London, May 1885

Henry and Moira observed Lady Lenore taking her leave in the most proper manner, and one might surmise it was Moira's subtle yet ruthless flirtations, directed at her person, that unsettled the woman more with each passing moment in their company.

"Ah, it's always a pity when a good pair of tits leaves our presence," Moira remarked with feigned indignation, casting Henry a conspiratorial glance. "Tell me, is Lady Amwych the latest addition to your throng of lovers?"

"She is not," he replied curtly, raising the teacup to his lips. "I am not so great an idiot as to fall prey to my own mother's scheming, no matter how charming or, shall we say, well-endowed the decoy may be," he added, his words muffled by a hearty sip of tea.

They were seated in the drawing room at this hour, tea and biscuits laid out on the table before the settee they shared. Moira, having abandoned her chair after Lenore's departure, now occupied a seat beside her lover. She arched a brow at Henry's response and pressed further.

"So, then, you continue your dalliance with your sister-in-law?"

"No," he replied evenly. "That affair ended some time ago—on both sides, it seems."

Moira's brow climbed higher. "So, you became intimate with your wife? Considering her earlier display, I confess I thought otherwise."

The duke shook his head. "No, alas, she has chosen intimacy with another."

And perhaps love as well, he mused.

Moira's brows threatened to meet the ceiling now. "Really, Henry, I knew something was amiss when you visited me those weeks ago. Despite my sincerest efforts to make use of your cock to its fullest—while my wife rode your tongue—you retained your defeated demeanour. My jaw and hands still bear the ache of laboring over your precious Thomas! Even your manner of, shall we say, lovemaking has changed from what I'm used to with you. Are you, perchance, thinking of your wife while tupping other women?"

Henry groaned and removed his spectacles, massaging his temples in exasperation. "You shall never cease to remind me, shall you? But consider this: I was a then a young man, led by lust and desire. Rest assured, Moira, that despite certain misgivings, I have since matured and remain with the woman I am tupping at the time—both physically and mentally."

He replaced his spectacles and added, "I tup differently, because I changed with intent, and I changed because I sought to mollify—or, rather, convince—my wife..."

Henry faltered, his words trailing into a silence as frustration tempted his resolve.

"To convince her of what, Henry?" Moira pressed, seeing that he was reluctant to complete his thought without a spoken order.

"To love me," he confessed quietly. "I thought that by showing her the depths of my regard, she might trust me to open up to me. Yet, my efforts to tell her how much I cared for her were to no avail. Then I tried to revert to my former ways, but that, too, has availed me nothing. Damned if I do, damned if I do not. All I know is that I'm married to an insane tart," he grumbled.

Moira's mirthful expression became short of glee and smile, as she sympathised with Henry's plight. "And all I hear is the pot calling the kettle black, I daresay. I never thought to see the day you spoke of love in earnest. What do you intend to do now?"

"I possess her fortune which I said I would return to her account, but I must be clever and make it a part of a grander scheme. A plan during which I demonstrate to my wife the life she might have with me and not another... but I have yet to finalise this scheme as I sense I'm still missing something vital to make it more poignant for her."

The duke exhaled deeply before continuing. "So, Moira, I must implore your discretion regarding my recent sojourn to the city. as my next visit was meant to be with Sabrina in tow to conclude the financial arrangements. She would sooner tolerate me partaking in an orgy than neglecting to escort her to the bank."

Moira nodded thoughtfully. "Do you require help with this grand scheme of yours?"

Henry shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but no. It must come from my mind and heart, and I am prepared to make any sacrifice Sabrina might demand, even forsaking all current and future laisons. Today, I know I have met my match in her; I suspected as much when I first laid eyes upon her in this very room, but the idiot within me refused to acknowledge it. I love her so profoundly it is an agony to envision my marriage without her reciprocating the sentiment, despite that I must wonder on occasion if I'm not merely insane after all she had done."

I may be turning into my father after all, he thought fleetingly, though with an absence of resentment.

After a moment of silence, he concluded, "And I fear it may already be too late for reconciliation. But enough of my woes—how fare you and Victoria?"

Moira sighed. "Henry, you are a short-fused bear with a sore head who sought to mend matters with his wife too soon after a storm of his own making. You keep too much from her, and naturally, she mistrusts your intentions. Is reconciliation your desire? Then speak plainly—tell her what you cannot even tell me."

Before he could respond, she continued. "As for Victoria—she is gone."

Noting his astonishment, she elaborated, "Yes, I, too, reap the fruit of my idiocy. I took her for granted, and now she is gone for good. Perhaps she deserves a heart devoted to her alone."

"I am sorry it ended so," he said sincerely, surprising her.

"It seems your lady has indeed changed you," Moira remarked, taking a sip of tea. "Her Grace has awakened your strongest emotions—and perhaps made you a touch compassionate."

Henry smiled faintly at her observation, and while he and Moira reflected upon his turbulent marriage, a different battle raged some three hours' ride from Westhill.

Damon was unsure how long he had been unconscious, or how he had suddenly fallen into this wretched state. It was his breath, laborious and constricting, that connected him to the realm of the living. He was afraid to open his eyes yet, but as memories of the events that preceded his current state flooded his mind, he gasped and forced himself to face the surrounding chaos.

If it wasn't for his quick thinking to push Sabrina aside, shielding her with his own body, they would likely be buried under the rubble and wooden stakes at this moment without any chance to ever see the light of the day again.

How terrible it would be to die, to be buried alive!

But Damon also remembered something hitting him in the head, and the pain just announced its grim presence as the sudden pain that reverberated through his skull made his vision momentarily dim. The blow made him fall, and Sabrina fell with him.

No, no, I must not faint now, he begged himself, opening his eyes once more and searching for her face as she lay there, right underneath him.

"Sabrina, Sabrina!" he cried, tapping her cheeks gently, but to no avail. "Fuck, Sabrina, wake up, do not perish here, do you hear me?"

Was it her eyelids fluttering or just his nerves playing tricks?

Damon quickly searched for her pulse and breath, but he could not vouch for the fact that it wasn't his distressed senses that had led him to believe that she was alive and well.

"Love, wake up," he pleaded, touching her forehead with his. "I shall never forgive myself if anything happens to you. I may be a son of Lucifer himself, but I did not cause anyone's demise, I swear."

It was her soft moan that brought him an instant and immense relief.

"Children?" was her first question, though almost inaudible to his ears.

"I am certain they were outside. My maid ensures they remain outdoors whenever I receive a visitor, so they could not have overheard... voices," Damon replied, pressing a kiss to her dust-streaked forehead. "My dearest, I need you to stand, for we must escape this hell before it collapses entirely. Can you do that for me, I implore you?"

"I fear I cannot, Damon," Sabrina whispered weakly, her eyelids fluttering closed.

With a desperate shake of his head, Damon tapped her cheeks gently but insistently. "No, you must not succumb to sleep! Sabrina, please... I love you. I love you beyond reason! I know you do not return my affections, perhaps you never shall—not in a year, not even in a decade. But hear me now: whether it be in a year or twenty, we shall be together. Do you understand me? No matter what transpires in our lives, you will one day bear the name Mrs. Gray."

The sheer audacity—or idiocy—of his declaration made Sabrina's eyes fly open, her brow knitting in displeasure. "I most certainly will not, damn you! And I strongly advise you not to threaten me anymore with such an appalling fate!"

Her impassioned response drew a soft chuckle from Damon. Rising slowly, he offered her his hand and carefully helped her to her feet. The effort made the world spin for Sabrina, yet he guided one of her hands to rest against the wall for balance, draping her other arm around his neck.

"Slowly and tread cautiously," he murmured, steadying her as they navigated the treacherous debris crossing their path.

Sabrina scarcely dared to breathe, fearing the slightest sound or movement might provoke another collapse of what remained to support the base of the house. Yet, by some miracle, they managed to traverse the ruined corridor and emerge into the open air at last.

Outside, Damon's children rushed to their father and Sabrina, their small arms encircling them as they cried with relief for their sire and his friend. Their joy was abruptly interrupted by a deep rumble behind them—the house's remains gave way, collapsing into a lifeless heap that marked a grave where once a proud house stood. The children gasped, their little hands flying to their faces in horror. Sabrina, meanwhile, turned to find tears brimming in Damon's eyes, alongside a thin trickle of blood marring his cheek and neck.

"Damon, you're injured," she said with concern, snapping him from his short reverie.

"It is nothing," he replied, brushing her worry aside as he caught her around the waist. Her vision blurred, and the world tilted dangerously. "Sabrina, are you unwell?" he asked, his tone laced with alarm.

The last thing Sabrina remembered was the rhythmic jolt of a carriage as they raced along the country road. Through her fading consciousness, she glimpsed Damon's silhouette, his features etched with worry. Then, darkness claimed her once more.

In her reverie, she found herself back in her bedroom, facing Henry, whom she had caught visiting her chamber during the night in what now seemed an eternity ago.

"Do you love him?" he asked, before she could even part her lips to make a scathing remark.

"He satisfies me in countless ways you cannot fathom," Sabrina replied, trying to turn her back to him as she lay on the bed, but his gentle but firm grip on her shoulder prevented her from doing so.

"There are black leeches in India that grow as big as my hand," he illustrated the size of the creature, allowing his fingers to touch and linger in the spot of her heart. "You scarcely feel their bite, but they're there, draining their victim until it's bone dry. That's Mr Gray to you—a parasite you willingly nurture with your kindness, blind to how it's deteriorating your welfare."

Though his touch burned like a brand, yet Sabrina lifted her chin in defiance.

"To be jealous is your prerogative, Henry, but do not assume that I will act on your false concerns."

The duke tilted his head. "I do not speak out of jealousy, but out of sincere concern. It is beyond my comprehension that you would trust a man you barely know and who has you wrapped around his little finger... I suspect there is something you do not want to tell me; the true reason you continue to be with him despite my warnings."

Oh, how she longed to confess the truth—to cry out that he was right! Two silent tears escaped her, only to be wiped away by Damon's hands.

"Do not expire on me, Sabrina," he murmured. "We shall soon appear in Westhill's driveway... please... Grantchester will send me to my early grave should I let harm befall you, and I'd gladly oblige due to the guilt I'd feel."

Damon said that last sentence almost inaudibly, as his children watched silently as he cradled Sabrina in his arms with a cool demeanour, yet distraught at the knowledge that they had just lost the roof over their heads and were reduced to paupers with nowhere to go. The three ravens also understood that their maid had been released shortly thereafter, and that they might not see her again soon... if ever. In a matter of minutes, their lives as they knew them turned into a great unknown; and the fragile woman in their father's arms was perhaps the only answer to their troubles.

"Papa, will the lady recover?" asked the eldest child, his voice trembling as Damon looked at him with a lopsided smile.

"She must, and she shall," he said with serious conviction.

At the manor, Henry grew increasingly unsettled—the evening repast was fast approaching, yet his wife was nowhere to be found. The butler informed the duke that the duchess had intended to return for supper, but even Caroline professed ignorance of Sabrina's whereabouts, despite—much to Henry's surprise—having been seen in her company.

Good Lord, could it be that she has left me already? he mused fervently, heading to her bedroom in an attempt to find some answers, maybe a letter confirming her willing departure. Yet before he could open a single drawer, a commotion from the corridor arrested his endeavour. Turning to investigate, he saw a servant already opening the door to the bedchamber, and with one glance at the scene before him, Henry rushed forward to help with the swooning form of Sabrina, who had been carried in the arms of two other servants.

"What in God's name has happened to my wife?!" he exclaimed with a mixture of fury and dread.

Once the duchess had been gently laid upon her bed, Henry's attention was disrupted by the sound of another voice—a man's, rough and beleaguered.

"My house... it collapsed, nearly burying us in the rubble."

Henry, still cradling Sabrina's pale visage, turned his gaze toward the rogue who had spoken, his first instinct to dispatch the man to meet his Maker without further ado. Only the presence of the manservant and the blood streaking Damon's brow gave him pause. Still, when Henry parted his lips to deliver a withering rebuke, another sight silenced him entirely.

Three little shadows hovered in the doorway, their eyes filled with equal measure of dread and hope that the story woud conclude in their favour. In a single breath, Henry discerned their lineage—those children were Gray's, and with that knowledge came the inescapable truth—any happy ending Sabrina might envision would necessarily include this ne'er-do-well and his brood.

Without turning from the children, Henry addressed the servant in a measured tone. "Has someone been sent for the physician?"

"Yes, Your Grace," the man replied with a deferential nod.

"Good. See that the rooms are prepared for Mr. Gray and his children," Henry commanded, his voice firm but devoid of warmth. He turned his attention back to Sabrina, brushing a stray tendril from her brow as he added, "Now leave me with my wife."

Henry glanced at Damon with a clear promise in his gaze that the matter of his wife's condition was far from resolved, and his adversary in Sabrina's favour nodded with evident contrition etched into his face—without further delay, he took his leave, his progeny trailing close behind.

Darkness had cast its shroud over the countryside when Sabrina stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She felt as though she had been trampled beneath some great force, her very bones rattled, her insides battered. A low groan escaped her lips, and almost immediately, a tender touch brushed her cheek.

Sabrina knew whose hand it was, oh, she knew that touch so well, even though she had not been so close to its owner, except in those rare moments of tenderness they had shared. Her hand rose to cover his, cradling it as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

"You were right," she murmured, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "God, you were right all along."

She could only make out the flickering light that must have come from the candles as her vision remained blurred, so she closed her eyes again in resignation.

"Hush now," Henry said, his tone so close, low and firm yet gentle. "You've suffered a mild concussion, Sabrina, but you shall recover by tomorrow. Rest is all that is required of you at the moment."

A pang of unease twisted in her chest as another thought intruded. "The children—where are they?"

For some reason, his wife's question about the offspring and not about the devil, who was without a doubt the main culprit in what had nearly been a tragedy, made him feel a warmth in his heart "They're here, fret not. I have no intention of sending them away, nor shall I permit their departure without your knowledge."

His reassurance drew a faint smile from her lips, but soon the heavy pull of sleep claimed her once more.

When next she woke, it was to the warmth of another touch upon her hand. And, just as with Henry, she recognized the presence at once. The curtains were drawn, rendering his features obscure, though seeing him clearly was the last thing she desired.

"You have no right to be here," she hissed.

"On the contrary, I do," Damon replied, his voice resolute. Clearing his throat, he pressed on. "I apologised before, and I apologise now—indeed, as often as is necessary—for the state of my house, which you were so unfortunate as to witness. Yet your presence may very well have saved my children's lives, Sabrina, and for that, I am forever in your debt."

Had she the strength, she might have hurled something at his head. Instead, she settled for a derisive snort. "First and foremost, you owe an apology to your children. As for me, I nearly regret not knowing I was but a convenient whore in your eyes this whole time. Had you sought monies for your attentions, I would gladly have paid without a moment's hesitation."

She attempted to withdraw her hand, but Damon held it fast, shaking his head at her bitter words.

"It was never about coin, you and I, Sabrina," he said, leaning closer.

"I shall bite you if you dare to kiss me," she warned him indignantly. she warned him indignantly. "You are as nefarious as I was told, and I'm glad I was able to rip your mask off before I trusted any more of your words!"

Sabrina could see that he considered whether he wanted to risk bleeding his lip, then decided to kiss her forehead instead.

"Who are you trying to fool, darling?" Damon asked in a hushed, caressing voice that betrayed his insatiable desire for her. "You came to me, because some seed of love for me has taken root within your soul. Yes, I'm as far from a saint as it gets, but I've shown you the depth of the passion you welcomed eagerly and on your own accord. Alas, it will never cease to disappoint me that you have chosen to remain with a man who is utterly undeserving of you."

Her nostrils flared. "To me, affection and intimacy are not one and the same, Damon Gray. Now tell me, besides your prowess in bed, what quality elevates you above other men—my husband included?"

His faint smile faltered. "I am loyal and I love with all my heart."

"Loyal?" she scoffed. "Lying by omission and spinning half-truths are not the marks of loyalty, save perhaps to yourself. And you cannot truly love if you're not sincere to your loved one."

The words she wielded like a blade had not only struck their mark within her lover, but her conscience got mercilessly pierced as well. If only forgetting and forgiving yourself were so simple...

Damon opened his mouth to respond, but another voice cut him short.

"Mr. Gray, your presence here is unwarranted. I must insist you leave at once."

Henry's voice was calm, but each word he uttered carried a hint of bodily threat. Damon exhaled slowly, capitulating at once. He rose to his feet with the intention of leaving, but paused briefly at the duke's side, gazing intently into the man's blue eyes.

"You cannot comprehend how fortunate you are to call her your wife," Damon murmured.

A faint smile of amusement appeared on Henry's lips."That's a bold statement from someone who has just become a pauper of his own making. Consider yourself fortunate that my wife is so kind to you and your family after what has happened—were it left to me, I would ensure your absence—if only for the sake of your children's futures, untainted by their father's damaging influence."

Henry turned from the scoundrel without waiting for a reply, his attention drawn to Sabrina, who had been observing their exchange with tired eyes, unable to discern the words they had shared.

"How do you feel?" he asked tenderly.

"Much improved," she replied softly, hoping he might lean closer, take her hand, or brush her cheek. Instead, he seated himself in the nearby chair, as if maintaining a cautious distance.

"The children send their regards," he said after a long moment of their mutual regard. "They are eager to know when you might take them for a stroll."

At the mention of children, she took a deep breath, expecting her husband's resistance after she had revealed her intentions. It was nothing short of absurd, if not downright insulting, but she felt she had to do something for their benefit and welfare.

"Henry, I know your cousins' children are tutored privately. I wish for Mr. Gray's offspring to attend such lessons as well."

His brows arched in surprise. Though the request seemed harmless enough, it also hinted that the Gray family might linger under his roof far longer than he had anticipated.

"And," she continued with a deep breath, "I should like you to use my funds to build them a new home."

Henry's brow now furrowed deeply which made Sabrina gulp. "Wife, I doubt you fully grasp the extent of the Gray family's lineage. They are connected to no fewer than three prominent houses, and I believe that witless clod has plenty of relatives who could accommodate him until he manages to rebuild his house. He could very well be staying at Jamieson's estate!"

Sabrina dared to oppose, though the storm brewing in her husband's eyes was unmistakable, necessitating that she tread with utmost care. "That place is unsuitable for the little ones. I fear I must insist, for I possess wealth so considerable it could not be exhausted in three lifetimes."

Her husband rose abruptly, his movements sharp with indignation, his hands raking through his hair as though to steady a head spinning under the weight of her outrageous requests. "Is it not sufficient that I tolerate the presence of that lecher under this roof? You nearly perished because of him, yet his gaze conveys nought but covetousness and the brazen desire to abscond with you, slung over his shoulder, trailed by his three little magpies!"

Her brow furrowed, a flash of ire in her expression. "Do not speak of children in such a manner—they are innocent in this sordid mess."

He stepped closer to her bed, his presence looming. "The butler reported the silverware missing, and upon investigating my suspicions, the lot was discovered beneath the bed of Mr. Gray's child. Why, Sabrina? Why must you persist in aiding them?" His voice was taut with frustration, tinged with something deeper, harder to name.

"Because I care," she replied, her tone soft, yet her words cutting as a blade.

Henry scoffed, shaking his head as though to rid himself of some intolerable thought. "Of course you do. You love him, do you not? Why maintain this farce any longer, pray tell?"

His piercing gaze scanned her face, noticing her black eyes filling with tears that made him immediately regret his harsh tone. To Sabrina, though, it made sense why the trail of Henry's thoughts would lead to such a conclusion, but she was determined not to back down, deflect or remain silent on this one rare occasion, perhaps for the first time ever.

"I cared that Caro was not cast out of this house," she began, her tone carrying a faint, sardonic lilt, "and I do not recall you asking whether I fancy romantic affection for the woman." She met his gaze with quiet defiance. "As for Mr. Gray, I kept my association with him out of spite and reasons most unworthy—but love had little to do with it. His children, though..." Her voice faltered, her tears spilling over as she pressed on. "They are so woefully neglected, starved for care and attention."

"In a way, they do remind me of myself," she continued tearfully. "I was given everything I desired on a silver platter by my father... except for my father himself. He was so infrequent during my childhood that I would break my pens just to compel him to buy replacements and deliver them himself as every gift he had ever bought for me. That's what the stolen silverware is about—those children know not yet how to assert themselves."

Henry, struck by her words, felt the tension within him yield to a softer emotion. He reached out, his hand gentle against her tear-streaked cheek, and pressed a tender kiss to her lips. Her hands found his arms, clutching them as though to anchor herself in his embrace.

"Forgive me, Sabrina," he murmured. "It had not occurred to me to see it in such a light."

He then gently extricated himself, moved to the other side of the bed, slipping beneath the covers. Now he could embrace and hold his wife, whose eyes reminded him of two tiny waterfalls. She clung to him, their foreheads touching in a silent communion of tenderness and Sabrina thought her heart would shatter at his single touch.

"I never knew you felt so unloved as a child," he whispered, his voice near her ear. "What of your mother?"

"I was loved," she countered, though her voice softened. "But my mother died young, and my father often placed his business before me. Much to my chagrin."

And so, she began to tell her husband about her family, sharing bits and pieces of her life, though she barely covered even a third of it as the weariness stole over her senses, and words faltered as sleep claimed her. Still, it marked the beginning of what she hoped would be healing of their marriage, as Sabrina was able to share with her husband without feeling that Henry was listening just for the sake of listening.

Her secret, however, remained yet locked away behind the sturdy door, for it was now his turn to reveal his past to her—at least some of it—and Henry knew, yet he required a much better opportunity to divulge equally, not to mention that after listening to her steady breathing for a long minute, his mind was assailed by intrusive thoughts.

She could have died today, he reflected bitterly, all because of that lamentable rogue. Can I trust a single word coming from those lush lips, or am I merely an idiot clinging to a hope that shall never be fulfilled...?