London, May 1885

Henry scrutinized the man seated across his desk for a full minute before speaking,

"You do not realize how fortunate you are that my wife possesses a saint's heart, Mr. Gray."

Damon arched a brow. "Do you, Your Grace?" he asked in a tone as provoking as it was insolent, earning a wry smile from Henry.

What an insufferable fucker, the duke thought, though he remained composed as he replied, "I believe this is neither the place nor the time for witticisms, sir. Do not presume that your familial connection to the Duke of Hertfordshire or your cousin, the Duke of Northumberland, would sway the court were I to speak against your character."

Now that successfully wiped the smugness from the halfwit's face.

"Are you threatening me, Your Grace?" Damon asked, his complexion turning pale.

"My wife believes there is some goodness buried deep within your rotten character," Henry said, gesturing toward him with disdain. "While I remain unconvinced, I will impart this—funds have been released for the construction of a new home to replace the one you lost."

Damon's mouth fell open. "You would build a new house for me and my family?"

"Not I. It is my wife's funds that will finance the endeavor."

"I do not require Sabrina—"

"It is Lady Grantchester to you, Mr. Gray," Henry snapped, his tone like a whipcrack.

Damon scowled. "I do not require Her Grace to grant me such charity."

Henry leaned back in his high-backed chair, saying, "And I did not require you to become a perpetual nuisance, yet here we are. Was it not enough to have my wife's cunt plundered, you good-for-nothing ratbag? Why, in God's name, would you entangle her in your calamities, nearly causing her death in the process?"

At last, his veil of decency faded under the weight of his fury, as he harboured questions to which he sought answers despite the fear of what knowledge would be revealed to him.

"I did not draw her into such matters of my own will," Damon replied, his smirk returning as if to fan the flames. "She came to my home of her own accord, and do you know why, Your Grace? Because she loves me, and one day... she will belong to me alone."

Henry's nostrils flared, though outwardly he maintained a semblance of composure, thin as it was. "Pardon my candour, but I find your assertion at best a preposterous tale spun by a madman."

"Oh?" Damon leaned forward, his voice dripping with venomous delight. "Your wife whispered her love to me before crying my name aloud; her lust quenched as I filled her cunt with my seed. Indeed, her little Dutch cap saw more use in its absence than its presence. Count yourself miraculously fortunate she does not yet bear my child."

It was a miracle indeed that Henry did not tear the armrests from his chair and shove them down the wretched bastard's throat.

"You seem to forget, Mr. Gray," Henry said icily, "that I and Lady Grantchester are wed. Are you insinuating my demise so you could have your way with my widow?"

Damon chuckled, content with how his provocations ruffled the aristocrat's feathers. "Your death is unnecessary, Your Grace. Her heart is already free of you."

Henry nodded slowly, clicking his tongue as if pondering the absurdity of it all. "Your wait, I am afraid, is in vain. Neither I nor my wife will ever seek a divorce. Now, kindly remove yourself from my study."

Damon stood, but as he reached the door, Henry called after him.

"And one more thing—your children will be tutored alongside my cousins' children, save for your youngest. She will be placed under the care of a governess beginning tomorrow. You are welcome."

The soft thud of the closing door was a small comfort to Henry, who took a deep, exasperated breath. No, he tried to reason with himself, no, this cannot be true. Sabrina cannot love that black leech, she herself said so.

Not after everything they have endured lately.

Not if his scheme was to succeed. And yet, doubt crept in like a fox in a henhouse—could it be that the trace of affection and vulnerability she had shown him was nothing more than a ruse to leave him, to start anew with that confounded villain? In a new home built by her funds, surrounded by a family that welcomed her in ways he and his kin did not? Was this all a mere scheme to lure the money out of his pocket?

Could it be that his wife was preparing to hurt him in the most unimaginable way at the most unexpected time? After all, Sabrina had once spoken of divorce when she thought she was pregnant with the scoundrel. Perhaps she was expecting now—could that be the true impetus behind her visit to that bloody house, where she almost died? Was she even thinking of returning to Westhill?!

Henry, you must trust no one, everyone will only look for a way to profit from who you are and what you can do for them, his mother's voice echoed in his mind. What they call love is but infatuation, and like all emotions, it fades quickly. True love can only be found between parents and their children, and between children. 

It was all these words that made the most impression on young Henry.

His clenched fist slammed against the desk, sending papers and ink tumbling to the floor.

Henry wanted to believe none of it—he had absolutely no reason to trust the ruffian's words—but some of the clues were out in the open, weren't they? Had she not run after him whenever she could? Did she not hurt him so badly because of her lover?

After all, she did not profess any feelings for him, did she?

Meanwhile, Damon continued down the corridor, pausing as a figure emerged in his peripheral vision and beckoned him into the chamber. Once he quietly closed the door behind him, the lady asked with undiminished anticipation,

"Well?"

"They will never divorce," Damon said, his tone dark.

Her expression soured. "Then you are failing to earn the payments I have extended to you."

"And why is the entire endeavor on my shoulders alone?" Damon snapped. "Is there not supposed to be temptation for His Grace as well?"

The dowager waved a dismissive hand. "What do you think Lady Amwych's role is in our scheme? But my son is reluctant to lie with her. You, on the other hand, excel in exploiting feminine vulnerabilities, it was precisely this prime expertise of yours I hired you for. Which brings me to another question—why is she not yet with child?"

Damon smiled wryly at Regina. "It is not so simple to beget a child with a woman, madam. I fear my opportunities to plant my seed in your daughter-in-law have been most irregular."

Regina approached him, her forefinger raised in admonition. "And yet, here you are, under the same roof as her. You might want to make the best of it. Do not forget, Mr. Gray, that I pay you handsomely—not only to keep your bloodthirsty debtors at bay but to see your children clothed, fed, and cared for, and to indulge those vices you dare not speak of aloud. Still, it seems you require further incentive to perform the task for which you were hired, hence allow me to raise the stakes."

With an air of triumph, the dowager extended a folded piece of paper she had kept concealed in her hand. "You miss your wife, do you not? What if I told you I knew of her whereabouts?"

Damon's knees buckled under a sudden wave of weakness, and he collapsed into the nearest chair. Regina chuckled amusedly at his discomposure before turning toward the door and departing, leaving the victim of her blackmailing to grapple with her words.

His hands trembling, Damon quickly unfolded the paper, revealing what appeared to be an entry from a journal with his wife's unmistakable handwriting on the page.

"Fuck," he murmured through gritted teeth, his face contorted with anguish as suppressed sobs wracked his body.

It should never have come to this, he should never have fallen and become an imbecile, chained to a woman as vile as Regina Clarke, all for the money he desperately lacked. Yet the worst of it was the realisation that things had already gone too far—had he defied the dowager and revealed himself to be a true villain at this juncture, he would lose Sabrina either way.

The duchess, oblivious to the battles waging within the hearts and souls of her husband and her lover, just sat quietly at the dining table, surprised to find that Henry was not yet present for the supper. As though prompted by some unspoken premonition, she felt a shadow of unease creep over her.

When Henry at last entered the room and seated himself at the head of the table, his gaze bore into her with an intensity that made her shiver. It was a look that mingled potent anger with deep hurt, she knew, and the weight of his silence pressed upon her chest like a steel vice. Gathering her courage, she ventured to ask, "Is all well, Henry?"

"No," he replied curtly. "Was anything ever truly well between us?"

He fought to maintain his volatile composure, conscious of the terrifying outbursts that had cost him so much time spent building trust with others... But his restraint frayed as he spoke again.

"Why, Sabrina?" he asked in a strained voice. "Why did you turn away from me in my moment of greatest vulnerability with you? What thoughts occupy that beautiful head of yours, what secrets do you keep from me? Are you aware that the precious mouth of yours not only serves to take in a man's cock, but could also be used to communicate with your dastardly husband?"

Frustrated and tormented, he put his face in the palm of his hand, not quite sure if he was being poisoned by her duplicity or if his own nature had always been thus. Henry felt a hesitant touch on his other hand, which was resting on the table, only to pull it away sharply.

"Do not touch me," he growled. "You need not make the effort, I know your secret. You're cold, cruel, and full of shite, dear wife."

Sabrina had watched her husband weather the storm in silence until that moment, but his comment made her gasp for breath momentarily as it struck her like a heavy blow. Could it be that he had finally discovered her disability?!

"Henry, I—I meant to tell you—" she began, her voice faltering under the weight of her pain.

"There is no need," he interjected icily. "Save your breath for someone willing to listen to your tales."

Rising abruptly, he nearly overturned his chair in his haste. Tossing his napkin onto the table, he strode from the room, deaf to her pleas for him to stay.

No matter how much Sabrina had previously steeled herself for his rejection, the pain caused her to wrap her hands around herself as she had done as a child and later as a young woman. After the worst pain and shudder subdued, she gathered her will and retired into her bedchamber, instructing her maid to fetch a bottle of the strongest wine in the house.

For a long time, the night refused to take Henry into the grace of slumber, and when it finally claimed him, he dreamed of Sabrina—her soulful dark eyes, her soft smile, her silky hair... He was aware of her gaze as he performed his daily rituals in his bedchamber, and how it made him smile inwardly, feeding the hope that he might finally patch up his marriage, only to experience otherwise at this damned hour.

Somehow Henry felt a strange sense of destiny, as if he and Sabrina were coming to a final turning point—one that would determine whether they could rebuild what was left or, despite his reservations, part ways forever. He thought of confronting his wife and her lecher in his study, to settle the matter once and for all, and to end the heavy tension that hung in the air.

A tear or two would have escaped his eyes, even in his dream-veiled conscience, if it hadn't been for the envisioned Sabrina and her attention to his cock. Yet for someone as passionate about intimacy as she was, the whole endeavour felt somewhat... odd, as if this version of her had never really touched a cock before.

Henry managed to open his eyes only to have the vision of Sabrina replaced by a real, fair-haired woman whose mouth was on him, her tongue tracing the sensitive flesh of his glans, both hands gripping the base of his shaft. It took him less than a second to realise with a jolt that the woman was none other than Lady Amwych. The soft glow of a candle, probably brought in by her and placed on the nearby table, illuminated her features as she worked her way along his length.

"What in God's name are you doing?" he demanded, his brow furrowing in shock.

"I believe it's called fellatio," she replied evenly, resuming her ministrations.

Henry sighed, his voice tinged with exasperation. "Forgive my candour, but you hardly seem enthusiastic about it."

Lenore shook her head and remarked with quiet resolve, "On the contrary, now that you are prepared for me, I shall be prepared for you as well."

Henry's gaze darkened with intrigue as the determined lady straddled him, guiding his rather well-endowed member to her unready core. Yet he could not overlook her heroic, albeit strained expression as she struggled against both his formidable girth and the evident discomfort of their joining.

"Cease this," he said sternly, his voice tinged with concern. "You are as dry as parchment."

Her nervous chuckle broke the tension, though her reply was shy and uncertain. "I have borne a child, yet I know little of how to please a man."

From the first, Henry had suspected she was one of those unfortunate women who, aside from enduring the duties necessary to produce an heir, were given no encouragement to take pleasure in the marriage bed. It was clear her previous husband had been woefully inept, leaving her ignorant of both her own desires and the art of intimacy.

"Lean upon me," he commanded gently, and she obeyed, albeit with some hesitation.

Drawing her closer, Henry guided her until her body rested lightly against his chest, then lowered his mouth to capture the ruby peak of her nipple. The warmth and wetness of his tongue elicited a gasp from Lenore, one filled with equal parts surprise and burgeoning delight.

"This... this is surely sinful!" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"It is only a sin if you confess it to your priest," he replied with a roguish smile before returning to her nipple.

His free hand claimed her other breast, kneading it tenderly. When his mouth moved to the opposite peak, his hand traveled lower, seeking the delicate bud nestled between her thighs. Lenore's sharp intake of breath was followed by soft, involuntary moans as her body responded, her growing arousal now allowing him to sheath himself within her with ease.

Henry grasped her hips, guiding her movements in a rhythm that soon coaxed her cries to a crescendo. When she finally found release, her nails dug into his arms, and her trembling form collapsed against his chest, her breath ragged.

"Now, now, Lenore," he murmured, stroking her golden hair with slow tenderness. "It is time you told me the true reason you have come to my bedchamber this night."

It was several moments before she regained her composure enough to reply. "Is it not clear, Your Grace? I desire to become your lover, as I thought you wished it as well, given the flirtation between us. And fear not—I have employed a sponge against consequences in my... cave."

Henry nearly winced at her choice of words. A cave? Such a place was usually cold and unwelcoming, while Lenore was at best simply misguided, her naïveté stirred more pity than contempt, though her quim was as warm and inviting as the pond in the summer season. Alas, giving her further lessons in intimacy was not something Henry was particularly eager to sign up for.

"No wonder you aspire to such an arrangement," he said with a smug smile. "My skill in bedsport exceeds that of most lovers by leagues." He lightly tapped her lips with a finger, his tone turning sharper. "But I am after the true reason, madam, so spill it. Do not think that you can mislead me any further."

When he got no answer from the woman, he proclaimed, "I'm afraid you'll have to pack your things first thing in the morning—"

"No! Please, Your Grace!" she cried, her desperation forcing her to sit upright, her hands trembling. "I'm sorry! I... I did not wish for things to unfold in such a disgraceful manner, but I was left with no choice."

"Indeed? Who has dared to compel you to such folly?" he asked, though he suspected the culprit even before she answered.

"Your... your mother," Lenore admitted haltingly. "She has threatened to ruin me should I fail to carry out her wishes."

Henry's jaw tightened as the full tale unraveled under his probing questions. Once the truth was laid bare, he dismissed Lenore from his chamber, but not before marking her breasts with his spunk in return for her pleasure. As he cleaned himself of her sap, he sighed deeply. Apparently, his wife's whoring tendencies were not exclusive to her.

Staring deep into the night canopy, however, he slowly redirected his anger toward a more deserving target—his meddlesome mother. If Damon Gray was a leech the size of his hand, she was a leech the size of a man, sucking every ounce of mirth and vitality from everyone. Not that Henry had an overabundance of joy to give away, but he certainly wouldn't get any within her orbit, ever. Oh, how naive he was to think his mother could keep herself at a distance!

First, he would deal with his mother. Then, he would confront the pair who were undoubtedly rutting at this very hour, emboldened by the belief that Henry would not stand in the way of their happiness for much longer.

And while Henry was being visited by his latest conquest in a bedchamber plenty of doors away from his wife, Sabrina reclined in her solitary bed, awaiting her husband's appearance in the adjoining chamber where she so often spied on him day after day, night after night. Her only companion was the bottle of wine, and she had drunk only half of its contents before she realised that it had quite numbed the worst and the sharpest twinges of her sorrow.

She kept staring into his place, imagining his impatient stride as he deliberated matters of importance. His hand touching some of the artefacts from his travels, weighing them in his hands as if in seeking the memory of distant adventures—there was usually that faint smile on his face. He also liked to attire well, always paying an extended glance at his form in the long mirror, a peacock he was. Perhaps the toilet table was meant for his chamber after all. And at occasion, she could discern his lips to form a profane oath—fuck—sometimes in anger, sometimes in disbelief.

Henry Clarke was insufferable, vulgar, wicked and pompous arse.

But what she missed most was the promise of tenderness and kindness in his eyes that he was capable of, as he demonstrated on those rare occasions. His glances she caught on occasion, filled with interest and unspoken questions. The depth of his genuine care and emotion that frightened her at the most inappropriate time—he made her feel what she had never experienced in her life, thinking she would have to resort to her rich world of imagination for good.

Henry was the hero she would write about in her books, the dashing, complicated man whose rough exterior concealed depths of passion, the one with a seemingly difficult nature who turned out to be much better than he seemed at first.

Perhaps it was not merely the revelation of her affliction that drove him to sleep in another bed. Perhaps it was the accumulation of all the grievances she had caused him that added to the volatile powder keg that was his temper, though, to his credit, he reined in his anger, choosing to remove himself from her presence rather than surrender to wrath.

Sabrina closed her weary eyes, when the bed shifted beneath her in a soft, familiar movement.

"You came," she murmured towards her welcoming intruder.

"I felt your need for my attention," Damon replied, his breath warm against her ear as he nuzzled her cheek with playful affection.

Yes, it was a sentiment of distinct disappointment that tugged at her heart when she heard the voice she did not crave at that moment, but who could fault her audacious paramour for seizing the opportunity to pay her a nocturnal visit? Who but Damon Gray would dare enough to risk the duke's ire, aware that there was no door between the married pair's bedchambers?

With practiced ease, he turned her onto her back, his lips capturing hers, savoring the faint sweetness of wine that lingered there.

"You taste the most exquisite tonight, my darling."

His hands deftly divested her of her nightgown. In the dim candlelight, she watched his shadowed form discard his garments, her mind warring with itself. This man should not be here, she knew. Yet her spirit, dashed by sorrow and dulled by wine, found no strength to send him away. Perhaps it was despair, or perhaps the intoxicating effects of the spirits—most likely both.

How long before he, too, discovered her secret and cast her aside? How long before his attention turned into resentment? Under the onslaught of emotions, it seemed wiser to surrender and to accept his attentions while they lasted.

Damon settled over her, his lips trailing down her neck with maddening tenderness. "You are uncharacteristically demure tonight, my love. Is something amiss?"

Nothing is ever in order in my life, because I make everything infinitely more complicated, consciously or not, she thought, though what passed her lips was a simple, "It is nothing. A quarrel with my husband."

It had scarcely been a quarrel, but she had no desire to explain further. Not when Damon's lips moved lower, his tongue teasing her sensitive nipple until a gasp escaped her.

"Mm, perhaps it was my words that vexed His Grace so greatly," he said before nibbling on Sabrina's spiky, tiny nipple.

A shiver of unease crept through her, mingling with the desire ignited by his touch. "What did you say to my husband?"

For a moment, he offered no reply as his hand ventured lower, his focus on the slow, deliberate exploration and teasing of her clit, then with intimate skill he found his way into the inviting wet heat with his fingers. It was no coincidence or mere attempt to ease her for his cock, but to ensure there was no barrier to nature's course of his seed continuing on in her womb, eventually producing his child who would bear Clarke's name, though he himself had to fortify his spirits before taking on this daunting task. The order was simple, and yet he had to take a drug before he even crossed the threshold of the duchess' bedchamber, fully aware that this act would hideously transgress Sabrina's boundaries.

Yet he found no obstacle—no sponge, no Dutch cap, rendering her utterly at the mercy of nature and his carnal act.

Firm hands cupped her breasts before compelling her thighs to part, then he positioned himself between her legs. "Only the truth—that I love you and wish for him to clear the path to our happiness," he finally replied, knowing the duchess' gaze veiled with lust kept observing his face intently, as he teased her slit with his glans.

Her breath caught, not from his impending entry. Sabrina knew his words should fill her with righteous anger too, but instead, she felt a pang of sadness in her soul. Her conscience was at odds with Damon's desire for more than she could give. Unable to voice her remark as his hungry lips claimed hers again, she succumbed to the wile of his cock as he entered her pussy with a practiced precision.

Her lover needed no guide to bring her to the heights of ecstasy, yet tonight he took his dominance further, pinning her wrists above her head as if to underscore his earlier declaration—a man intent on claiming not just her body, but her will and heart.

Living in a lie was deceptively simple but devastating in the long term, Sabrina knew despite the gentle veil of intoxication that clouded her reason. Hence, as her climax coursed through her, leaving her writhing, shuddering beneath his weight and feeling his hot breath on her neck, she murmured,

"Damon, I tried. I tried to love you."

"I know," he said back, his will teetering on the edge of a precipice.

"But you will ever be second to my husband," she continued, her words faltering under the weight of emotion. "Despite all that transpired between Henry and I, I still desire him and I must attempt to repair our marriage. It is what I deserve."

Damon exhaled deeply, the tension in his frame betraying the war within him. "I surmised as much," he said quietly.

"Do you not think you deserve better?" her voice quivering.

His lips brushed hers in a final, tender kiss.

"I do not deserve better," Damon murmured, and with that, he pulled his shaft out of his lover, stroking himself three times and ultimately spurting his seed between their bodies, an act of defiance against the dark intent that had brought him to her bed. "But you do, Sabrina," he added in a hollow voice, bearing no regret of leaving such a vile request unfulfilled, though he was thoroughly disgusted with himself for even attempting it.

He breathed deeply, his cheek pressed against hers, her fingers tracing the sharp lines of his face as they lingered in the aftermath. Damon's realisation was firm—he could not do it, he would never be able to betray her, not even for the sake of his damned desperation. He probably gave up on ever finding his wife with his decision, but at least, he could meet his eyes when glancing into the mirror. And yet, he had to admit their carnal trysts were rarely without Sabrina's walls being lowered by spirits, devil's weed or the impossible height of emotions he was parasiting.

He fucked women for money, dulled his guilt and senses with drugs, and seated at the seemingly bottomless pit of his depravity and nadir, he conspired to ruin the ducal pair... but in the end, he couldn't bring himself to destroy the woman for whom he harboured genuine feelings.

The satyr couldn't trample his precious nymph.

It was unexpected to grow so fond of someone being wholly convinced he would never love anyone as much as his missing wife, but even his overwhelming desire to find her did not allow him to deny Sabrina's wish to avoid conception. 

And Damon's wounded heart knew that her affections would never truly be his, even without her confession.