London, May 1885

The hour for luncheon drew near, but instead of proceeding to the dining hall, Henry found himself in the drawing room, pressing his fingers to his temples in despair.

He had tried to dislike—even hate—his wife, he had sought to quench those blasted feelings she inspired by imagining her professing undying love for Mr. Gray, or by telling himself that after the divorce he could marry Lady Amwych and start a family with the woman who had recently shown a promising talent for learning bed sport.

After all, was that not what everyone, save his own stubborn conscience, seemed to desire for him?

Only Henry didn't want a divorce. He did not want another wife, nor to love Sabrina any less... nor relinquish her freely to that despicable black stump; least of all now, as his head cooled, leaving room for doubts to creep in—the ones about Mr. Gray's account of his and Sabrina's intimate relationship.

Perhaps the most foolish act on his part had been the leap to the most dire conclusions?

Had he been too quick to believe a rogue with a possible hidden agenda? Too cowardly and incapable to confront his own wife with questions that desperately needed answers, only because he feared that her words would indeed leave him with nothing but his heart torn to shreds? Hiding in a dark corner of blessed ignorance was also an excruciating agony, but how much longer was he willing to carry this cross of his own making?

Decidedly, he turned to leave the room, only to hear the rhythmic tapping of shoes echoing from the corridor. For some inexplicable reason he could not entirely explain, no other solution came to his mind other than to duck behind the sumptuous sofa, perhaps in the very manner of the little magpies. The absurdity of his action struck him almost instantly—surely the youngest of the siblings would have applauded his ingenuity, no doubt—all he lacked was an armful of pilfered silver to complete the image!

Sabrina could not have been more torn over her family and her dearest friend's visit. What seemed to fill her soul with joy of their company was swiftly succeeded by the gnawing worry that she would have to admit the true colours of her life in England. Naturally, the tender-hearted Worthingtons might easily be fooled by her curated facade, but Rodney Scott knew her too well, almost as if she were a limb sprouting from his body.

After a heartfelt welcome and a brief chatter about her welfare, he took a long, scrutinising gaze at her, and it did not escape Sabrina's attention that Rodney saw right through her, given his furrowed brows. Hence, she ushered her guests to the dining room for luncheon, praying the meal would stretch long enough to stave off his pointed questions.

This time, though, even the Worthingtons, including mischievous young Alice, seemed unmoved by the duchess' saccharine eloquence, occasionally stealing glances at Rodney that betrayed their shared unease.

"Sabrina, my dear," aunt Patricia said gently, reaching for her niece's hand. "Forgive me if this seems insensitive, but I must confess I'm surprised you did not anticipate our arrival. We sent a letter clearly stating our intentions more than a month ago."

"A month and a half," Sabrina repeated faintly, her cheeks colouring. She sighed. "The fault is mine, aunt, forgive me. I admit, I must have forgotten amidst the many obligations put upon my shoulders."

Her mind mocked her mercilessly, Sleeping with Damon Gray can hardly be counted among one's obligations. It made her swallow with nervousness. She could recall no such letter, but it would do little good to admit that her chaotic personal life and her writing ambitions as a form of escapism had left her little time for familial correspondence.

Patricia made a dismissive wave of her hand, though her smile became crooked for a moment. "It is of no consequence, my dear. You must have much to attend to as a Duchess of Grantchester. But should your husband not join us for luncheon as well?"

The aunt's hand gestured to the empty chair at the head of the table. The mention of her husband sent a shiver down Sabrina's spine, for she could not help but reminisce about the man who had been the cause of the strongest emotions she had ever known—both rapturous and devastating. She had sent a servant to fetch Henry, but to no avail.

"My husband has been quite occupied of late," she replied, summoning her most convincing smile. Yet the sceptical expressions of her family and friend made it clear they doubted her words.

And just when Rodney parted his lips to speak, the duchess rose abruptly and declared, "I believe you would like to see your chambers now. You must be weary from your journey—it is better you take a respite."

Just as she had led them into the dining hall a quarter hour before, Sabrina had done the same with the rooms, showing pop and mom Worthington to their rooms first, then Alice. It was only when she found herself alone in the corridor with Rodney that her composure began to waver.

Rodney placed a gentle hand on her arm, causing Sabrina to turn her head towards him. "Stop this," he ordered in a low voice so that no one in the corridor or the room next to them could hear. "Just stop. It pains me to see you like this."

"Stop what?" Sabrina asked, her eyes reluctant to meet his for the answer.

Rodney shook his head in exasperation. "The fidgeting, prattling and the rest of the nonsense. Where is your damned husband and why do you look as though you've not slept in a week?"

He nearly pressed her further as her stubborn reluctance to answer piqued his curiosity, but Sabrina finally remarked, "Let us move to the drawing room, please."

Her friend nodded, following the duchess into the designated space for their private discourse. Rodney's patience had already worn thin, but now an ominous sense of foreboding reached its crescendo.

"This, I trust, is a safer haven for stinging inquiries and equally searing replies," Sabrina said as they settled upon the settee, wholly unaware of the eavesdropper who hung upon their every word with bated breath. "You may proceed with your worries, Rod."

Rodney scoffed, though it was devoid of humour. "I scarcely know where to begin, Sabrina!"

"Perhaps," she said prickly, her gaze fixed on some distant point as to avoid his reproachful eyes, "you could start by telling me when Tempting the Hermit will grace the bookshops. Shall I ring for tea and biscuits?"

"No, madam," Rodney snapped, his tone cutting, "you're not going to divert me with your book now. And keep that fucking tea to yourself."

Hidden behind the sofa, Henry's expression soured at the man's rough language towards his wife, yet there was nothing he could do but hope this inconvenient predicament in which he found himself would soon resolve itself.

"Do you even comprehend the depth of our concern when we haven't received as much as a single letter from you in months, Sabrina?" Rodney continued indignantly, "Could you imagine the dread we have endured, fearing that something dire had befallen to you? Any lie would have sufficed—as usual!"

"Lie?" she echoed, her sharp gaze snapping to his. "When, pray, have I ever lied in my letters?"

"Your talent for writing volumes of nothing has grown most impressive since you came here," Rodney replied dryly. "But now, seated as we are, do look me in the eye and tell me you are content. Tell me that your melancholic gaze and the dark circles beneath your eyes are merely the fruits of His Grace's endless love. I dare you."

Oh, how dare you, you fucking prick! Were you privy to the pain she's inflicted upon me in return, you'd rethink such presumptions, concealed Henry seethed inwardly, swallowing nervously in the anticipation of Sabrina's reply.

And it came from her swift and with a sharp edge, as one could expect.

"You are correct—it was a mistake to come here, Rodney. Does that answer satisfy your insufferable righteousness?"

Indeed, it seemed to Sabrina that fate itself was conspiring against her, placing obstacles, accidents, and unwelcome interlopers between her and Henry, as if in a heavenly nudge that they should part forever, doomed as they were. At the height of her anger and despair, she said many a hurtful words, and these were yet another that caused her inner voice of reason to revolt furiously, not to mention tug at unseen Henry's heartstrings as well.

Rodney sighed heavily, his gaze softening at the tears glistening in her eyes. "I loathe being the one to say it, but I warned you, Sabrina. You made your choices, and now the burden of them rests solely upon your shoulders. You flee from people, but the truth is, you've been running from yourself all along. Does your husband even know?"

Her friend raised a hand, lightly tapping his left ear with his fingers.

Of course I do!, the duke seethed, oblivious to the fleeting gesture. But wait—how do you, sir, know that Sabrina is with child? She claimed no letters were sent to you in months! Have you spoken about it already?!

"Henry knows," Sabrina replied as the duke had come to expect.

"I presume that he did not take it well."

Oh, sir, you can scarcely imagine how well I've taken it, but your villainous weasel of an accomplice is scheming to bring me to my knees with that black leech she wears as some demented scarf tied around her neck, Henry fumed silently.

It took Sabrina a long minute to respond. "My husband seems to loathe me for it, probably because I have kept it secret since I arrived here and he only found out yesterday."

Rodney groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Christ, Sabrina. Then he is the greatest fool beneath the heavens, though you're not lagging far behind him. Surely you see that, do you not?"

Henry's breath hitched and his eyes narrowed. Goodness gracious, what the bloody hell are you two gumps speaking of? Sabrina is not expecting, then?! If this is yet another agreement that I'm an imbecile, you'd better tell me something I do not know!

Sabrina wiped away a pair of fugitive tears from her face, then Rodney clasped her hands.

"Come back to New York with us, Sabrina. What sense is there in lingering in unhappiness when you are under no obligation to do so? Leave the duke to his devils—your purpose was never here."

The eavesdropper had to bite his hand to keep from bursting out of his skin. The secret! What is the fucking secret?! What is she so convinced I loathe her for, if she's not expecting?! Spill the beans, you two witless dimwits, or help me God—

"I... cannot leave just yet," Sabrina said at last, her voice faltering. "There are matters I must arrange first."

Yes, difficult to leave a man without a penny in your pocket, isn't? Your lover cannot put a coin on your name either, what a misery. Oh, poor you, dastardly hussy. So what exactly has been your scheme all along?! Henry thought bitterly, though felt no triumph in his cynicism.

Rodney nodded. "Of course, take what time you need. But do not tarry overlong."

Sabrina shifted uncomfortably, her hand brushing against her abdomen as a familiar pain flickered through her body and across her face.

The movement made her friend's brows to furrow. "Is something amiss? You seem unwell, pardon my candor."

"It is nothing," she replied with a deep breath. "Perhaps some fresh air will do me good. Shall we take a stroll, Rod? The garden is particularly fine this time of year."

Henry almost roared. The garden? Fuck the garden! What is it you are concealing that drives you to leave me?!

"Certainly," Rodney replied, rising with Sabrina from the settee.

Together, they moved toward the doorway, their strides purposeful as they left the drawing room, much to Henry's relief and fuelled anger at once. His head peeked over the edge of the settee as he knelt, his tousled hair swept in all directions.

I want my answers, damn you!, the duke almost roared, keeping the exclamation within the chamber of his mind.

He recognised his simmering wrath, the acrid bile rising within him, though forced himself to pause and collect his wits and clarity, taking deep breaths to quell his emotions. Now he was certain that London had to happen exactly as he had planned, with him laying Sabrina's soul bare, whether she willed it or not, and making her sing out every secret—the crucial ones with consequences as well as those of trifling import.

Everything.

But as a man who felt mightily slighted and disregarded, he was not known for his patience, was he?

Hell and damnation! I shall have my answers now, he decided rampantly all of sudden.

The duke gripped the back of the settee, pulling himself upright with a force that matched his unyielding determination. Without a moment's hesitation, he strode after the retreating pair.

He caught them in the entrance hall and was about to exclaim and put a halt in their foolish venture to see some bloody bushes in the bloody garden—a meaningless excursion that did not stand up to the gravity of the moment—but before he could speak, Rodney's voice rang out as another man appeared unexpectedly in the corridor ahead.

"You!" Rodney's tone was sharp, his gaze fixed on the figure.

The man froze at the exclamation, his expression darkening, as he recognised Rodney Scott.

Sabrina blinked in confusion. "Rodney, do you know this gentleman?"

Her gaze flitted to Damon Gray, who stood as if rooted to the spot, back to Rodney. Her lover's startled expression gave way to a muttered curse, low and profane.

"Indeed, I do," Rodney replied, his voice brimming with incredulity. He pointed a finger at Damon, his indignation scarcely contained. "This—this is the very man I paid for your... ahem, indiscretions in New York! What in God's name is he doing here?"

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, and Sabrina's jaw might as well have dropped to the floor at this unexpected revelation.