notion of her whereabouts, nor what may have befallen her."

What kind of mother leaves her three children behind? she pondered as Damon's strong arms kept her in a tender embrace.

In spite of all his promises and his passionate words, there was something inherently wrong with him as well, she knew, but what was it? What prevented her from trusting this man completely?

And while the duke's wife was being convinced of her lover's true intentions, her husband grappled with an entirely different set of challenges. It was April—and while the month itself bore no significance save that it marked nearly four months since his marriage and half a year since the passing of his elder brother, Andrew. Yet, Her Majesty's invitation for his formal acknowledgement as the new Duke of Grantchester had not arrived.

It was painfully clear to Henry that the Queen's dismay at his hasty marriage to an American meant that she continued to snub her relative, even if the urgency of the stipulation necessitated such an undertaking. Or so he assumed Victoria had been informed, for it was Giles who was responsible for making such arrangements for the union, given Henry's overindulgence in drink during those dark days following his brother's death.

But while one bitter bitch wouldn't be the greatest reason for Henry's irk, the news of Giles' accident certainly tested his patience and resolve. Whilst sojourning with his wife, Anne, somewhere in the arse of Scotland, he had slipped on wet pavement and fractured his hand and arm in multiple places. The injury left Henry bereft of his uncle's support and much needed guidance.

And Henry, without Giles' help and advice, became the embodiment of chaos—a veritable bull in a china shop, trampling on relations with both tenants and certain aristocrats due to his impatience, short temper and cutting remarks. This restless and angry comportment did not slip Sabrina's attention, though she couldn't possibly know that her husband considered himself the worst duke in the history of dukes to hold such grave responsibilities.

In such a terrible and trying disposition, he was discovered by his mother, seated at his desk in the study.

"I heard about Giles, what a shame. An old codger like him ought to have better sense and give up on such folly as gallivanting about Scotland for sport," she remarked in a disdainful, sharp tone, taking the seat opposite her son. "I'm certain it was Anne's foolish idea—that woman has that poor clod whipped like a common hound."

Henry sneered. "Pray, is that jealousy I hear in your tone, mother? Are you envious of other people's desires and that they see them fulfilled instead of burying themselves alive within the four walls of Westhill?"

"Don't be absurd," Regina snapped. "I would rather speak of your desires, should we?" she inquired testily.

Perhaps had she anticipated the imminent outburst of wrath and violence, she might have withdrawn her cutting inquiry and tempered her tone, but alas, the dowager was nothing if not determined to set her son straight, ergo, to make him lose his composure utterly in the process.

"You damn well know what I want, mother," he replied icily, his hands grasping the armrests of his chair. "I want my old life back—my work, my purpose. I'm not cut out for this ducal baloney."

Her lips curved into a smile, though her eyes were devoid of any semblance of mirth. "And what, pray, are you cut out for, Henry? That would make for a much shorter list, I suspect."

He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat as she continued, "You're not cut out to get your wife with child, yet somehow you're cut out well enough to allow her frequent visits to one particular lord's estate—a lord who presently happens to host both Mr. Grays, Darlington and the Rycroft twins. Is that the true reason why you have not organised even a single informal gathering yet; the knowledge that the entire surrounding area is taking turns fucking the parlour whore to whom you happen to be married?"

Only when she saw and heard his clenched fist slam into the desk with such a force it caused several objects fell to the floor, that the dowager felt the first stirrings of fear.

"Whom my wife chooses to visit in her leisure is no concern of yours," he said in a low, vicious voice, "nor should it be any of your interests. If I have decided that it suits me to remain married to Sabrina, there is nothing more for you to question, do you comprehend?!"

"Nothing?!" Regina exclaimed, rising to her feet. "You are willing to raise another man's bastard? Have you no pride, Henry, nor a shred of shame?! Have you no cock between your legs too? Did I not raise you to fulfil your duties and be proper as your new station demands?!"

He rose and advanced towards his mother, gripping her shoulders in a vice-like clamp. "You raised me to despise myself, you goddamned bitch!" Henry bellowed into her face, his spittle flying in all directions. "You taught me that marriage is merely a transaction to be endured! You filled my head with the belief that everyone is out there only to disappoint and betray me! And yet, nothing I ever did was to your liking, was it?!"

A maid dared to enter the study amidst the ongoing argument, but Henry immediately barked at her, "Piss off!", and the poor woman vanished in an instant.

"I raised you and Andrew to respect your elders, your family and lineage! I taught you never to forget where you come from and what is expected of you," the dowager said in a low, trembling voice; her eyes, wide as two saucers, fixed on her son, whose chin quivered as though he barely contained the wrath her remarks had caused within. "It is her, isn't it? She's barren, I knew it—the older the woman, the less chance to sire; I warned you so."

Henry roared, shaking his mother as if she were a hapless puppet. "And look where your teachings have got us—Andrew is grinning at the daisy roots in our mausoleum, while I am so, so close to sending you to meet your maker! Apropos, has it ever occurred to you that it might be me, mother, who is incapable of producing children?! What are you going to do then, being faced with the possibility that the future of this lineage you've always dreamed of and made your lifelong legacy rests on the shoulders of an unfruitful man?"

The dowager sank into the chair, defeated, while her son staggered backwards, barely managing to steady himself on unsteady limbs. Henry felt his heart pounding with an ungodly rhythm, the small vein on his forehead throbbing wildly, threatening to burst at once. This wrath, unfamiliar yet not entirely unknown—such a potent feeling of fury had certainly coursed through his being in the past, and each time its source was singular—his mother. Without casting Regina so much as a second glance, he strode out of the study. In the corridor, he was met by the gazes of several members of the household staff, who lingered in place, firm in their morbid conviction that they were about to witness a tragedy at any moment. But a matricide on such a fine day would hardly ruffle their feathers!

"What the fuck are you all staring at?! I'm well aware it's hour for evening repast!" he barked with a tone sharp enough to cut through the tension and sever their curiosity, observing their hurried retreat from his angry presence.

All but one figure remained, pressed against the wall beside the study door.

"Well, well, look who has returned from her bacchanal," Henry sneered as his gaze fell upon his wife. "Pray, my love, have you chosen a father for our child yet?"

The deliberate disdain and contempt that coloured both the words 'love' and 'our' he uttered made a small cut in Sabrina's heart as though she had been stabbed with a knife. Despite knowing full well that provoking an already wrathful man with further remarks was unwise, she could not suppress her response, but retaliated in defiant truth,

"I may have," Sabrina said in a calm tone. "In fact, I may be expectant at this very moment."