London, November 1887

When Damon Gray arrived at Westhill estate near the end of November, an uneasy feeling settled deep in his bones. Something was off. He could sense it before he even crossed the threshold of the house. The butler informed him that the ducal pair was outside, gesturing toward the familiar path they often took for their walks. Without hesitation, Damon set off, his steps brisk against the cold gravel.

From a distance, he spotted them. Their embrace could have been comforting, but then Sabrina withdrew from Henry's arms, stepping away with her head bowed toward the ground. The foreboding that crawled up Damon's spine only intensified, and the moment he reached Henry's side, the duke spoke without preamble.

"She received her flowers. Again."

Damon exhaled sharply and closed his eyes for a moment. This was precisely the answer he had feared to hear, the weight of disappointment settling heavily in his chest, spreading through every fibre of his being.

"We... we are still going to try, aren't we?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

Henry clicked his tongue, his expression unreadable. "That depends on Sabrina. And frankly, right now, she's in no state of mind to be pressed on the matter."

As if she had heard them, Sabrina turned, revealing her tear-streaked face. Her eyes—red, swollen—locked onto Damon's, and the sight sent a visceral ache through his heart.

Even his attempts came to nothing.

"There's been more spunk in my cunt than the water coursing through the La Manche Channel, and to what end?!" she burst out bitterly.

The raw pain in her voice cut through them all, leaving an unbearable silence in its wake.

"Sab, please," Henry pleaded, taking a step toward her. "Don't do this to yourself."

She stifled a sob, her body trembling as she fought against her emotions. "I love you, Henry. I always will. There is nothing I could ever accuse you of, nothing I regret. If anything, I do not even deserve you." Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to continue. "Not many men would dare to make the choices you have. And I see it—I always have. I will be grateful for it until my last breath."

Then her gaze shifted to Damon.

"And I love you too, Damon."

The words should have brought him joy, but instead, they felt like a dagger to the heart, cutting it into even smaller pieces.

Her breath caught before she pressed on. "Perhaps I always have, which is why I allowed all the things you did to me. Why I gave you a second chance to become a better man. But I preferred living in denial—just as I believed this arrangement would work in our favor."

"Don't give up yet, I beg you," Damon said, taking a step towards her in a earnest attempt to comfort her, but Sabrina only stepped back and shook her head.

"Don't," she warned, her voice tight, her face contorted with pain as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. She wiped at them furiously. "I appreciate everything you both have done, truly. But we need to stop." Her gaze flickered between the two men with finality. "Our fornication is making me feel more like an animal than a human being."

"Love, then we stop right there," Henry said at once, reassuring. He took a step forward, but again, she withdrew.

"Please, Henry." She swallowed hard. "Allow me to mourn. Let me reconcile with the possibility that I may never become a mother... at least, not in the way I had hoped. Then we can mourn together. But right now, I need a moment alone."

Neither man moved as she turned away from them, her silhouette retreating against the pale winter landscape, the snow crunching under the soles of her boots.

Damon turned to Henry, the question evident in his eyes. What do we do now?

Henry exhaled slowly, overcoming the immediate need to go after Sabrina. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, but heavy with an exhaustion that Damon had not fully grasped until now.

"To you, it's been two months of trying," Henry said quietly. "But for us... it's been nearly three years."

Damon had nothing more to say—only a sigh of defeat left his lips. Sensing the conversation had run its course, the duke gave a brief nod and turned to follow Sabrina. But before he could take a step, a firm hand on his shoulder halted him.

"Your Grace, wait," Damon said, stepping into Henry's line of sight once more. "Sabrina... she just said she loves me. Does that not concern you?"

Henry considered his words carefully before answering. "How could she not love you, Gray? You were intent on giving her a child, to prove your reformation and steadfast support, never once acting selfishly. For that, I am grateful as well." He paused, then added, "But ask yourself this—can you be content being the third in our marriage? Is that enough for you... or for your children?"

Damon's brows furrowed. "Are you suggesting I should give up my love for her? That I should abandon the attempts to fulfil her dream?"

The duke sniffed, shaking his head. "No, not at all. But even if you choose to stay, you will never be on equal footing with me. Sabrina will never be able to divide her love, her attention, or her body perfectly between us. And from what I have come to know of you, you strike me as a man who wants all or nothing. So I will warn you plainly—with her, you will never have it all."

With that, Henry turned and began his stride toward Sabrina, leaving Damon alone with his thoughts. The reformed blackguard stood still, watching the duke retreat, and sighed—because, as much as he found Grantchester an ass at times, the man was right.

Damon had never been one to settle for half-measures. Yet, there was a new truth he was eager to live with.

So, he did the only thing his heart demanded at that moment—he moved swiftly, chasing after the duke, intent on following wherever this decision might lead.

Days later, when Sabrina had regained a greater measure of her inner strength, she and Henry found themselves in the steaming waters of the hot spa, surrounded by silence marked only by touch. She traced the hard planes of his muscles with her fingers, unable to stop herself from sighing in awe at how solid he was beneath her hands.

Henry allowed her this tender exploration, a quiet smile gracing his lips, eyes closed in relaxation. He understood—this was her way of reconnecting with him, of grounding herself after months of being shared in the arms of another man for a purpose that had ultimately proved fruitless.

For a time, they refrained from intimacy beyond gentle caresses, the holding of hands, the press of lips against lips—soft, tender, never deepening into fiery passion.

The hideous doll on Sabrina's nightstand was gone. But Henry was no fool—he saw his wife's quiet grief, the the heavy shadow of sadness she struggled with. And though he could not change the outcome of their efforts, he knew one truth above all else: time was the only true remedy for the wounded soul.

Their bond was strong, unshakeable. Whatever fate sent their way, he had no doubt they would weather it together.

And so, when Sabrina was ready—when her touch no longer carried the weight of deepest sorrow—Henry would lift her from the scented water, dry every droplet from her skin, twine his fingers with hers, and guide her to their bed. There, he would worship her body slowly, with patience, and devotion. The kind of lovemaking that whispered: I love you, and I will always be here for you.

Exactly as she had once dreamed.

Later, as Sabrina sat at her desk, intending to write, her gaze fell upon her latest book. The very one Henry had once critiqued for its less-than-favourable ending—he must have been the one who had put it there when he had finished reading it.

In truth, the book's tragic conclusion was influenced by the strong currents of her own melancholic reflections and the doubts that gnawed at her mind.

But both Henry and Damon had been right all along—faith was only part of the equation. She had far too much in her life, too many people anchoring her to this world and joy, to let herself be devoured by despair.

A quiet sigh left her lips, but she knew what had to be done.

Reaching for the manuscript, she found the pivotal passage—the moment when everything began to go wrong for her characters. Pen in hand, she embarked on her most gruelling editing effort to date.

After all, if she could not believe in her own happy ending... then who would?

°°°

Sabrina turned her face toward the sun, inhaling the splendour of the late May warmth. A little longer, and summer would take its full swing over New York, draping the city in sizzling heat.

A slight shift in her lap stole her attention.

"Oh, darling, you're quite lively," she murmured, amused, pressing a gentle kiss upon the child's pristine forehead.

The little girl did not seem to appreciate the gesture, for she cooed in protest, her tiny hand darting up to wipe away the spot of Sabrina's affection. The duchess chuckled.

"The little one's got a temper, I tell you," came a familiar voice, laced with amusement.

Sabrina lifted her gaze, meeting Rodney's ever-inquisitive eyes.

"It happened so quickly for you," she remarked. "You said nothing the last time you visited me in London."

A wistful smile played on his lips. "I wanted to," he admitted, then sighed. "But you were enduring hardships in your own marriage, and I had no desire to pour salt into your wounds. Besides... I wasn't entirely sure she would say yes at the time."

Sabrina glanced down at the child, shifting her tenderly in her arms as she grew restless. "She's precious. Could very well pass as your own."

Rodney nodded. "She is mine, as far as I'm concerned. I gave her my name, after all."

The duchess tilted her head. "I've always known you were different, Rod, but an abolitionist? That's new to me."

He smirked. "I'd say opportunist, but I'll take the compliment. This marriage isn't without its challenges, naturally, but... I'm happier than I've ever been."

Sabrina parted her lips to reply, but before she could speak, another person entered the atrium. A woman, dark-skinned and elegant, strode toward them with a warm smile before reaching out for the child.

"Shouldn't the maid take her?" the duchess inquired as she allowed the woman to lift the toddler from her lap.

"Fret not, Your Grace," Rodney's wife replied in a melodic voice, cradling the little girl with ease. "I'm not yet that far along in my expectancy."

Sabrina's gaze lingered as the woman carried the child back toward the house, a quiet longing settling in her chest.

Rodney, always perceptive to the shifts in his friend's expressions, noted the look in her eyes. "Still hoping for one of your own?" His voice was gentle. "Pardon if I'm being insensitive."

Sabrina turned to him, lips curling in a crooked smile. "Would you care to share how you made that happen? Pardon if I'm being too curious."

Rodney chuckled at first, then leaned in conspiratorially. "My lover would... well, bring me very close to the edge. Then, I'd simply enter my wife and finish inside her. That's the entire magic of it. Though, I admit, it took many tries to get it right, and it wasn't exactly a pleasure for my wife—her heart belongs to her female partner, after all. But we all understood what was at stake, and, of course, the benefits of our arrangement."

Sabrina smirked, tilting her head. "Seems I've inspired you, haven't I?" she jested.

But Rodney's expression had sobered, the glee had drained from his eyes.

"Sabrina, my arrangement works to everyone's satisfaction, but can the same be said for yours?"

His remark caught her unprepared.

She swallowed. "W-why would you say that, Rod?"

Rodney studied her for a moment before speaking. "Well, where is your dearest husband? Why didn't he come to New York with you? What man reconciles with his wife only to give his full attention to his secretary? Doesn't it bother you that he's fucking someone else instead of being your lasting support as he swore to be?"

The words cut deep like a fine blade.

Sabrina's chin trembled. "Henry is a busy man—he has his reasons for not being here right now, and they have nothing to do with another lover."

Rodney nodded, curling his lip in mock amusement. "And Mr. Gray? He swore his love for you too, heard the affirmation from your very own lips... and yet, he vanished, citing his children and your enterprise as justification for his prolonged absence. Tell me, how does that help your cause?"

The blade at her heart twisted, sharp and merciless. The pain was searing, but she still held her head high, even as silent tears trickled down her cheeks.

"Why are you doing this, Rodney?" she whispered. "Why hurt me over something I cannot change?"

He shrugged, his indifference as infuriating as his words. "Your marriage is dead, Sabrina. It's time you acknowledged that and chose the path that has always been right for you."

"No, it is not!" she shrieked, springing from the settee in a rush of anguish.

So did she in her bed. The dream-turned-nightmare recoiled from her like a devil, slinking back into the shadows after pawing at her chest. Sabrina's breaths came shallow and uneven as she stared into the quiet darkness of the bedchamber, disoriented for a moment. But a quick glance reassured her—she was still at Westhill. The soft glow creeping through the windows suggested dawn was near.

Slipping from the bed, her movements instinctual, she found her slippers and pulled a warm shawl over her shoulders. It was February, 1889—of course, the mansion was chilly at this hour. She would ring for a servant to start a fire once Henry woke, but she did not wish to disturb him just yet.

Instead, Sabrina hurried to the cradle across the room.

It was far from empty.

A child lay within—her child. Living. Breathing.

The baby she had borne just days ago.

Relief swept through her so fiercely her legs nearly buckled. A quiet sigh escaped her lips as she stood there, watching over the tiny form, her gaze locked on the rhythmic rise and fall of the infant's chest. Only once she was assured of its steady breaths did she turn back to the bed, slipping beneath the sheets once more.

Henry stirred the moment she settled beside him. In his half-sleep, his arm reached out, instinctively pulling her close.

"All in order, love?" His voice was thick with drowsiness.

She cradled his arm against her. "Yes, Henry. Have no fear."

He mumbled something unintelligible before sleep claimed him again.

Indeed, all was well.

For though parts of her dream mirrored reality—her sojourn in New York, Henry's inability to accompany her back in May due to his duties—it was all true. But Lady Amwych had departed Westhill before Christmas two years ago, packing her things and bidding farewell to the Grantchesters without much fanfare. And though the ducal couple remained open to extramarital intimacy, Henry had long since given up the idea of taking another mistress.

Sabrina often jested that her husband had become too domestic, to which he would always reply that it was her own doing.

Though Henry had missed her voyage, she had cherished Rodney's company, as well as that of her cousins. Amanda had welcomed her first child, and Alice had announced her engagement to a ship magnate. Rodney had not wounded her with cruel words—in truth, he had been kind and considerate. He had even asked, with caution, whether she would feel comfortable holding his adoptive child, just as Amanda had, mindful not to stir any lingering sadness in her.

They all knew well how deeply the duchess longed for a child of her own, one that stubbornly refused to come. And yet, none fully understood the extent of her surrender to the cause—even if it meant conceiving a child with her lover rather than her husband.

As for Damon Gray, he had taken Sabrina's words to heart—the ones urging him to seek validation from within rather than from others. He had devoted himself to mending his familial bonds, and as a result, his visits to Westhill became less and less frequent. By the time he reduced them to no more than twice a week—sometimes only once, solely to discuss business matters with Sabrina, who had long since turned her attention to writing her own novels, leaving the running of the company to Damon.

Their intimacy, once a desperate pursuit of a child, became something rare and reserved purely for pleasure—more often than not in the presence of the duke himself. It was also a quiet, unspoken reminder that not all dreams were meant to be fulfilled. And yet, Sabrina bore the truth with grace, finding joy in holding Rodney's and Amanda's babies, cherishing their laughter with a heart full of gratitude for their parents' good fortune.

Even as her sojourn neared its end, she wished to remain just a little longer to dote on the little ones. Her wish was granted, though not in the way she had hoped—for it came in the form of a sudden and persistent nausea.

At first, she dismissed it as nothing more than a passing illness, but when her stomach lurched at the sight and scent of meals she once relished, it caught the attention of her Aunt Patricia.

"Darling," the elderly dame began cautiously, watching Sabrina closely. "Are you quite certain that you are not... well... pregnant?"

Sabrina let out a dry, humourless laugh. "Auntie, you know well that I cannot have children. I am barren." The words came effortlessly now, no longer carrying the sting they once had.

Yet Patricia did not look convinced, the suspicion remaining in her expression.

Nevertheless, once Sabrina felt well enough to travel, she set sail for England. It was only then that she found herself cursing the journey, as the relentless waves turned her stomach into a gelatin. She had never been particularly prone to seasickness before, and yet, she became a prisoner of her cabin, unable to do much else but endure the misery until the steamship finally anchored in London.

When Henry laid eyes on his wife, pale and almost green with the strange illness, concern overtook him immediately. Despite her protests that she was perfectly fine now that she was home and in his embrace, he wasted no time in summoning a physician.

The examination took place in the privacy of their bedchamber, while Henry remained just beyond the door, his brows knitting together at the sound of Sabrina's agitated voice. From the sharpness of her tone, it seemed she was vehemently opposing whatever the doctor had told her—chiding him with the full force of her temper.

When the physician finally emerged, his face was flushed a deep red. He hesitated only a moment before stepping toward the duke, clearing his throat.

"Her Grace is hysterical," he announced stiffly.

Henry's gaze darkened, his voice dropping into a growl. "Have a care. That is my wife you speak of."

The physician's nose flared, but he stood his ground. "Her Grace called me a charlatan, a useless hornswoggler, and an addlepated fool. Never in my life have I suffered such insult to my skill and name. But regardless of how she chooses to address me, I will tell you the same thing I told her—and I will say it in any court you wish to take me to." He paused, bracing himself before delivering the verdict.

"Your wife is expectant. If my calculations are correct, you may welcome a child in late January or beginning of February."

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt beneath Henry's feet. He barely registered the physician's curt bow before the man turned and stalked away, still seething over the treatment he had received. But Henry had no time to dwell on some physician's wounded pride. He rushed into the chamber, only to find his wife sobbing as if she had just been given the news of her impending death.

"Shh, my love," he murmured, pulling her into his arms, holding her as tightly as he dared. "All shall be well."

"Why now?" she wept against his chest. "Henry, I had already lost all faith—why now?!" She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her expression one of frantic disbelief. "I cannot—Henry, I simply cannot believe this! There must be some mistake—there must be something else wrong with me. What if I have a tumor, and that fool was simply too afraid to tell me the truth?"

But neither the second nor the third physician could deny the truth. Each confirmed what she had thought long impossible.

The Duchess of Grantchester was, indeed, with child.

And on the first day of February, after all the anguish, all the waiting, all the heartbreak and despair, Sabrina delivered their miracle.

Perhaps it was God's blessing—after all the pain they had endured—that the labour was uneventful. That when it was over, and she and Henry gazed upon the tiny life they had created, neither of them could bring themselves to look away.

Not even for a second.

So when Henry finally woke, he was greeted by a sight that made his heart swell—Sabrina sat beside him, the babe nestled against her breast, nursing contentedly. The other peak of her bosom remained uncovered, a sight that made Henry smirk in appreciation. Their child, diligent and determined, worked at her nipple with such earnestness that he could already see the faint change in its shape.

His wife caught his longing gaze and arched a teasing brow. "Seems our papa is hungry as well."

Henry chuckled, nodding. "Papa cannot wait to have a taste of mama for himself, that's true."

Sabrina smiled, watching as he rose from the bed and moved to light the fire in the hearth. The flickering glow cast warm shadows across the room and against the grey world of the early morning. As he turned back to her, he caught the thoughtful expression on her face.

"What is it, love?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.

Sabrina hesitated before speaking. "I wonder... after the birth, you know my body won't be the same as before?"

His brows lifted in genuine surprise. "You look just as ravishing as ever."

"But, Henry—" she began, only for her husband to cross the distance between them and capture her lips in a tender, prolonged kiss.

When they finally parted, Henry cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing soft circles against her skin. "You, my love, remain a pornographer's wet dream, and I'm having no further objections from you."

Sabrina let out an amused laugh, clearly flattered. "Thank you."

"For nothing," he murmured, slipping back beneath the blankets. "Honestly, if you had been born a man, you'd have been the most notorious rake of our time. And if I had been born a woman? I imagine I'd have spent my evenings hugging the back walls with the other wallflowers." He flashed her a conspiratorial grin. "So, do have some faith in my words, will you?"

She chuckled, though she stifled a louder laugh for the babe still suckling at her breast. When their child had finished feeding, been burped, and tucked safely into the cot, she turned back to her husband, wrapping her arms around him in a heartfelt embrace.

"Henry Clarke, I love you beyond all measure—wholly, unconditionally, and against all odds... or your quips," she added with a delighted smirk.

His hands caressed her face, his gaze full of devotion. "Thank you, dearest," he murmured, barely suppressing a chuckle.

Sabrina scoffed, bemused, and swatted his chest in feigned offence. Henry caught her hand mid-motion, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of her fingers.

"Sabrina Clarke," he said, voice laced with affection, "you know well my heart has belonged to you for a very long time. I have never once stopped loving you at any point in our journey. And, frankly? I wouldn't change a single thing about our story."

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, gratitude and love written across every feature of her face. But Henry, on occasion a rogue, could not resist teasing her one last time.

"So, my darling, would you say you've finally earned your happy ending?"

A chuckle bubbled from her lips, even as tears spilled freely down her flushed cheeks.

"Oh, my love," she whispered, her tone rich with emotion, "it has been a happy ending for us both ever since we revealed our truths and accepted our flaws, back at your townhouse. But you're right—there's nothing I would change about our story either."

And thus, Lord and Lady Grantchester learned that miracles often arrived when least expected. But love, trust, and faith—those were treasures to be nurtured, honed like the finest of gemstones. To be offered and received in life's most trying moments. For in the end, even the hardest obstacles and deepest wounds could be overcome when faced together, hand in hand, with hearts given freely.