London, June 1885

Sabrina let the sea breeze wash over her face, carrying with it the briny scent of salt and the crisp bite of the wind. It tickled her nose, but she quelled the urge to sneeze, instead turning her gaze toward Henry. He stood further along the pier, his expression distant, contemplative—a man caught between memory and present day.

This had been his idea—or rather insistence—that they make this final stop before setting their course for Westhill. And though he had said little of his reasons, she already suspected them.

Really, if he thought, even for a moment, that this was another opportunity for her to leave England—and their marriage—he was in for a thorough scolding.

After everything that had transpired during their week at his townhouse, if he still harboured the notion that she might walk away, there would be no angrier woman in all of Christendom than Sabrina Grantchester.

As she approached, the thoughtfulness lifted from his face, replaced by a smile—that slow, boyish grin made all the more endearing by the stubble that dusted his jaw.

"I have given it a great deal of thought," he said, his voice carrying over the wind, "and I have at last determined where it all went wrong in our story."

"Oh?" Sabrina arched a brow, her lips curving in kind. "Took you considerable time, sir."

Henry inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I should have been here, Sabrina. The day you arrived in London. I should have welcomed you, ensured that you felt respected rather than otherwise. Perhaps then we might have avoided much of the hurt we inflicted upon each other." A pause, before he added contritely, "For that, I am sorry."

She did not hesitate. "Apology accepted. Besides, there is still plenty of time to right the wrongs. All time in the world, truth be told."

Her voice held no doubt, only steely conviction.

Sabrina then continued, "I am not leaving you, Henry. Ever. Not even should you beg me to go. You are stuck with me—in good and ill, for eternity. Even if we lose everything and become paupers with as much as three shillings in our pockets."

Henry exhaled a chuckle, and lifted his hand, asking for hers.

"Signed, sealed, delivered," he murmured, grinning. "My dear Lady Grantchester, my happiness is immeasurable now that you have decided to stay—to remain my wife that is—my precious thorn in my backside. May I have the pleasure of showing you our home?"

Sabrina placed her hand in his without a moment's hesitation, only to be swept into his embrace.

It was truly a scandalous display for a duke and duchess—a bold, unrepentant kiss given and received on a public pier, exposed to the eyes of onlookers. But neither Henry nor Sabrina spared a thought for the whispering spectators or the reporters crafting their inevitable and outrageous columns that would undoubtedly appear in the morning papers.

It was no ordinary kiss, they knew—it was a kiss of a second chance at marriage, a kiss solidifying everything they had been through trying to heal themselves during their week in Henry's townhouse... a kiss that sealed the budding trust and love and bond they felt would last until the end of their days.

And when they had at last climbed into the landau, neither of them had ever felt more encouraged and prepared to face the challenges of daily life as husband and wife that lay ahead. Of course, a week was not enough to guarantee a marriage free of quarrels, but it was enough to serve as a reminder—a testament of the long journey they had taken to see and meet each other in their needs.

And there were still matters yet unresolved. No sooner had Henry signalled the coachman to depart than Sabrina spoke up, her tone measured but firm.

"What do we do with Damon?"

Henry's brows lifted, mischief sparking in his blue eyes.

"He's your pet, bought and paid for," he remarked idly. "But for God's sake, do keep him on a short leash, would you?"

A dark figure seated across from them let out a pointed cough.

"Ahem. You do realise I can hear you, don't you?"

Sabrina turned to him, her brows arched. "I would recommend you listen more than speak," she said crisply. "Your words have a talent for causing considerable damage."

Henry, naturally, could not resist adding, "You are rather pale, Mr. Gray, but seemingly in good health otherwise." A mocking tilt of his head. "Perhaps an amaranthine collar adorned with a peacock's feather would be a fitting addition to that leash, wouldn't you agree?"

Damon rolled his eyes unceremoniously, though he understood where Grantchester was coming from.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "I thank you—both of you—though I cannot fathom what I have done to deserve being saved by either. All I can think of now is my children. It is beyond me..." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I cannot believe I was willing to leave them utterly alone in this world. For a second time, no less!"

His features betrayed the anger and guilt he felt—Damon had been fervent in his apologies, never once hiding behind the drugs as an excuse for his recklessness. He did not need to. Both Henry and Sabrina had already seen what kind of man he became under their vile influence.

"There is a long journey ahead of you," Sabrina said firmly. "But it is one you must take to become a better man—for their sake, if not for your own. Your children need you, need your love. No one else in the world requires you as much as they do, and we shall aid you however we can."

She took a deep breath, her gaze becoming more stern. "This third chance may be your last—remember that when you feel the temptation of quick ways to wealth."

Damon nodded, a familiar knot tightening in his throat.

The duchess was right. After all that he has done, he must dedicate his next steps to achieving contentment and security, without rushing and seeking easy remedies, which have so far turned out to be vile at best, otherwise he would never have a chance at a good life, and neither would his children.

The ride was quiet, marked only by occasional glances of silent reassurance between Sabrina and Henry, and, from time to time, between Sabrina and her former lover.

But the moment they arrived at Westhill, it quickly became evident that their return would not be without an unexpected disturbance.

A barouche rolled up the driveway, out of which emerged none other than Lord Jamieson.

His face was marked with worry, his usual flamboyant composure fractured, and it seemed he scarcely restrained himself from running toward them.

"Your Graces," he greeted hastily, executing a quick bow, his apparent urgency overriding propriety.

He did not so much as acknowledge Damon's presence, something the other man quietly took as his release—his cue to slip away and seek out his children he hadn't seen in long weeks.

Henry's brow furrowed, his tone betraying a lack of enthusiasm despite the cordiality of his words, "Lord Jamieson, what a welcome surprise."

Not that he bore any ill sentiment toward the chap—but having spent the entirety of the journey home envisioning a warm bath with his wife, Henry was far more inclined toward intimate relaxation than an untimely visit from Sabrina's erstwhile lover, regardless of the gravity of that man's reason.

Sabrina tilted her head, studying Arthur's uncharacteristically tense demeanour.

"Are you here to call upon me, Lord Jamieson?" she asked carefully.

What else could it be?

But to her mild astonishment, Arthur shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I—ah... I am here to see Lady Caroline Clarke." His voice was tight, controlled—but the plea still bled through. "It is a matter of grave importance, I assure you, but Her Ladyship is... disinclined to see me, or so to say."

His jaw tensed before he added, with firm resolve, "I trust I have no other choice but to insist."

Sabrina exchanged a glance with Henry, though she hardly needed confirmation. She already knew what this was about.

It all fell into place in an instant—Caroline's hesitation weeks ago when she spoke of the man she had been pursuing, the age difference, her cautious approach.

Perhaps, in the end, her approach had not been so cautious.

Caroline sat at the edge of her bed, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze wandering beyond the world framed within the windowsill. She was so lost in thought that she did not register the soft opening and closing of the door. Not until movement in her periphery startled her.

She gasped, whirling toward the intruder.

"Apologies, Lady Caroline."

Sabrina's voice was gentle as she stepped forward, settling beside her on the bed.

"I did not mean to startle you."

"Your Grace," Caroline greeted, though her voice came out strained. She cleared her throat before continuing. "I see you have returned from the city. I trust you had an enjoyable time there."

"Indeed," the duchess replied, though her attention was drawn to the way Caroline avoided her gaze.

More telling still was the gentle way she cradled her stomach, her hands resting protectively over the future swell of her belly.

"There is someone who wishes to see you, Lady Caroline," Sabrina said at last. "He claims this is his third attempt this week."

The woman shrugged, as if the visitor held the least interest for her in this world. "There is little I can say to him at this juncture, I'm afraid."

Sabrina sighed. Lord Jamieson had already spoken to her and Henry, had told his side of the story, and if her assessment of Caroline was correct, she could hazard a guess as to why the woman refused to acknowledge her stubborn lover by even a single glance and remained at a distance. She was riddled with fears and preconceptions, perhaps even traumas that ran deeper than she probably ever wanted to reveal.

Before the duchess could press further, Caroline spoke again.

"I did listen to your advice, Your Grace," she murmured, eyes trained on the floor. "For once in my life, I took hold of my own desires, without thought for duty or consequence. And yes, in mine and Arthur's case, it went too... far." She exhaled, but her expression remained fierce, unrepentant. "Not that I regret a single thing. No—I would do it again. And again."

Sabrina's gaze softened. "My advice was not meant to endanger your standing in society, Lady Caroline," she said plainly, though without reprimand. "You are pregnant—and the father wishes to set things right. It is only honourable that Lord Jamieson is willing to take your hand and acknowledge the child as his own."

Caroline's head snapped up, her wide, fair eyes searching the duchess' face.

"Do not say it," she whispered, voice barely above a breath. "I beg you... it is too soon to even speak of the babe. Who knows? I may lose this one, too."

Two silent tears traced down Caroline's cheeks. Sabrina did not hesitate—she reached for the woman's hands, clasping them gently in a gesture of quiet support.

"You will not lose this child," she said firmly. "But you must think of its future—and your own—by accepting Lord Jamieson's proposal."

Caroline shook her head vehemently, her fingers trembling in Sabrina's grasp.

"How can you be certain?" she demanded. "How can you be certain of anything? Arthur is younger than I am—far younger. He barely comprehends what he is proposing. To marry a woman past her prime, a woman who may never bring a child to term. No—I cannot risk it. I cannot risk him growing disenchanted with me, resenting me more and more with each miscarriage—"

Sabrina's grip on her hands tightened.

"Lady Caroline," she said, voice resolute. "Look at me. No one—not even you—can predict the future. And it does you no service to sabotage your own happiness by assuming the worst. Lord Jamieson claims to love you. If my time in the city has taught me anything, it is that life is about facing our fears and daring to believe we deserve better. Better, by our own merits—not by the judgement of others."

Caroline's lips parted, but no words came, instead, fresh tears welled in her eyes.

"What if..." she swallowed thickly, "what if I fail him? What if it wounds me more for him than for myself? He could have any other woman—a woman younger, more beautiful—a woman with a future."

Sabrina's voice softened, but her conviction did not waver.

"And yet, he chooses you. He loves you—not just the idea of you, or the child you carry, but you." She let her words settle, watching the emotions battling across Caroline's face before adding, "If you do not believe me, then speak to him yourself, because I assure you, he will not leave this house until you do."

Caroline took several deep, measured breaths to calm her frail nerves that caused her fingers to tremor.

But then, slowly—tentatively—she found her lost will to smile. A true, earnest smile that brought Sabrina a measure of relief.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she said at last, squeezing Sabrina's hands in return. "For your advice... and your kindness. You may tell Arthur that I shall see him in fifteen minutes in the drawing room."

Henry kept a cordial companionship with Arthur, careful not to appear an unwelcoming host, though inwardly, he sighed in relief when Caro extracted him from the predicament, and began to entertain the baron herself.

Once the door closed behind the parents-to-be—and hopefully husband and wife, as the duke was eager to get the license as soon as possible—he wasted no time in pulling Sabrina to him, his hands resting at her waist, his gaze gleaming with anticipation. She caught the look immediately.

"I really need a bath first," she teased, smirking.

"And I will gladly disrobe and bathe you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "I am something of a professional in such matters, as you may have already experienced."

Before she could retort, another masculine voice cut through their moment of tranquillity.

"Hopefully, I might steal you for a moment, Henry."

Henry turned, his expression shifting from playful to surprised in an instant.

"Giles, you're back!" he exclaimed, then cast a brief, guilty glance at his wife.

Sabrina smiled knowingly. "I shall wait for you in our bedroom," she said, nodding at the approaching Lord Clarke before slipping away, leaving the men to their devices.

Henry studied his uncle with measured curiosity. Giles seemed... different. Rested and rejuvenated after his long sojourn, a gentle smile crowning his face. Scotland had done wonders for the older man—softened the lines on his face, lifted the weight reflected in his eyes. If Henry didn't know better, he'd swear it had taken years off him.

"I thought you'd be away for the entire summer," Henry remarked as he stepped toward his study. "Which leg was it you broke—left or right?"

Giles fell into step beside him. "Left. Healed so quickly, I shan't even need a cane, thank God."

Henry nodded, though a mischievous glint flickered in his eyes.

"Really? I was under the impression it was your hand instead. Did Anne write your letters for you and muddle your injuries? Lord, I can only imagine what you two got up to in those mountains."

His uncle let out a booming laugh. "This charade of mine would have come to light sooner or later anyway," Giles admitted. "But I must say—it was the best decision I could have made. I hadn't realised how much I needed to be away. Just me and my wife. For the first time, I chose my own well-being over being the ever-supportive uncle." He smiled, something deeply contented in his expression. "And I am not sorry, Henry."

They entered the study, Giles settling into the high-backed chair before the desk while Henry poured two glasses of brandy and took his usual seat.

"Your absence did not go unnoticed," Henry remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he handed over a glass. "But perhaps it forced me to acclimate to my duties quicker than I might have with your help. That said, I fear you shall still be needed—to smooth over whatever rough edges my attitude may have caused while dealing with certain tenants and advisers."

Giles nodded, unsurprised by the state of affairs.

"That is the least I can do for you, Henry. But in truth, you required little further guidance. I have always had far more faith in your abilities than I ever had in Andrew's—for obvious reasons."

There was no malice in the statement, only quiet confirmation.

"And it seems to me that your marriage has caught some auspicious wind in its sails," Giles added, taking a measured sip of his drink. "Thank God once more that you worked out your issues—at the very least, I shall no longer have to chastise myself for ever proposing that stipulation when you were but a student at Eton."

Henry's brows arched in surprise.

"What are you on about, Giles?" He leaned forward. "How could you have been the perpetrator of that stipulation? You weren't even there!"

Giles let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze drifting—momentarily lost in the past.

"Perhaps I left that part out when I last spoke of it," he admitted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "But the truth is, I was indeed the one who first proposed the idea."

Henry's expression darkened. "You?"

His uncle nodded. "It was I who planted the seed in your father's mind. And when he took it upon himself to act, he did so with the full belief that neither you nor Andrew would find suitable partners before time ran its course. And he was partially right in his assumptions—at the very least, he must have felt it deep in his soul—that Andrew would never father an heir."

Giles exhaled.

"His mental troubles were already apparent, after all."

He sighed, regarding his astonished nephew with a knowing look. "Old Cornelius rambled ceaselessly about his precious daughter—the one who would one day become filthy rich, yet burdened with a serious infirmity. At first, we jested about the notion of a stipulation—a harmless bit of legal folly—but I distinctly recall your father asking me the very next day: 'Should we not have made a proper engagement? Hartley's daughter is too large a fish to let slip away.' To which I replied that he ought to leave such matters to Providence."

Giles leaned back, swirling the brandy in his glass again. "I admit, it was a frail stipulation, with only the slimmest chance of ever being enforced. And yet—here we are. You, Duke of Grantchester, and married to an American heiress whose fortune could comfortably sustain your next three generations."

Henry's gaze sharpened, his eyes burning with incredulity.

"You... you knew all along that my wife has a hearing impairment? And you said nothing?"

Giles nodded, the corner of his mouth curling upward. "It was not my place to tell you, I'm afraid—just as it was not my place to tell your wife about your brother... or you." He met Henry's gaze, unflinching. "Some things are best left to be discovered in their own time."

Henry's head spun momentarily, but in the end, he reluctantly conceded his uncle was probably right.

They finished their brandy in companionable silence, until Giles spoke again.

"Have you read your brother's letter?"

Henry had not. In truth, he had all but forgotten it. Were it not for Giles' irritating habit of remembering every little triviality, the envelope might have remained untouched for years. His uncle nodded as he stood, setting his empty glass aside. He lingered for a moment, studying his nephew one last time that evening.

There was guilt in his expression—flickering beneath his usual detachment.

"I am sorry, Henry. I am sorry I did not do more for you as a child. Sorry that, like your father, my passivity left you oscillating between love and hate for your brother your entire life. And I shall always regret that I did not stand against your mother when you needed me most."

Giles hesitated, but continued nevertheless. "That letter may not bring you comfort. But I know one thing for certain—it may help you close a chapter in your life, once and for all."

Henry lifted his glass in salute, his smile faint and askew.

"I harbour no ill will against you, Giles. You did what you could—and for that, I am grateful. Had it not been for you, I might very well have ended up in Bedlam." He exhaled, shaking his head. "But I never took you for a man who coveted another's fortune. That, I confess, is quite the surprise."

Giles smirked, already moving toward the door.

"My dear boy, I am British. Naturally, I covet fortune, lands, and jewellery—it is in my blood." His grin widened. "It is in yours too—or else we would not have so many trinkets from your excavations cluttering our home."

Henry scoffed but smiled—because perhaps, truly, one never knows one's family as well as one believes. For years, he thought of his uncle as idiotic, solely for bending to the will of his father and mother, oblivious to the fact that the old man had always had a good head on his shoulders—even in his advanced age—with a clear ability to give an opportunity its due.

It took another hour of silent contemplation before the duke removed the fateful envelope from his polished desk. With no emotion whatsoever, he removed the folded paper from its confines and read its brief contents:

My dearest brother,

I am so sorry.

For everything.

—Andrew

Henry's fingers clenched around the letter, crumpling it into a tight ball. He rose from his chair, crossed the room, and tossed it into the hearth—where it would be consumed by flames come winter.

The world simply lacked the words to soothe a soul as troubled as his, the damage that lingered, and nothing Andrew wrote or did in his final days could erase the years of guilt and grief he had spent thinking about their unfortunate relationship; things that were done along with the words spoken. There was only one path forward—to move on.

To forgive them both, if not forget.

To leave the past where it belonged and focus on the new chapter in his life with the woman he loved most.

The woman he found asleep in his bed had not even managed to change into her nightclothes—still clad in her simple day gown, her rosy cheek pressed to the pillow, her breath slow and even in the hush of late afternoon. The sight of her made him smile. She had waited for him, of course, but it was no surprise that the fatigue of the journey had overtaken her senses.

Henry undressed and slid beneath the covers, shifting to mould his body to hers and covering them with a thin blanket. As his nose inhaled the faint, familiar scent of his wife before his head touched the pillows, he realised one important, yet simple thing.

He was the happiest man in the realm, and he wished—for all that he was—to remain so until his last breath.