London, December 1884

Sabrina knew she had to look out for a man holding a long, red ribbon in his hand as per the telegram she received shortly after confirming the date of her arrival to London, though she was uncertain whether it would be one of the servants or someone from the noble family expecting her at the docks. It would be somewhat romantic if the duke himself went to the port to receive her, but given the circumstances, this seemed unlikely.

Navigating through the mass of people rushing from the pier took her some time, and despite her slow and measured, her nervousness steadily increased.

What if we miss each other? she pondered feverishly, her black eyes surveying the docks, but then her gaze took notice of a gentleman standing beside a wooden pillar with a long, red fabric hanging from his hand. Sabrina felt an instant relief wash over her senses, and proceeded towards him.

It was at that very moment, that a strong wind assailed her hat, which immediately flew up and away so quickly that Sabrina had no chance to prevent her sudden loss. Not even her hairpins were spared from the ruthless swing of winter weather, causing her long, sleek hair to unfurl.

She suddenly felt so vulnerable, exposed, and out of place, though no one seemed to pay her any attention except for the gentleman with the ribbon who had noticed her little mishap.

Her heart began to thud with greater frequency as she approached him.

Is this the duke? she mused. He looks like a much older fellow. But he cannot be a servant either, given his fine clothing.

"Hullo," Sabrina greeted the gentleman, careful not to stumble upon her feet from sheer nervousness, "my name is Sabrina Hartley, sir." She smiled, albeit shyly.

"Miss Hartley," the elder man spoke in an indifferent voice, "I am Lord Giles Clarke, uncle to your husband-to-be," he introduced himself, and they shook hands. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last."

"The pleasure is mine," she replied softly, observing how he signalled the nearby coachman to take her luggage.

Soon, she found herself sitting across from Lord Clarke, the only sound resonating in their confined space being the rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels.

"The weather is not being kind to us today, is it?" Sabrina inquired, feeling increasingly unnerved by Giles' silent, penetrating gaze.

"Indeed, it is not, Miss Hartley," he replied curtly.

She nodded and turned her attention to the snow-swept landscape outside the window, hoping for a warmer reception at the Duke's home.

Giles Clarke's countenance remained inscrutable to her, shaped by years spent navigating the treacherous waters of diplomacy and dealing with those overly interested in Andrew's affairs and well-being. Inwardly, though, he allowed himself a small smile.

She's quite perceptive, this American woman. I can only imagine Henry's face when he discovers he is not marrying a hag but a rather attractive lady. Oh, nay, he certainly won't keep his hands off her for long, and he shall be pleased that destiny has been kind to him for once.

And while Sabrina drew nearer and nearer to Henry, the groom grew more anxious with each passing hour. He was frantically pacing in his bedroom at this time, utterly lost in contemplation. It was the sound of the door opening that brought him abruptly back to reality.

"Why are you so nervous? It's just another woman in your life," Caro remarked, closing the door behind her.

"It is not merely another woman this time," he retorted in a voice betraying his ill temper. "This one is to become my wife, will hold the title of Duchess of Grantchester, and there is no alternative but to accept her, regardless of any reservations there may be."

Henry moved to his escritoire, pouring himself a generous glass of Scotch. After taking a fortifying sip, he felt Caro's arms encircle him from behind, but he shrugged them off with an indignant gesture.

"Leave my room, Caro, I want to be alone," he said brusquely. "I'm not in the mood for your company."

She let out a derisive laugh. "What is the matter, pray tell? You will father a child or two with her and lead the life expected of the titled gentry. Perhaps you will even maintain an agreeable relationship with her while pursuing your own indiscretions. I have no doubt that fidelity is a concept as elusive to you as ever."

Caro then moved to a low, polished table in the room and made it her seating.

"I thought you might appreciate some... diversion before you meet your bride," she said with an air of a true coquette, lifting her skirts with a suggestive flourish, revealing her pussy to his gaze.

She knew very well why she chose a simple garment that day, and although Caro would never admit it to anyone, it was also a stroke of ego and vanity for her to be able to seduce Henry before he even met his intended... and perhaps even after he is married to her.

"Not to your liking?" she inquired playfully after she spread her thighs and touched herself briefly, apparently to no avail.

Caro then stood up, turned around and thrust her bare bottom at Henry as she leaned against the table. "Perhaps this position will change your mind?"

Normally, he wouldn't have hesitated for a split second before burying his cock deep inside her, but now... his entire mind was consumed by the woman on her way to destroying his life as he knew it. Not that Henry was unaware of Caro's fierce attempts at seduction - there was certainly no love nor expectations to be harboured; rather, she sought to secure her position in his favour, lest she be condemned to a life of obscurity in some remote cottage, marked by solitude and insignificance.

She was not one to relinquish her pursuit so easily either, hence she rose from the table and, with a leisurely step, approached her lover, touching the bulging thickness concealed with pants.

"Your arousal is evident," she murmured. "Why, then, do you resist me this time?"

Henry emptied the rest of his glass with a decisive motion and grasped her hand in a rather ungentlemanly manner.

"Do you suppose I am a beast, incapable of governing my own desires, Caro?" he hissed to her ear. "I only serve my needs, not yours, so kindly take the hint and cease being such a nuance. Shall I require you, I am well aware which bedchamber is yours, worry not."

He let go of her hand and made for the door but paused to turn and address her one final time. "I do regret that your union with Andrew has been so grievously disappointing. Nevertheless, I will not allow you to manipulate me through your personal grievances and demands, however justifiable they may seem."

Henry chose to retreat outdoors, seeking solace away from his family and mainly the imminent, unavoidable encounter with his bride-to-be, as he needed time to think, to reflect long and well on his future with the Hartley woman, or the Hartley hag as he kept disparagingly referring to the miss in his discussions with his uncle and mother.

He steeled himself for the worst: that he would find her difficult to bed at all, or that he would ultimately abandon the idea due to some unforeseen reason, be it his side or hers. But Henry prided himself on being a just man, hence he resolved to be upfront, transparent and fair with this woman as well. Contemplating a pragmatic arrangement, it would allow each to have their respective paramours, their discreet liaisons, and live comfortably, as a contented couple even.

Henry had never once thought of her to be a beauty, because, in his candid view, truly beautiful women seldom remained spinsters on their own volition, even those with a vast fortune like that of Hartley hag's, due to their possibilities among his ilk.

Clearly, there must be something amiss.

And the time approaching the inevitable moment when their gazes would finally meet was maddening to him. Fortunately, he had brought a small flask with him in his greatcoat to try and get himself at ease, or at least drunk to the gills, in order to survive the ordeal.

When Sabrina arrived at Westhill, she halted after disembarking the carriage, only to marvel in silence. She doubted that her eyes had ever seen such a vast mansion, and for a moment she felt as if she became a part of a fairy tale.

"Do come inside, Miss Hartley," Giles spoke up after noticing her falling behind. "You shall have ample opportunity to admire the house once you are wed to my nephew."

As they entered the great hall, Sabrina was taken aback by the assembly that awaited them there to welcome her to the abode, for each of the duke's cousins was present, along with their spouses and children. None of them were smiling, their composure was just as cold and impassive as Lord Clarke's, but the greatest chill emanated from an elderly lady who surveyed Sabrina with a scrutinising gaze, as though she were inspecting a horse rather than a woman about to join the family.

"Miss Hartley, permit me to extend a most gracious welcome to our abode called Westhill Manor," the elder lady began, her brows arched slightly as she didn't appreciate how close Sabrina approached the gathering. "I am the Dowager Duchess of Grantchester, Regina by name, widow of the late Lord Richard Grantchester, and it appears I am soon to become your mother-in-law."

Without extending her hand for a handshake, she proceeded to make the introductions, presenting Sabrina to the other members of the family, including the younger ones. When the introductions concluded, and it was evident that Sabrina had yet to meet her intended, she ventured to inquire,

"And Lord Henry Clarke? Is he not at home presently?"

She did not fail to observe the brief sneers that momentarily crossed the faces of several of his male cousins.

"Worry not, Miss Hartley, the duke is occupied at the moment, but he will join you in the drawing room once you have had a brief rest in your chamber," Giles assured her in Regina's stead.

He then signalled to the servant to escort Sabrina to her assigned room. Once she was out of the family's view, Giles heard Regina's indignant voice.

"Where is that imbecile who deigns to call himself my son?"

Lord Clarke merely shrugged in response, prompting her to scoff and set off in search of her son, determined to avert an untimely catastrophe.

Sabrina was immediately struck by the grandeur of her bedchamber, with its sumptuous furnishings, exquisite paintings, and other opulent details. However, her attention was soon drawn to a door that connected to an adjoining room.

"Is that His Grace's bedchamber, by chance?" she inquired of the servant, who confirmed with a nod.

"Indeed, madam," the servant replied.

She waited until the servant had departed before drawing closer to the door. Her heart quickened its pace as Sabrina pressed her ear to the cold wood, straining to detect any hint of sound within, though the silence suggested the room was vacant.

With a fortifying breath, she summoned the courage to turn the handle and enter.

His room resembled hers, though there were unmistakable signs of its occupant's presence in the place, such as his faint but distinct masculine fragrance. Sabrina found his scent rather agreeable, though she wouldn't admit it out loud that it stirred something within her very core. The thought of him being so near, merely a door away... free to have his way with her whenever he desired to do so, caused goosebumps to appear upon her entire being and sent a shiver through her, hence she swiftly banished such imagery from her mind.

She even dared to venture further and examine his desk and found his handwriting both precise and refined to the eye, suggesting that the gentleman must've devoted a considerable time to writing. Among the items were also several curiosities that she hadn't seen in her room, likely some memorabilia of his as she couldn't know at the time that those were the artefacts he brought from his archaeological digs. Sabrina felt an impulse to touch the objects he had been using, as if to connect with him in some way before their impending meeting, meticulous in ensuring that she left no trace of her intrusion.

And while Sabrina was becoming acquainted with her new surroundings—including the room she ought not to have explored yet—Henry sought his inner peace by gathering his leftover wits at the far reaches of the extensive estate.

How does one greet the bride he never desired? ‚Hullo, you bloody leech' isn't the most romantic of them all, is it? he inquired himself feverishly, then halted in step and took another deliberate sip from his flask.

"Henry, boy, your bride has just arrived," came Giles' voice behind his back.

The reluctant duke turned slowly in his heel and nodded, his lips pressed together as though pondering an appropriate response, yet no suitable words presented themselves.

"I fucked Caro," Henry blurted out at last. "Well, she fucked me as I was on the receiving end, just sitting in the chair with my Scotch in my hand. But we have fucked with regularity ever since, and we may well just continue our liaison after my nuptials."

Seeing his uncle's raised eyebrows, he added with a smirk, "It's very telling what kind of a fellow I am, isn't it, uncle... when one fucks his brother's widow while the poor bastard's body hasn't even been buried for a full day, and now can't keep his hands off her pussy, which is conveniently housed under the same roof."

He was at a loss as to why on earth he would confide such matters to his uncle; perhaps he sought the admonishment and censure he so richly deserved, the rebuke and advice that might dissuade him from entering into marriage until the matter was satisfactorily resolved. Such an expectation, however, was sheer folly, given the constraints of time and the substantial consequence he would face should he decline the union. Indeed, his uncle, following his mother, was the very last person he would anticipate offering counsel that might lead them to forfeit everything to some dastardly American woman rather than preserve his bachelorhood.

It felt as though he were a wild steed, flailing desperately for his dear life, but his being was already tightly bound with a harness that escape was all but impossible.

Giles sighed deeply. "Henry, everyone grieves in their own way, and, to be frank, it matters little who you tupped or not at present, although I'd advise refraining from doing so in the future. What's far more concerning to me, is that you haven't been sober for a single day since your brother's passing."

Henry parted his lips to retort, when a new, commanding feminine voice brought the Hades upon their heads.

"What in God's name transpires here?! I can smell the alcohol six feet from you, you witless clod! Have you not a smidgen of shame in you?!" exclaimed the Dowager Duchess Regina towards her unruly son who blinked at her in his drunken stupor.

"Mama, how does one greet his unwanted bride?" Henry inquired with a wry smile, which caused his mother's expression to darken.

"You might begin with ‚Welcome to Westhill Manor, my dear Miss Hartley'," she answered tersely, anger palpable in her voice. Regina then turned to her brother-in-law. "And you—see to it that this idiot is immersed in a cold bath at once, I require him sober, prim and proper within the next two hours to meet his bloody bride and save us all from the imminent disaster! Should he persist in opposing the union, do kindly remind him of the consequences we face and the implications for his own future well-being!"

Indeed, not even the combined wealth of the entire family, alongside Henry's personal earnings amassed over the years, would prevent them from plunging into financial ruin.

"Let us not tarry then," Giles declared as he grasped his nephew's arm and began to drag the reluctant bridegroom back towards the house.

"I do not wish to meet her sober," Henry protested softly. "Otherwise I might be sorely tempted to confess the truth about my earnest desire to wed her, as you so eloquently coined it in your telegrams."

His resistance elicited a weary scoff from his uncle, not so dissimilar to the ones being made by parents dealing with their fussy children who turn their noses up at everything presented to them on a golden plate.

"You must, Henry. For God's sake, you comport yourself as if you were a mere youth rather than a respectable man of your age," Giles admonished in a low voice so as to not provoke his sister-in-law into yet uproar.

His nephew sighed in response. "Is she at least acceptable where appearance is concerned?"

Ah, the perennial concern of kings as to whether they will be sufficiently stimulated for intimate endeavours by the sheer sight of their compelled consorts. Giles parted his lips to offer the truth, but then reconsidered swiftly.

After all, his nephew wore his patience down significantly these past weeks since learning of his impending marriage. Whom does he presume himself to be, Henry VIII?, Giles mused silently before replying,

"She's uglier than a toad, presumably sired by two ugly as sin people. In truth, her appearance is such that one might say it would befit the depths of Hades rather than the light of day. Indeed, she's so unappealing that we may parade her in public only with a veil covering her countenance, otherwise the travelling show might want to buy her for its menagerie. Her unsightly visage shall make the Jesus weep on his cross during your wedding ceremony."

"Fuck!" Henry groaned in despair, failing to notice the slight twitch at the corner of his uncle's mouth as he delivered his remarks on Sabrina's appearance, while Giles maintained his customary solemn demeanour.