London, June 1885

After returning from the bank, Sabrina sought the sanctuary of the library to soothe her nerves. It was a small, intimate space, filled with the scent of polished wood—a perfect retreat for her purpose, especially after buying at least ten new books at Hatchards. Yet as she moved through the corridor, her attention was drawn to a door, left slightly ajar.

Behind it, she spied him.

Henry was training, his body taut with exertion as he lifted a heavy dumbbell over his head, lowering it in a slow, controlled arc to his feet before raising it once more. He was fully engrossed in the rhythm of his exercise, his back to the door, utterly unaware of his silent spectator.

Sabrina remained in the threshold, utterly mesmerised. It was always fascinating to watch him eat—like a beast, unapologetic in his appetites. But this sight was even more captivating—his muscles tensed and flexed beneath his skin, the light casting sharp shadows over the carved lines of his body. The summer heat had evidently discouraged any superfluous attire; he wore only a pair of loose linen breeches, his feet bare, his body gleaming with perspiration.

So this is how he retains his fine musculature, she thought and swallowed.

A warmth curled low in her belly, her thighs pressing together instinctively at the temptation to interrupt Henry's training by approaching him and letting her tea gown fall to her feet, revealing her naked body. Sabrina lingered for another moment before withdrawing, leaving her lustful considerations for later as her husband expressed his wish to take care of his physical form after days of indulgence. Perhaps they would not tarry at the event for too long tonight. Perhaps it would be she who ensured it.

It was certainly a new and strange but welcome sense of certainty that was growing within her; a feeling of quiet confidence that their desire for each other was only growing stronger with their bond and love. It made Sabrina feel weightless, wonderful, irresistible...

Surely their bond would survive once her truth surfaced?

After Henry finished his training, his steps followed the familiar trail of Sabrina's presence into the library—she told him she would prefer a moment of quiet solitude after the flurry of outings they had made in just a few days. He found her curled in a high-backed chair, utterly absorbed in a book, her expression unreadable. Leaning against the door frame, he watched her with a smirk, knowing he ought to be on his best behaviour.

And yet, a sinful thought whispered at the edges of his mind—how easy it would be to pull her from that chair and take her right here, amongst the very books she loved, even though he still had to bathe the sweat from his skin. Perhaps this university event of his could be cut short. Perhaps he would insist upon an early departure, just so he could return home with his wife on his arm and devote the rest of the evening to far more pleasurable pursuits that hummed in their veins.

Henry loved her, and she knew it. Sabrina loved him, because he felt it in every glance, in every touch, in the way she leaned into him without hesitation. It made him feel alive again. Young again. Strong enough to withstand any truth she might reveal.

Surely, if he revealed his own wounds, she would not resent him?

Dusk fell swiftly over London, and soon, the ducal pair arrived at the grand entrance of the University of London. Yet Sabrina's hand gripped Henry's with uncommon tightness.

"What is the matter, love?" he murmured, squeezing her fingers in reassurance. "You look breathtaking."

They had both donned deep, navy blue hues with black detailing, the richness of their garments set ablaze by the golden candlelight spilling from the chandeliers. The silver necklace at Sabrina's throat glowed against her lightly bronzed skin, an unintentional souvenir from their days spent outdoors.

Her coiffure had been braided artfully without a single stray hair, embellished with small, inconspicuous diamond flowers that shimmered in shifting hues of blue, purple, and teal—like the iridescent plumage of an exotic bird. Henry had never seen her look more regal.

Or more tempting.

Despite the modest cut of her gown, propriety could not disguise the elegant curve of her neckline, the swell of her bosom. It made him ache to pull her into some darkened alcove and ruin her thoroughly. But for the moment, he had to put his visions of filling his wife's hungry cunny to the farthest recess of his mind.

"I am bathing in my own sweat," she muttered, which was only half the truth.

Henry, who found himself in a similarly infernal predicament, nodded in understanding.

"No dancing it is, then," he teased, though she sincerely hoped he would keep his word. One waltz in this heat and she might boil herself out of her gown on the spot.

Whoever decided to pay tribute to the university in June must have been gifted with a great deal of malicious glee, of that she was certain.

Sabrina exhaled in relief upon seeing that the attendees were seated at round tables. As expected, Henry was met with much attention, and he wasted no time in introducing her to their table companions. Seated with them were six others—Sir Darnley and his wife, Lord Egerton, Mr. Alcott, and Sir Langdon with his young wife.

Darnley and Alcott appeared to be in their sixties, along with Mrs. Darnley, while Egerton was only slightly older than Henry. Langdon, in contrast, was no more than forty, and his wife—a striking young woman with bright, inquisitive eyes and ever-present smile—could not have been more than five-and-twenty, at least by Sabrina's discerning estimation.

Lord Egerton, who sat beside her, wore spectacles much like Henry, though he seemed far less serious—and, she soon learnt, was the jester of their group.

"My dear Lady Grantchester," he began, his eyes glinting with conspiratorial mischief. "I am most delighted you could attend this evening, for one might assume the duke keeps you locked away at home, much like his other priceless artefacts."

She smiled in return. "Oh, goodness, no! Though I daresay there were times he held his artefacts far closer to his heart than his own wife." She gestured to Henry playfully. "You must understand—coming from the New World, I was neither ancient enough nor valuable enough to warrant such devotion."

Egerton's head bobbed eagerly. "Hah! There were times I thought him more enamoured with that mummy he unearthed in Egypt than with any living soul! Not a single conversation passed without some rhapsody on its remarkably preserved state, the ingenuity of the embalmers, or how the tomb's construction ensured its artefacts remained untouched by time. And the linens—oh, the linens! His Grace would not cease extolling their condition, nor cautioning us not to disturb them at the excavation site, lest the poor thing crumble into dust!"

"So, would you say," Sabrina pursed her lips briefly as if to stifle a laugh, "that my husband was... wrapped in his research?"

A ripple of laughter spread around the table, even Henry's lips curling in amusement at his wife's clever jest.

"Careful, Lord Grantchester," Mrs. Darnley, seated beside him, remarked with playful reproach. "Your wife wields the heaviest artillery—endearment and wit. Not even a Grecian god could withstand such an assault, I'm certain!"

Henry inclined his head in mock acquiescence, smoothly diverting the conversation to the elder lady. Yet, even as he indulged Mrs. Darnley's notorious penchant for flirt and discussing herself, his other ear remained attuned to Sabrina and her companion. Fortunately, following both conversations required little effort; the former demanded only nods and the occasional hum of interest.

"You seem remarkably well-read, my lady," Egerton noted with open admiration. "Surely, you spend your days immersed—if not sunk—in fine literature, as every modern woman ought! I wonder—have you read your husband's published diaries?"

To Henry's surprise, the duchess nodded. "Indeed, I have," she replied easily. "There is one passage I recall most vividly—where Henry describes a chapel of sorts... only to realize, upon closer inspection, that it was merely a water closet." A small, teasing smile played on her lips. "It seems my husband has a certain... fondness for such places."

She turned her head just slightly, glancing at Henry, who met her gaze with bemused resignation at her subtle jab. While Sabrina merely winked at him before returning her gaze to Egerton, Henry felt a lump form in his throat.

His wife had read his books. Not out of obligation, not for propriety's sake, but because she wanted to.

None of his family had ever bothered—not his mother, not his uncle, no one. They had offered praise, of course, the obligatory taps on the shoulder, but it had been colleagues and acquaintances who had acknowledged his work, who had seen value in his words.

But this—this meant something.

Sabrina had read his experiences, traced the words he had once scribbled in solitude, and remembered them well enough to jest about them.

It meant she had tried. Tried to know him, to understand him—to connect.

And that... that was new.

Egerton chuckled. "Ah, the latrine in question was in Ephesus, which he mistook for a shrine to Mars—the Roman counterpart to Ares," he corrected lightly, unbothered by the word's presence in mixed company. "But your recollection is not so amiss, for your husband indeed dubbed the Chand Baori stepwell in Rajasthan 'the grandest latrine he had ever seen'. It was meant as a jest to his English colleague but very nearly incited a brawl among his Indian associates and sepoys, who, of course, overheard his strong voice."

Sabrina suppressed a laugh. Ah, Henry and his inept remarks—why should I be surprised at this juncture? she mused, though she chuckled inwardly at the memory of her husband expressing his affection for her in the most inappropriate of places.

She turned to him, meaning to gently chide him for the incident—

But just then, a hand landed on Henry's thigh.

And it was not his wife's.

As if scorched, Henry shot upright in his seat, the abrupt motion rattling the tableware and drawing the attention of their companions.

Sabrina's brows creased. "Is all well?"

"Y-yes," Henry stammered, attempting a tenuous smile. "I, ah—I have just spotted two of my acquaintances. I should like to introduce you to them, my dearest, before they vanish for a smoke."

Two chairs had just been vacated at a table, where Sir Vincent Callahan, the provost, and Mr. Peter Haggarty, Henry's former colleague, sat engaged in what appeared to be an animated discussion.

The duke wasted no time. Henry took Sabrina's hand, muttered an apology to their company, and led her away, sensing the sultry gaze that followed him.

Mrs. Darnley, it seemed, was not yet finished—the minx even batted her lashes at him, their darkened tips heavily laden with some godforsaken sticky black substance.

Brazen old hag, he thought and barely refrained from grimacing. Not that it would have made any difference had she been decades younger—his reaction would have been precisely the same. The last thing he needed tonight was some scandalous entanglement jeopardising the fragile foundation he was carefully laying with Sabrina.

No, there would be no extramarital affairs, not this week, or ever. This was their time—just him, his wife, and the bond they were slowly, painstakingly mending. And that, to Henry, was as sacred as the Bible itself.

Meeting Henry's colleagues—men who were certainly more to him than mere acquaintances—was a pleasant experience for the duchess. Though she found them a touch too strait-laced for her taste, Henry later explained that both Vincent and Peter were men of a more reserved nature, particularly around those they had only just met.

Yet their time at the table was brief, for the moment the first notes of a waltz echoed through the grand hall, Henry—despite their mutual avowal to avoid dancing altogether—rose to his feet and extended a hand to his wife. The evening had cooled considerably, and to deny themselves at least one dance felt, in his words, nothing short of a crime.

And it was marvellous.

Sabrina was accustomed to dancing mostly with Rodney—few others had ever asked, and for two very simple reasons. The first, that much of New York's ton assumed Rodney Scott to be her fiance. The second, that those who did ask quickly learned of her impairment and thereafter regarded her with pity or tried to get into her favour for the most inappropriate reasons.

But she was far from reminiscing about the past tonight.

She couldn't stop smiling—for the first time in a long while, she felt like the leading lady in her own fairy tale—swept away in the music, in the presence of a man who held her so assuredly, so completely, that for the space of a dance, there was no one else in the world. Just her and Henry. After the waltz concluded, he led her through the hall in a vain attempt to cool themselves from the exertion, his hand covering hers where it lay upon his arm. Sabrina arched a brow at his firm grip.

"Are you planning to hold my hand in such a possessive manner even as I retire to the water closet?"

His mouth twitched in amusement, the recollection of their shared malady still fresh in his mind.

"Very much so," he returned smoothly, "as I still recall all too well what transpired the last time I allowed you to wander in society unguarded."

It was the first time since they had left Westhill that Damon Gray crossed Henry's mind, his smug, victorious smirk appearing unbidden. And yet, the memory left him entirely untouched.

What had passed was best left in the past. There was no longer space for doubts, for jealousy, for bitter recollections that served no purpose in his marriage.

Sabrina's lips pursed briefly before she quipped, "Said the man who once failed to refuse a woman simply because she woke him by taking his stalk into her mouth."

Henry smirked. "I believe you know precisely what to do should you wish to ensure that no other woman has the pleasure of tasting my precious jewels."

Sabrina nodded eagerly, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, yes, I shall sleep beside you every night with a dagger beneath my pillow—ready to poke away any daring wenches who take my poor, powerless husband for easy prey."

Her words sent him into a fit of rich, hearty laughter, and in response, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss upon her fingers.

"Please do keep Mrs. Alcott away from me, then," he said, amused. "She touched my thigh in the most unwelcome manner—hence my rather abrupt departure from our chairs."

Sabrina shook her head. "Unbelievable. Young or old, they are ever-eager to end up in your sumptuous bed. I fear I may require a rapier to ward off such elder tigresses in the days to come."

"Rapier and a revolver, just to be safe," he added, to which she laughed outright.

That was it. Moving forward, Henry wished to be the source of her laughter, her joy, her general merriment. She was so utterly radiant that evening—her skin aglow, her eyes shimmering with ease and delight. If only they could remain like this—just the two of them, bantering until dawn—he would count the night an unrivalled success.

But alas, Henry could not keep her to himself all evening. As was expected, after all.

At some point, they were separated by other attendees eager to converse with each half of the ducal pair. Yet, even amidst the flow of conversation, Henry found his gaze returning to her. Not out of jealousy, but because she was simply... sublime—a duchess in her own right, every inch of her. And the word itself did not feel adequate, though there may have been a shortage of words in all the lexicons there were to describe his true state of bliss at the state of things that night.

Not everything was about trying to convince Sabrina that he would fulfil every dream she dared to utter aloud, something he ruminated over and over again during the sleepless nights—he found himself treasuring the small things too—the unspoken tokens of their growing affection. To appreciate and embrace the vulnerability that had begun to bloom between them after so many months of unnecessary pain.

Each day they became better for each other, and he was in awe of it all.

It felt natural. Inevitable. It felt meant to be.

"She's extraordinary, your Lady Grantchester," came a familiar voice beside him, drawing Henry's attention.

The duke turned to find the good-natured, greying Mr. Alcott standing at his side, a glass of wine in hand. Henry's lips curled into a knowing smile.

Mr. Alcott had never married. It was widely spoken that his one true devotion was to the science of medicine. Henry knew little of the specifics of his work, but his peers spoke of him in only the highest regard. There were even rumours that Her Majesty intended to bestow knighthood upon him within the year.

The elder gentleman whose eyes glimmered with admiration, took a slow sip of his wine before continuing, his mouth curling in quiet amusement.

"Had I not spent so many years working with children and youth with hearing loss, I might never have recognised Her Grace's impairment. She conceals it masterfully!"