Chapter 10: Embrace

William Cavendish, as it happened, found himself utterly incapable of sleep. He felt a trifle sorry for himself, truly. To be so thoroughly governed by his wife, with rules for every facet of his existence! It was quite the adjustment. Yet, he had to admit a certain fondness for Alicia's forthrightness. At least she spoke her mind plainly. He was, by nature, a creature of boundless energy. A man who could carouse in London until the wee hours, only to rise with the sun and cheerfully attend a breakfast engagement. His life had been a whirlwind of gaiety, a kaleidoscope of vibrant experiences. But now, surprisingly, he found himself developing a strange nostalgia for the quietude of the countryside. Here, it was just the two of them. No other diversions. By default, and through a peculiar process of elimination, he was the most important person in Alicia's world. A novel, and rather delightful, thought. William meticulously planned their activities for the following day, fretting over whether Alicia might find herself succumbing to boredom. Then, his thoughts inevitably drifted to the more intimate hours of the night, and a blush crept upon his face. He touched his cheek, the skin warm beneath his fingertips. ... Alicia, meanwhile, reported her decisions to her mother with the utmost candor. She explained that her cousin, as anticipated, was quite agreeable. "He's always very amenable, except in certain... aspects. Indeed, as you said, Mother, he can be a tad demanding in those areas." She paused, reflecting. "Strangely, however, I don't find myself entirely averse to it. In fact, there's a certain... enjoyment to be had. The only drawback is that I tend to emit rather peculiar noises, which only seem to excite Cavendish further. He truly is like a puppy, in that regard." "Oh, and Mother, do tell Pip I shall be returning soon. Yes, we've decided against a prolonged tour. I find I miss you all terribly." Alicia was nothing if not direct. She unconsciously substituted her cousin's given name with his surname. Her diary, of course, contained a far more detailed account. She meticulously documented the reasons behind her physiological responses, complete with anatomical sketches. Fortunately for Cavendish's peace of mind, he was unlikely ever to lay eyes upon these entries. He would likely have a conniption. Alicia possessed a considerable talent for drawing, particularly anatomical sketches. She found the human form fascinating, both aesthetically and scientifically. She was deeply intrigued by the intricacies of anatomy, though she had never actually seen a cadaver. Such an experience would be deemed unseemly for a lady of her standing. One of the unexpected benefits of having Cavendish at her disposal was the opportunity to revisit her anatomical studies. She could trace the differences between the male and female form: the narrower pelvis, the lower waist, the broader shoulders. His skin was remarkably smooth. Oh, and the ribs, the abdominal muscles, the fascinating curvature of the hip bones! He was quite happy to let her explore, thankfully, and she could count the vertebrae along his spine, reciting their Latin names and comparing them to her own. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. William Cavendish, it seemed, remained blissfully unaware that Alicia's gaze upon him was often more akin to that of a scientist examining a particularly fascinating specimen. His skeletal structure was truly exquisite; she could almost picture the pristine whiteness of the bones beneath the skin. In conclusion, Alicia mused, her marriage was proving to be quite satisfactory. She derived a not inconsiderable amount of pleasure from it. She revised her assessment of Cavendish from "barely tolerable" to "a boisterous, somewhat foolish, but undeniably beautiful creature." And so, she found herself developing a fondness for him, a tolerance for his eccentricities. After all, Alicia had always possessed a penchant for beautiful, sparkling things. And his eyes, they truly did sparkle, like the finest gemstones. ... Like clockwork, he arrived promptly at seven to bestow upon her a kiss. Alicia found herself captivated by his eyes, a pure, innocent blue framed by dark, damp lashes. He wore the most disarming expression, a gentle softness, as he nuzzled into that particular spot, his lips pressing a lingering kiss. He had developed an insatiable fondness for touching, exploring every soft curve and hollow. It was, if one were to be entirely honest, the proximity to her heart that truly captivated him. Her expression remained impassive, a mask of cool indifference, yet her heart, betraying her composure, would quicken its pace. And in those moments, he knew, with a certainty that warmed him, that she was just as affected, just as roused, as he was. William Cavendish, the rogue, wrapped an arm around her waist, indulging in a prolonged embrace before finally making a move to assist her with her dressing. "Don't you dare," Alicia protested, swatting him playfully with her nightgown before he could even attempt such a liberty. She had no qualms about her nudity in his presence. William caught the garment, inhaling the lingering fragrance that clung to the fabric, a scent he had come to associate intimately with her. Alicia, however, remained oblivious to the aroma. She was unaware of how the scent intensified in the heat of their encounters, taking on an almost aphrodisiac quality. Their scents mingled and intertwined, only to fade by the following day. He neatly folded the nightgown, a practiced gesture, before approaching her again, only to realize that Alicia had merely been employing a clever distraction, offering him a trinket to occupy his attention. He knew her tactics all too well. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he advanced, embracing her from behind. She squirmed playfully, ticklish, and let out a small yelp, "William George!" A playful struggle ensued, a delightful dance of his advances and her mock resistance. Their laughter intertwined as they tumbled onto the bed, his arm firmly encircling her waist, pulling her closer. Her calves brushed against his suede breeches, the leather, despite its fine quality, still possessing a certain roughness. They had, in a moment of passion, used this very position before. She turned her head, meeting his gaze. A blush crept onto both their faces. "I wasn't... I was only teasing," he murmured, a hint of sheepishness in his voice. He found himself banished to the other side of the door. ... "Keep your distance," Alicia declared, brandishing a twig like a makeshift ruler during their afternoon stroll. Any attempt on his part to inch closer was met with a gentle but firm poke. The day was glorious, the air fresh and damp from the previous night's rain, yet bathed in warm sunshine. Alicia, ever unpredictable, veered off the usual path, embarking on a new route for their excursion. She was clad in her walking boots, her promenade dress a tad shorter than usual. William, unable to resist, found himself meticulously tracing her every footstep. Her feet were so dainty, he marveled, comparing his own to hers. ... "What do you think you're doing?" Alicia's voice, though soft, held a note of incredulity. She had just emerged from a luxurious bath, the kind involving a proper tub and not just a basin. Steam rose from her skin, her damp hair cascading down her back as she perched on the edge of the high bed. Her eyes widened as she watched him press a kiss to the top of her foot. She let out a small, surprised sound, somewhere between a gasp and a giggle. "Don't you dare think of kissing my mouth later," Alicia pronounced, her tone a mix of mock severity and amusement. She attempted to pull her foot away, but his hand gently yet firmly clasped her ankle. He held her foot tenderly, his cheek resting against it. He gazed up at her, his eyes filled with a hopeful longing. The evening, as was customary, proved to be a delightful affair, with William attending to her every whim with an eagerness that bordered on worship. Alicia was beginning to suspect her cousin harbored a few...unconventional inclinations. She refused to kiss him. In response, he took to nibbling playfully on her fingers, one by one, his gaze never leaving hers. He was truly incorrigible, a man thoroughly captivated by the pleasures of the flesh. Alicia, out of habit, averted her gaze, unable to withstand the intensity of his stare. He gently cupped her face, turning her head to meet his eyes. "Look at me, Alicia, Alicia," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive whisper. And so, she did, meeting his gaze with a newfound boldness. They stared at each other, his fingers tracing the contours of her cheek, a slow smile spreading across his face. He observed the flush on her cheeks, the subtle quickening of her breath. Finally, their fingers intertwined. He leaned in close, whispering words of adoration in her ear, along with confessions that would make a sailor blush. "I've been thinking of you constantly, Alicia. Last night, I..." His voice, usually so melodious, was now thick with desire, tinged with a hint of mischief. "You did what?" She gasped, unable to believe he would suggest such things. He was a master of seduction, his words weaving a spell around her. Alicia, tears welling in her eyes, found herself biting down on his shoulder, a mix of pleasure and frustration. He pulled her close, his hands firmly yet tenderly gripping hers. The truth was, despite the many passionate encounters they had shared, Alicia had never once kissed his body in the throes of their lovemaking. She remained blissfully unaware of how desperately he longed for her touch, for a reciprocation of the countless kisses he had bestowed upon every inch of her. He brought her hand to his chest, pressing her palm against his heart, letting her feel its rapid beat beneath her fingertips. ... In that final, fleeting moment, he held her close, murmuring against her skin, "I love you, Alicia." He had never uttered those words before, not in such a manner, not while speaking her name. Except, that is, in the throes of passion. Only then, emboldened by the intimacy of the act, did he dare to be so forthright. He was so fond of this particular activity, one might suspect, precisely because it was the one time he felt certain of her affection. ... After each such encounter, Alicia would invariably turn her back to him. He, ever the devoted husband, would embrace her from behind, an advance she did not rebuff. She merely requested that he refrain from biting. Four hours. Four hours were his to claim. It was barely ten o'clock; the night, in William Cavendish's optimistic estimation, stretched before them, vast and full of promise. He propped himself up on an elbow, unable to resist planting a kiss upon her shoulder. "You always seem intent on making me cry," Alicia complained, though not unkindly. She had, it seemed, discerned a pattern. Tears, for whatever reason, appeared to excite him further. Cavendish buried his face in her shoulder, his dark hair a stark contrast against her pale skin. "Was it pain, then?" he asked, his voice muffled. Alicia found the sensation of his hair against her neck unfamiliar, even after a week of marriage. It tickled. His breath, however, was surprisingly warm, a sensation she realized she had not consciously noted before. "No, not pain," she clarified. "The tears simply... come." He was suppressing a chuckle, she could hear it. Alicia turned her head, casting him a look of mock disdain. After a moment, Cavendish shifted, rolling onto his back and creating a respectable distance between them. A most proper and considerate husband, indeed. Alicia knew the reason for this sudden display of decorum. She glanced over to see him discreetly adjusting the blankets, his face, illuminated by the flickering firelight, a study in bashfulness. His eyelashes, thick and dark, fluttered downwards before he finally met her gaze. Her body, pale and luminous in the dim light, seemed to glow against the rumpled sheets, her golden hair a halo about her head. "Must you look at me so?" she asked, not unkindly. Cavendish, ever fearful of Alicia's cool regard, found that her eyes, as blue as the finest sapphire, held an uncanny ability to stir a certain... longing within him. He reached out, gently covering her eyes with his hand. Then, he leaned in, his lips finding hers in a soft, lingering kiss. Her tongue, when he encountered it, was surprisingly soft. Alicia returned the kiss, a brief, polite acknowledgment, before gently pushing his hand away. William Cavendish's face was now thoroughly flushed, a crimson tide creeping up his neck. He sat up, leaning against the headboard, the very picture of a man at war with his own nature. An awkward silence descended, thick with unspoken desires. "Why must you always do that?" Alicia finally asked, breaking the stillness. "It's quite beyond my control, Alicia," he confessed, his voice heavy with a mixture of shame and resignation. "Much like my tears, I suppose?" He wrestled with his baser instincts. "Indeed," he admitted. She sat up, studying him for a long moment. "Do you usually... use your hand, then?" she inquired, her curiosity piqued by their recent activities. Cavendish's blush intensified, if such a thing were possible. His gaze, however, remained fixed on her. "Yes," he replied, reluctantly. He knew that if he didn't answer, she would persist until he did. "I should like to see it," she declared, as naturally as if she were requesting a cup of tea. "Absolutely not!" William Cavendish, caught utterly off guard, was adamant. Some semblance of dignity, after all, had to be maintained. He would guard that particular secret with his life. Fortunately, Alicia did not press the issue. "Very well," she conceded. "But do be quick about it." She moved to the privacy screen in the corner of the room to attend to her own post-coital ablutions, leaving him to his mortification. Cavendish stared at the discarded nightgown draped over the foot of the bed. Alicia, it seemed, possessed an impressive collection of such garments, each one different from the last. This one was of fine muslin, its high thread count rendering it almost ethereal, prone to wrinkling with the slightest movement. One could not afford to be unseemly, not in polite society. A constant battle, this, between man and his more animalistic tendencies. With a sigh, William Cavendish rose and made his way to the washbasin. A cold splash of water was usually his method. After which he would scrub himself clean, as was his custom, before being permitted to hold her again. Alicia had retired to her own chamber, conveniently connected to this one by a shared door. William Cavendish followed, finding a strange comfort in the cozy confines of her bedroom, a smaller replica of her boudoir. The room was filled with all manner of feminine trinkets, each one a source of endless fascination for him. He picked up a porcelain doll, turning it over in his hands. Alicia, a creature of habit, was asleep almost the moment her head touched the pillow. She nestled against him, her familiar warmth a welcome presence at his side. He adored these moments, when he could hold her close, their bodies aligned face-to-face. It was for this very reason that he had so vigorously negotiated for these nightly visits. Her leg, in her slumber, would inevitably find its way over his. He buried his face in her golden hair, inhaling her scent. The reality of their marriage finally, fully, settled upon him. This beautiful creature, slumbering peacefully in his arms, was his wife. They had been married but a week. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, a silent goodnight kiss bestowed upon her brow. He had decades of such nights ahead of him, a lifetime to cherish her. The mere thought was enough to fill William Cavendish with a profound sense of happiness. He longed to make love to her again, but more than that, he simply longed to hold her. In those moments, she was utterly his, their bodies entwined, two souls connected in a bond of intimacy and affection, two hearts beating as one.