London, May 1885

Before the recent drama involving both halves of the ducal pair, Sabrina had renewed her acquaintance with Arthur after clearing the air and chastising the true culprit of interference in their friendship. There followed a moment of lively banter, which also included Damon's elder brother, Jason, while Damon himself was conspicuously absent, likely taking a moment of privacy in the water closet.

It was during Jason's retelling of his children's latest mischief that Sabrina observed a peculiarity—she had yet to hear Damon speak so openly of his progeny, and that she wasn't entirely certain whether they lived with their father at all. It was the moment Jason and Arthur exchanged a short, knowing glance after she had laid out her question, with Jason returning his gaze to Sabrina with a faint smile on his lips. At first, Sabrina thought she might have been too forward in inquiring about Damon's domestic arrangements by so directly addressing his kin, but the exchange seemed to present an unexpected opportunity—one that might allow her to glean more intelligence about the man she had allowed so close to her body and mind.

A man who, despite his potent blend of caring, tenderness, and savagery, could easily do her bodily harm if he chose to, and suddenly, as her infatuation with Damon's dark charm and sexual prowess began to wane in the face of enforced abstinence, suspicion began to take root. He felt too conveniently placed in her life, too confident in offering her promises of marriage, yet curiously devoid of the substance needed to fulfil them.

Thus, Sabrina resolved to pay an unannounced visit to the Gray family estate, for the urge kept pushing her to uncover whatever lay beneath that flamboyant dandy's hide. If there was evil running deep in his veins, she would not hesitate to nip him in the bud and then shift her focus towards reconciling with her husband.

If such a thing was even possible.

For Henry was not wholly horrible. Admittedly, he was no angel, but to see someone truly wretched, Sabrina need only look into a mirror.

When the duchess returned to her chambers, her eyes fell immediately upon a stack of letters neatly arranged on her desk. Her heart quickened as she recognised the handwriting—on the topmost envelope shone Rodney Scott, and with nervous hands, she took it up, her gaze drifting toward the door connecting her chamber to Henry's.

Her scorned husband was not there at that time, though she knew it was he who had delivered the letters. Sabrina had insisted on the installation of the connecting door as every time their eyes met, the guilt pierced her heart anew. Yet Henry maintained his distance, though, merely answering her inquiries coldly and making no attempts to placate her by any means, which felt more unnerving than an open display of anger.

She had forged this King of Permafrost and now burned in the fire of his indifference.

In the moments when she went back and forth with her emotions, Sabrina found herself haunted by the memory of the moment she accused her husband of cruelty. His response had been calm, chilling even: "So can you."

Indeed, when it came to hurting one another, they were a match made in hell, as long as distrust, insecurities, and secrets held the upper hand in their marriage. Now she pushed aside thoughts of their fraught relationship as her trembling fingers opened the letter from her dearest friend—his reply was unusually delayed, which never heralded good tidings.

Her heart began to thud with intensity as her eyes gazed at the scribbled words, then her eyes filled with tears as the tidings were indeed terrible, no, they brought yet another wave of anguish that crashed over her.

Tempting The Hermit had not made it to print.

That's how Henry found her—sobbing, her face buried in her hands as she sat on the edge of the bed. Despite the lingering bitterness and hurt, he did not hesitate and immediately approached his wife, damned be their current predicament, damned be their discord—her suffering superseded all else. And he knew, he anticipated, that the black devil occupying her heart and cunt would one day cause her pain, and his immediate thoughts went the more bloodthirsty way.

"I shall end him if he has hurt you!" he exclaimed, dropping to his knees and reaching to pull her hands gently from her face.

"W-Why? Rodney meant well, of that I'm certain," Sabrina stammered, her voice shaky and brittle, leaving Henry momentarily perplexed.

It was only then that his gaze fell upon the letter lying beside her on the bed. Henry reached for it, a folded newspaper clipping fluttering loose as he did, almost falling out. With furrowed brow, he read both the letter and the accompanying column, while Sabrina watched his features darkening with anger.

Anger over her plight!

And it was that her latest book had been delayed by none other than Charles Anderson Dana, the editor of The New York Sun, and who had torn her earlier work, In Scoundrel's Embrace, to shreds with his sharp pen and wit. Considering that this particular critic was quite infamous and yet a well-respected individual whose opinions carried significant weight, it could have a major impact on the sales of Sabrina's book. Rodney, apologetic though he was, had made this decision on her behalf—he postponed the publication of Tempting the Hermit until the controversy had subsided, and most people had forgotten that the column had ever been published.

But the smear on Bryant Alsher's name would remain along with the labels "coarse morality tale," "a vulgar appeal to baser instincts," and "a pandering to the horny masses who need Jesus". Sabrina had poured so much of herself, determination and will into this endeavour—the only thing she believed she excelled at, her sole source of peace and accomplishment—only to have it trampled on by someone else.

"This is not criticism—it is slander!" Henry exclaimed, his voice taut with indignation. He turned to her, his eyes burning with conviction. "You do not take this as a measure of your talent, do you? Because I adored what I read, and I am certain others would feel the same," he said, as if he could somehow see her innermost thoughts reflected in her eyes.

"Your kind words hold no sway in the literary world, I'm afraid," she said softly, her voice defeated. "My pen name and reputation are everything to me, Henry. I thought writing was my ultimate pursuit, something I could truly be proud of... If I could afford to risk endangering it with an uncertain outcome, Rodney would have put my book into print."

She spoke out of hurt—Henry had to remind himself of that as he drew a measured breath. "I wonder why a woman of your means depends so heavily on some man," he remarked. "Have you not considered purchasing—or even establishing—a printing business here in England? It would not shield you entirely from slander, but it might allow you to cultivate new supporters in this country."

Sabrina shook her head, a wry smile curving her lips. "And with what funds, pray tell? Surely, you haven't forgotten that I am little more than a beggar now? And I cannot say you've shown any particular haste to return what is rightfully mine."

Henry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I told you I would return your money to the last shilling."

Her smile grew faintly mocking as she mimicked his sigh. "Promises, Henry, have a strange habit of being broken."

"That was not a promise," he corrected, his voice steady. "It was a statement of fact." Rising to his feet, he stretched, his legs numb from kneeling. "Alas, my attention has been consumed by my duties, especially with Giles still in Scotland."

An idea occurred to him, and his tone softened slightly as he added, "Sabrina, might you... consider aiding me with my correspondence? As my secretary, you could regain some confidence, perhaps?"

Henry was startled by just how much he longed for an affirmative reply, the mere anticipation of her answer made his stomach flutter as her lips parted!

But Sabrina shook her head. "Apologies, Henry, but I derive pleasure from writing romantic fiction. I doubt I would be of much use as your secretary—unless, of course, you wish me to pen creative nonsense in your letters, complete with your ducal signature."

Even as the words left her mouth, guilt churned within her. Ugh, she thought, it seems I am determined to make poor decisions at every turn!

Henry gave a small nod. Seeing no reason to prolong the conversation, nor any apparent need to console her further, he took his leave in silence.

Later, as Sabrina calmed and reconsidered his offer, she began to think it might benefit her to understand the kind of issues Henry grappled with in his role, and perhaps to draw closer to him. Steeled in her resolve, she approached his study with the intention of acquiescing to his earlier proposal. After all, while the intimacy between them might remain a distant hope, it was her attempt to glean more about him and perhaps extend an olive branch, though she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that she might be coming to him too late.

The door was slightly ajar, allowing her a glimpse into the study before stepping inside. From her vantage, Sabrina discerned Henry leaning against a desk—a second one, she noted, recently brought into the room. Seated at this desk was a woman Sabrina recognised from an earlier encounter in the entrance hall, when she had crossed paths with her mother-in-law, accompanied by the Countess of Amwych. While Regina had greeted Sabrina with her usual frosty disdain, Lady Amwych's manner was markedly warmer in comparison, though she seemed somewhat shy in meeting the duchess's gaze.

Lenore was considerably younger than Sabrina, and the fact that she had already borne a son emphasised her fertility, also, she was precisely the type that had always attracted Henry the most: petite, blonde, with delicate frame and fair eyes. Her gown featured a daringly low neckline, revealing the full globes of her bosom, and Sabrina felt an overwhelming urge to cover the woman's décolletage from Henry's view.

It required no great leap of imagination to deduce why Regina Clarke had invited Lady Amwych into this house. The dowager's intent was utterly transparent—to remind her son that there were far worthier women than Sabrina, to heap humiliation upon her daughter-in-law in the most insidious manner.

Where Henry's eyes, cock and baser instincts were concerned, Sabrina had little doubt that he had succumbed to the allure of this exquisite lady, and why would he not? All his own wife had done so far was cause him endless misery. After all, she herself must still appear as though her liaison with Damon persisted. So what grounds, then, could she claim to censure Henry? Yet, despite this reasoning, the notion of Henry taking a paramour foisted upon him by his insufferable mother irked her greatly.

But he would tell me, would he not? she wondered uneasily, watching her husband and Lenore deep in conversation, the lady making notes on a piece of paper with her pen.

Should I not just... give up completely and leave?

Their discussion got animated enough to draw a rare laugh from Henry—one that revealed his dimples. It became increasingly clear to Sabrina that Lenore was now his secretary as she observed their interactions, and a sudden, intrusive thought made Sabrina recoil from the door and lean against the cold wall outside the study.

What if he's delaying the money transfer to ensure Lady Amwych will have him once he divorces me? Aren't divorces among nobles ruinously expensive in this country?

They indeed seemed like a fine pair, Lenore's light, delicate beauty complementing Henry's imposing presence; so perfectly matched it made Sabrina feel the pang of an unbidden realisation—Would he spare me any glance, had he met Lady Amwych much, much earlier? She immediately scolded herself for harbouring such intrusive, poisonous thoughts, which only seemed to singe her heart, when she noticed a figure coming out of the study.

"Is all in order, Sabrina?"

The duchess spared her husband not so much as a glance, her mind failing even to register his words. Instead, she all but fled to the sanctuary of the chamber she loved most—the library. Infantile though it might seem, she needed to regain her composure, lest she act upon her destructive thoughts... yet again.

Once inside, she turned the key in the lock and exhaled a sigh, then turned to regard the long shelves lined with books. Running her fingers along the spines, she sought to quiet the storm within. At first, she merely traced the titles without truly reading them, her thoughts too scattered for focus, yet as her hand moved along, she suddenly froze, her gaze catching a name on one of the bindings: Henry Clarke.

Sabrina blinked—surely, it was no hallucination? She leaned closer to confirm. Could it truly be her husband's name? Or, perhaps, one of his forebears who shared it?

There were five volumes in all, each bearing his name as the author. She pulled the first from the shelf, its title embossed in gold: The Relic Hunt: A Man Among the Sands. Settling into a nearby high-backed chair, she opened the book and began to read.

Late that night, Henry lay in bed, his eyes open and his mind restless as sleep eluded him, his thoughts drifting inevitably back to his wife and her abrupt departure earlier that day. He could only guess that she had seen Lady Amwych in his study and drawn whatever conclusions women so often seemed inclined to reach. It had been a trying day for Sabrina with her book, and though Henry had considered confronting her, he decided against it. He, too, needed time to reflect everything that has transpired in his marriage thus far.

Providence alone knew how unceasingly he had been reflecting it all ever since that ill-fated spa moment, and how much effort it had taken to keep her at arm's length, to smother the instinct to howl like a wounded beast every time their eyes met. After all, he had chosen to bear the pain in silence.

And yet... he could not deny the force of his reaction to her, be it her joy or sorrow, and came to the conclusion that it would always be so, as sure as he knew his own name. It was difficult to resist Sabrina, who possessed this damned power to stir him as no other could, and to remove her from his life was absolutely out of the question, no matter how painful her refusals felt, but sacrifices had to be made for the sake of what mattered most, or did they not?

Certainly, his self-assurance had suffered a grievous blow, but could he place the blame solely on her? After such an unpleasant introduction and the other foolish acts he had committed in his attempts to shield his heart and soul from his wife, it was little wonder she harboured so much distrust toward him. Perhaps he ought to grant her the grace of recognising that his sudden emotional intensity must have felt overwhelming.

There was, after all, no solid foundation upon which they might build mutual understanding, let alone permit themselves the vulnerability required for genuine closeness.

And yet, his dratted heart had betrayed him entirely, clinging to her like a drowning man to a lifeline—his Amazon, fierce and unyielding, who awoken within him a storm of feelings he had long thought buried. No matter how he told himself he was too old and too wise to succumb to such folly, Henry could no longer deny the truth he had fought so hard to suppress: the very thing he had believed impossible had come to pass.

He had fallen for her and it pained him. The mere thought of her being gone made him sick, as did the vision of her avoiding him for the rest of their lives, despite her maddening, impossible nature—so difficult to love, yet so impossible not to.

They were so different, yet in some ways so obviously alike, particularly in their stubborn inability to open themselves to one another, but someone had to take the first step, or else this endless cycle of hurt would persist unabated. Clearly, his current approach was woefully inadequate—he had gone about it all wrong—nothing he had done thus far had brought them any closer.

Which meant a mere physical union would not suffice.

A gesture of kindness would not suffice.

Even words, however eloquent, would not suffice.

No, if he was to reach her, he must think on a grander scale; he must strive to bring forth the very best of himself that would appeal to his wife, the man even he himself had scarcely seen ever since he moved back to this house. Perhaps then, and only then, his infernal wife might trust him enough to reveal her true self in turn?

Henry resolved that he needed a plan—one both meticulous and daring—that would prove to her that he was the soul destined to make her happy, if she would only allow it.

Even if it meant baring his past, exposing the wounds that still bled into his present.

Even if it meant risking the possibility that she might leave England altogether.