London, June 1885

Henry set down his uncle Giles' letter and chuckled softly into the study as he reclined in his chair, drawing the attention of his secretary.

"It seems you have received good tidings," she remarked, granting him only a fleeting glance, her cheeks rosy with the lingering embarrassment that had been there since she had ended up in his bed.

A faint smile played upon the duke's lips. "I have merely realised that my uncle is not returning—ergo, he is officially retired. On some fortuitous morning, he simply decided to depart for Scotland, packed up his affairs, and left with his wife. I confess, I envy his iron resolve these days."

Henry wished nothing more than to expedite his journey to his London townhouse with Sabrina at his side, but alas, her family had decided to remain at Westhill indefinitely, or so it seemed. And as he accepted their presence, exercised patience and hopefully turned himself into a good host, he could feel his temper beginning to simmer, humming beneath his skin—a warning not to avoid the inevitable for any longer than necessary.

He already knew what must be done, the only question was—would it be enough?

"I have no doubt that you possess such resolve, Henry," Lady Amwych remarked, her voice light. "Among other things."

Although her comment had been spoken with innocent intent, the recollection of the release he had given her, surfaced in her mind, igniting another flush upon her cheeks.

"Good grief, Lenore," Henry said in good humour, "two consenting adults engaged in a carnal act. Let us not pretend it was anything more than that. We crossed no lines, nor did we wrong anyone."

"Not even your wife?" she asked softly, her gaze unable to hold his for long.

"No," he replied with certainty. "What makes you believe my wife does not seek her own amusements?"

"I see," she murmured. „Then yours is not a love match."

The remark drained the mirth from his features, searing his heart. It was foolish to be so affected by the words of others, yet when it came to his marriage, everything still felt raw and aching. Though he continued to care for Sabrina in his tender ways that involved the spa, avoiding intimacy had become an unspoken rule between them, as if both feared the implications of their recent revelations.

It felt like waiting for the inevitable other shoe to drop.

What are you running away from, Sabrina? he pondered.

"I love my wife very much," the duke said at last, his gaze turning to the sunlit window.

Different strokes for different folks, and Henry knew he owed Lenore no explanation as to why his marriage had taken a different, unconventional path in the eyes of many. One thing was certain—he would have to swallow his pride and show Sabrina that, despite his pitfalls, he was capable of making her happy.

If only she would let him.

"Lenore," Henry addressed his secretary once more, "send word to my housekeeper in town. And another note to the bank."

That evening, Henry retired to his bedchamber earlier than usual, unsurprised to find his wife seated at her desk across the room, scribbling what appeared to be the pages of yet another novel. Although the remnants of daylight still allowed her to see the words, darkness was creeping over the countryside and she had not yet thought to light a candle.

"Are your eyes not straining?" he inquired. "It grows late."

Sabrina said nothing, merely continued her focused endeavour, but after a moment—as though sensing the weight of his studious gaze upon her back—she turned, her eyes meeting his. And she smiled.

Henry never quite knew what to make of such moments, nor what to say when they occurred. He could only attribute them to her quirkiness, though as of late, he had also wondered if her hearing was somehow impaired. Now he felt compelled to return the smile, feeling something inside of him soften.

He disrobed and reclined in his bed, and it was not long before another body joined him beneath the sheets, much to his surprise. As it was quite warm in the evening, Henry did not consider putting on his nightclothes, and the touch of a silky but deft hand on his shaft almost undid him from the lack of intimacy of the past days.

A soft gasp escaped her when his hand closed around hers, guiding it upward to his chest, their fingers intertwining.

"Endearing though your advances may be, I must refuse you this time, wife."

"Why? Is it because Lenore is your new favorite?"

If anything, he sensed the guilt and remorse seeping into her tone.

"If that were the case," he said dryly, "then I am tupping her as frequently as you fall upon your treacherous lover's cock these days."

"I'm not—" Sabrina began to defend herself, only to falter when the true meaning of his words settled upon her conscience. "Oh. I see."

For a moment, she tensed, uncertain of what to do. Then, as if reaching a final decision, she reclined beside her husband, resting her cheek against his shoulder. A long silence stretched between them before she spoke,

"I—I am confused, Henry. And afraid. For a long time, I thought I understood what was happening around me, but it seems I did not."

Henry turned to her, his hand gently stroking her sleek hair. He could barely distinguish the soft features of her face in the darkness, but he could sense that they reflected her sombre disposition. And though he could feel her nude body tantalisingly beckoning him to indulge in her other trappings, he remained steadfast.

"Then we are two of a kind then, uncertain of what lies ahead. I suspect we both are as obstinate as we are culpable, and that we use intimacy as an excuse for not being honest with each other. The chief dishabille in our marriage has never been that we have slept with other people—this was merely a consequence of our unwillingness to bend our wills—or would you care to contradict me, wife?"

Sabrina shook her head, prompting him to continue, "I am not angry with you, nor am I deliberately seeking to wound you. I only ask you to acknowledge I am not some unfeeling creature, and despite being far from a decent man myself, I still possess emotions and the right to feel hurt. And, above all, the right to know the truth."

"I understand," she murmured.

"Do you? Because I cannot believe, even for a fleeting moment, that your friend has not spoken to you of my overhearing your conversation in the drawing room, and yet, you have not once dared to return to the subject of this secret I have supposedly revealed. Do you surmise I have been blind to your peculiar comportment? Or that my noticing would make me despise you? Really, Sabrina, at times it seems as if you have relegated me to the role of the villain in your story, without once allowing me a say in the matter."

Henry strove to avoid bitterness in his voice, but it was difficult when this lingering dark cloud, a painful tension, kept dragging on and on, weighing upon his mind every day, while she remained mute as ever. All he achieved by touching her deep wound, though, was the tremor in her breath, the way her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven intervals. His words certainly did not miss their mark.

Fine, surely we can take it one step at a time, Henry mused, feeling her body shift as if to leave his bed. It was almost an ingrained instinct as his hands darted after Sabrina, grasping her arm with a gentle, but insistent hold.

"Stay with me, Sabrina. The nights feel unbearably lonely despite you sleeping but a few feet away."

It did not take her long to consider his suggestion—the duchess nestled beside her husband once more, her hand resting on his chest in a half-embrace. Henry listened as her fluttering slowly gave way to steady breathing, the tension in her body ebbing away, though his hardness remained. Had Sabrina touched his cock again, accompanied by a soft plea on her lips, he knew he would not have denied her. But thankfully, she respected his wish, and for that, he found himself smiling, albeit faintly. Also, having her so close to his heart made him realise a profound truth—he had been a bloody idiot to ever allow them to sleep in separate beds.

No. He would not give her more time to retreat further into shadows. He needed to see her.

Sabrina knew that exposing the dark scheme meant to keep her and Henry apart, and eventually securing their divorce, did not magically mend the rift in her marriage, and despite recognising the pattern of her making—which only led to more sorrow in her life—she tried to resolve it in her usual fashion.

By disengaging from the painful emotions and seducing her husband.

And though he did not refuse her in the same way as she had at the spa those months ago, a gentle refusal stung nonetheless, reminding her of the pain Henry must have endured—it was nothing short of saintly patience he had with her, perhaps even undeserved.

On the contrary, Sabrina felt she deserved this whole mess—the torment she had caused by allowing Damon Gray into her intimate sphere and by distrusting Henry. Yet, the closeness she felt at that moment, being tucked against her husband's warm, nude form, gave her a glimmer of certainty that nothing was lost, and filled her heart with hope.

Really, she had been this close to telling him the truth at that precise moment he had spoken of the secret, so terribly close, it was just... not the right time to do so, as she could barely see his face in the dark. Seeing his expressions at play and mainly his lips after she had told him was paramount to her. But the moment of truth would come sooner than later, of that she couldn't be more certain.

Her thoughts were validated the next morning, when Henry declared,

"My dear, instruct your maid to pack your belongings—we leave for town in three hours."

Tousled and still blinking away sleep, Sabrina regarded him with a furrowed brow. "But my family—"

"Your family keeps extending their welcome," he interjected, slipping into his shirt before turning to his wife anew. „Not that I take issue with it—they are welcome to remain here as long as they desire—but you expressed a wish to accompany me to London, to see your funds transferred into your new account, and I do honour my vows to a detail."

She narrowed her gaze at him, as for some reason—something she could not quite put her finger on—that felt like a carefully laid snare with an undeniable lure. Her gaze flickered downward then, settling upon Henry's cock, a fine example of morning wood in all its stiff glory, making her sex clench with desire.

Henry, upon noticing the spark of lust in his wife's eyes, smirked wickedly. He flexed his shaft deliberately, letting it twitch a few times, his amusement only deepening at her starved expression. "I regret to inform you," he said, voice thick with mischief, "that this particular extension of mine shall be accompanying me as well. However, I can promise it will be yours to command at my townhouse." He leaned in, lips ghosting over her ear. "Tell me, my lustful nymph—does that not tempt you to join my cause?"

Sabrina barely contained her smirk, though her pulse quickened at the promise. "The prospect of having my money returned is enticing enough, thank you."

But as she threw back the covers and slipped from the bed, revealing her tantalising body to his gaze, she cast him a knowing look. "Of course, I'm coming with you, Henry."

It was her turn to be amused by the deep breaths he took as he tried to keep his desires under control.

Hours later, as their carriage sped along the road toward the heart of London, Henry found himself unable to suppress a smirk. Across from him, his wife sat in silent contemplation, her narrowed gaze keenly fixed upon him. The sight amused him to no end, seeing Sabrina's figurative cogwheels whirring, striving to deduce the source of his uncharacteristically cheerful disposition and sudden extravagance.

As it turned out, he had arranged for them to travel in a luxurious landau, an ostentatious display of wealth, if ever there was one. The upholstery was of the finest quality she had ever encountered, plush enough that her bottom felt as though seated upon a cloud. The sheer indulgence of it only stoked her curiosity further.

"Do tell me, dear husband," she finally said, gesturing about to encompass the lavish interior, "what precisely necessitates all of this?"

"We are a ducal pair, my dear wife. It is only fitting that we act our rank, don't you think?" Henry replied, his tone playful. "This is not some covert visit in pursuit of our lovers, requiring us to slink about in an unmarked mail coach."

Henry knew full well he had to resort to a different tactic in order to maintain his wife's attention, and most importantly, he needed Sabrina to believe she chose all he had in store for her of her own free will. The trick was not to allow her too much time to dwell upon those choices.

"I shall return to Westhill as soon as my affair regarding the funds is resolved," she declared, her gaze fixed intently upon him.

It was a test. Henry knew as much. She sought to gauge his reaction, though he suspected she had already begun to reconsider—after all, he had deliberately left her in a sexual drought, so if she wanted to get her hands and orifices on his shaft, she had no choice but to comply.

For what he could only guess, Sabrina's mind was leaning towards the notion of remaining close to him—perhaps even uncovering some yet-unknown facets of his nature. Goodness, he better offer himself to me soon or I will have to resort to begging like the pathetic creature I am, she mused, swallowing at the sudden sensation of heat in her loins.

Henry inclined his head in agreement, his expression unreadable. "You are a duchess. You may do as you wish."

Except return to Westhill, my lovely, yet stubborn mule, he added inwardly. At least, not for the entirety of the week you spend with me.

Really, he had no shortage of carrots at his disposal, to dangle in front of her face as an enticement, including the one that so often sprouted in his groin to perform carnal acts at the mere thought of her. If Sabrina was as susceptible to manipulation as he suspected, she would end up precisely where he desired her to be.

And God help him, it was for the better—for both of them, and in an earnest attempt to save their marriage.

"You are different today," she observed. "Not even a day ago, we had that rather severe conversation. Or rather, you had—"

She did not finish her thought, for Henry abruptly leaned forward, capturing her hands in his own.

"My dear, I am merely... beyond pleased to be leaving Westhill, if only for a short while. You see, I have always been fond of my townhouse in London—it holds memories of promise, of triumph. But Westhill..."

His gaze flickered downward briefly. "Westhill represents the darkest days of my life."

Sabrina arched a brow. "Could you elaborate? Without crushing my fingers, if you please."

Henry started, immediately loosening his grip. "Ah, my apologies," he said contritely. "I would never dared to—"

"You haven't," she reassured him with a small smile. "Do not trouble yourself."

He exhaled deeply, settling back against the comfortable seat. "I would tell you more, but a carriage is hardly the proper setting for such elaborations. That will have to wait until we are settled at my house."

Now that was a rotten carrot he had not counted on when he had planned his scheme, and certainly the one to be used only as a last resort to keep Sabrina in London.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the rhythmic sounds of the landau's wheels upon the road. But it did not last long.

"How, precisely," Sabrina inquired at last, "did you come to learn of Lady Amwych's role as your mother's pawn? I can scarcely imagine such information being volunteered over tea and biscuits."

Henry chuckled. "You presume correctly. Though I had harboured suspicions from the moment my mother reintroduced her to me, Lady Amwych did not confirm them until—"

He paused, his smirk deepening. "Until I granted her what I suspect was the first climax of her life."

Sabrina's lips parted slightly, then pursed into a smirk of her own. "How very magnanimous of you. Truly, you are doing the Lord's work," she remarked sarcastically.

He inclined his head in mock solemnity. "She was not my mistress, nor did I ever intend for her to be. But when I was roused from sleep by the most enthusiastic—and, regrettably, inept in equal measure—fellatio I have ever endured, I was in no fit state to turn the lovely, poor widow away. So, we coupled once, she confessed her sins, and then she went on her merry way. Though, given how she has scarcely met my eye since, I rather suspect she may remove herself from Westhill altogether upon our return."

He touched his chin thoughtfully. "Shall I take this opportunity to remind you that I am not, nor have I ever been, a particularly decent man? Then I visited my wife's bedchamber, only to discover that she is not much of a decent woman either."

Sabrina let out a soft laugh, tilting her head at him. "And yet, if we are keeping score—" she tapped a finger against her chin in mock consideration "—I would argue that I am slightly more indecent than you. After all, my companion granted me three peaks in one night. Three to one—surely, that makes me the greater of two sinners?"

Indeed, Damon's head ventured into her loins after spending outside her quim, where kissed and licked her nub, invoking further sinful pleasure in her, perhaps in a desperate attempt to embrace her fully one last time before his lies came to light of the day.

Henry chuckled in amusement. "Darling, if anything, it makes you a doxy far too wanton for your own good."

She gasped in feigned offence, though the mirth dancing in her eyes belied her indignation. Shaking her head at her impossible, smirking husband, her amusement waned as she recalled that night—when she had believed it was Henry, and not Damon, who had come to her bed.

"I jest about it now," she admitted, her voice softer, her gaze fixed upon the carriage floor. "But in truth, I had hoped it was you. I lay there, anticipating your return to your own chamber... Yet you did not come. You were convinced I carried Damon's child. Why?"

Still resting his hand on his chin, Henry exhaled. "I became ill from the poisonous lies fed to me by that wretched black leech. He told me you... cried out his name in the throes of passion and that you loved each other. Add to this the potent mixture of what my mother had instilled in me in my youth, my first thoughts were of what I had always feared—that you sought to ruin me for... not being the husband you desired."

He cleared his throat. "The truth is, I only realised later how deeply your rejection affected me, Sabrina, how unbearable it truly was. In an attempt to silence my chaos ridden conscience, I sought out Moira." His hand hovered over his groin. "She and one of her so-called 'wives'... took care of this." Then, moving his hand to rest upon his chest, he added, "But they did nothing to ease this. No other woman can do that, only you, my wife".

A lump formed in her throat, her vision blurring with unshed tears. She swallowed hard, reaching for his hand. "I am sorry, Henry. Tell me, please—what must I do to earn your forgiveness? I do not wish you to be wounded by something I said in a misguided effort to... shield my heart."

Henry had not expected his admission to earn him yet another carrot, though her apology certainly felt soothing, as if she had coated him from head to toe with apothecary's balm. Though temptation stirred to press her for the truth she still withheld, he let the impulse pass. 

Instead, he gestured toward the empty seat beside him. "Come here, darling."

Without hesitation, she moved closer, and he reached out, brushing away the two fugitive tears that had slipped down her cheeks.

"I forgive you, wife," he murmured. "You need not prove yourself to me. Acknowledging my hurt is enough."

She laid her head upon his shoulder, seeking the reassurance in his presence as her fingers entwined with his. He responded with a gentle squeeze of her hand, his touch firm yet supportive.

"I know I have much to atone for as well," he continued, his voice calm, yet determined. "At Westhill, you saw the worst of me. Now, I wish to show you my best. I do not merely seek your forgiveness, Sabrina, not at all—I wish to open myself to you."

I shall place you upon every figurative throne there is so that you feel cherished, adored... and, undoubtedly, fucked until you come undone in fibres for me, he vowed inwardly.

A silence stretched between them, tender and contemplative, until Sabrina finally spoke.

"You warned me about Damon, Henry. I should have listened."

He sighed. "Yes, and I should have tied you to a bedpost as a precaution."

His playful remark elicited a scoff of laughter from her as she nestled closer. "And out of curiosity—just how long would you have kept me tied?"

"A very, very long time. Perhaps until I had my fill of my feisty tigress," he mused, smirking. "Though I fear the reprieve would be short, for I should have you bound again the moment you stirred my craving once more, if it were only for your own good."

Sabrina's lips curved into a smug smile. "So I am your feisty tigress now?"

"Consider it a promotion," he teased. "It is certainly a step up from 'villainous weasel', which I recall calling you not so long ago." He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss upon the back of her bare fingers.

She arched a brow. "You do seem to have a penchant for likening people to animals—leeches, magpies, weasels... And what of yourself, Henry? What creature best represents you?"

He chuckled. "Why don't you tell me, darling?"

Sabrina furrowed her brows in thought. "I cannot decide between a bear or a stag."

"Well, I am oft accused of being a bear with a sore head," he conceded. "And, rare though it is, I find myself inclined to agree with the assessment."

She lifted her head to regard him, noting the twinkle in his eyes, the rare ease of his expression—so unlike the cold, tempestuous, and sometimes wrathful man he had been at Westhill. It seemed that the nearer they drew to London, the more unburdened he became.

Her gaze fell upon the hand he rested upon his thigh, mere inches from his groin.

"I have come to realize," she murmured, "that I have yet to take your cock in my mouth."

Henry's brow quirked as he shook his head. "Indeed, you have not. And I consider that a most grievous slight against my person, one which demands a profound rectification."

She laughed, though he maintained a feigned sternness. 

"What, pray tell, is so amusing? I may well be the only man in the country whose own wife does not see fit to grant him such attentions. A scandalous oversight, truly."

Amused, Sabrina extricated her hand from his grasp and let her fingers stroke over the prominent ridge of his arousal.

"We could remedy that now," she purred, licking her lower lip to emphasise her intention.

Henry's reaction was swift—his hand snatching hers away as he exclaimed, "Get your paws off my precious! We still have to walk from the carriage to the house!" He then cast her a knowing glance. "I appreciate your devotion to fulfilling my every need, but, good Lord, you do forget your surroundings at times!"

While he snickered at her expression of mild indignation, Sabrina narrowed her gaze, pursing her lips. It did not bode well for her pride to have her advances rebuffed, but perhaps Henry had something in store for her later, once they were settled in bed.

After all, this infernal man loved to fuck—of that she harboured no doubts—but if he continued this charade, she would show him how well she could crumble the paper walls he had suddenly begun to erect between them.

Their arrival to London did not escape the attention of two gentlemen, both impeccably dressed in waistcoats and top hats, attempting to cross the street just as a grand landau rolled past. The distinguished men were Mr. Partridge and Mr. Holloway, both of whom worked for the gossip columns of their respective newspapers.

"Partridge, did you see that?!" Holloway exclaimed, nearly dropping his cigarette in his excitement.

"There is rather a lot of horseshite upon this road, yes," Partridge grumbled, spitting onto the pavement—only to receive a sharp nudge from his companion.

"No, you dolt! The carriage! It bore the Grantchester crest! They have arrived!" Holloway's face was alight with fervour. "This is it—the scandal we have been waiting for!"

Partridge's mind worked slowly on the warm day, but when the realisation struck, he nearly jolted upright. Then, composing himself, he folded his arms. "Holloway, we must confirm that it is indeed the ducal pair. Can you fathom what a gossip source of such magnitude could mean for our papers?"

Without another word, the two hailed a hansom cab, following the carriage to Grantchester's townhouse. There, just beyond the gates, they glimpsed the duke giving orders to the footmen unloading the luggage, while his duchess stood at the entrance, awaiting him.

And so, by morning, nearly every gossip gazette in London carried a variation of the same sensational headline:

GUESS WHO? A DISGRACED DUKE AND HIS AMERICAN HEIRESS!