Chapter 11: The Counterattack

William Cavendish should, by all rights, have been heartbroken. His wife tolerated him. Tolerated, mind you, with perhaps a soupçon of coolness around the edges. No matter the immediate joys of their physical encounters, the aftermath remained unchanged. She adhered to her preposterous notion of seven times a month. He had but three remaining. And a full three weeks left in the month! Once a week? One might as well join a convent for all the good that would do. After their brief interlude, he had departed precisely at midnight, not a minute later. Alicia, as yet unawakened, had, in a most unusual display of nocturnal affection, draped an arm around his neck. He carefully extricated himself, rising to tuck the blankets around her. She was a creature of habit, a lover of rules. If she discovered his little game, she might very well revoke his privileges altogether. ... William Cavendish, lying alone in his bedchamber, was suddenly and acutely aware of a profound loneliness. Marriage was a curious institution, instantly adding an inseparable member to one's family. Though she was merely across the corridor, he missed her. He rose and began to write in his journal. He was not in the habit of keeping a journal. He was merely curious as to how his cousin had managed to pen one for a decade, without fail. Cavendish wrote, "I have confirmed it. Alicia merely likes me. She does not love me. I wonder if I am asking for too much." "I should, perhaps, employ a strategy of calculated indifference, to make her aware of her own feelings... But I cannot. I cannot bring myself to hurt her, to play such games." Perhaps this was enough? Many husbands and wives existed in a state of polite civility. At least she did not dislike him and accepted their physical intimacy, albeit with a distressing reduction in frequency. He had gained an extra three hours with her. William Cavendish was a man easily satisfied, and even more easily spurred to desire more once he'd had a taste. He convinced himself, quite readily, of this new reality. ... Alicia opened her eyes to an empty space beside her. The last time, her cousin had remained, bestowing upon her a lingering kiss upon waking. A kiss with a refreshing hint of mint—he was partial to a particular brand of tooth powder. She reached out, her hand encountering the vacant expanse of the bed. He emerged from behind the bed curtains, a mischievous glint in his eye, and kissed her. "Past seven o'clock. I trust I did not wake you this morning?" He preened, a smile playing on his lips. Alicia, in a fit of playful pique, tossed a pillow at him. William Cavendish was a man of contradictions—indulgent yet self-possessed. He reveled in pleasure but disdained anything that smacked of vulgarity. He possessed a fine set of teeth, played cards with restraint, and avoided activities deemed overly hazardous. A man who existed in that liminal space of just enough. Elegant, charming, captivating, yet capable of providing a sense of security. He was, without a doubt, the most exceptional of all the gentlemen in London. The destinies of eldest and second sons of the aristocracy often diverged dramatically. The eldest inherited the estate, while the second was expected to forge a career. Cavendish, born with every advantage, was no idle wastrel. His life was full, meticulously planned. From a soldier's life to travels abroad, from an ambassador's secretary to a barrister, and finally, a Member of Parliament. His youth had been dazzling, attracting a coterie of admirers. Upon coming of age, he was elected to the House of Commons from Derbyshire with an overwhelming majority, a rising star in the Whig party, those champions of reform. The newspapers of the time described him thusly: "Possessed of an extraordinarily striking appearance and a razor-sharp wit, his only failing is a certain haughtiness, a disdain for all he deems beneath him. Yet, even this has become a point of fascination for his followers." Alicia had chosen him not for his ignorance but for his maturity. Perhaps he was not the most steadfast, with a touch of frivolity, but he was undeniably worldly and ambitious. She had envisioned their married life as one of polite formality, each occupied with their own pursuits. She had not anticipated this... strangeness. It was difficult for Alicia to reconcile the man before her, the one who was currently kissing the back of her hand and pleading for a good morning kiss, with the young luminary who graced formal occasions in his impeccable attire, always composed, always cool, his face a mask of aristocratic aloofness. "What occupies your thoughts?" He kissed her cheek, enjoying the natural blush that bloomed on her skin after sleep. Alicia pushed him away slightly. He deliberately tensed his muscles at these times, creating a most satisfying firmness beneath her touch. He captured her wrist, his lips trailing over her skin in a manner most improper. Alicia thought, "This will not do. We must return to London at once. He needs to occupy himself with something productive." Otherwise, things were becoming increasingly peculiar. ... To avoid undue distraction, Alicia had, without any prior instruction, mastered the art of managing her husband. For instance, assigning him tasks kept him from clinging to her quite so tenaciously. Sorting through newly arrived periodicals, transcribing passages she had marked. Consulting botanical illustrations to provide the proper binomial nomenclature for her specimens. Recording the month's major events from the newspapers (he read those anyway), and comparing various translations of the Latin poems she was deciphering, requiring him to delve into the library's collection. William Cavendish completed these tasks with astonishing speed. Alicia discovered, for the first time, that a husband could be put to such practical use. She took great pleasure in delegating all the tasks she found tedious to him. Cavendish, for his part, was delighted by his wife's implicit trust. He was authorized to organize her portfolios, and Alicia's world was rich indeed. She had received an exceptional education. Naturally, she carried these materials with her wherever she went; she was sentimental that way. William Cavendish examined each sketch and watercolor with meticulous care. One was a profile of his own face. In May, Alicia had requested he sit as her model. His features were remarkably similar to those found on Greek statues, utterly flawless. Cavendish paused, studying the portrait for a long moment. He traced the lines, recalling the way their eyes had met as she sketched him, the way he had blinked, his usual composure momentarily faltering. He had wanted to kiss her then. William Cavendish, who had always detested the close proximity of others, now found himself constantly craving it with her. ... He had been gentle last night, not fully indulging himself, mindful of Alicia's physical state. She was less fatigued today, even taking an afternoon stroll. It was merely a walk along the lake, all the way to the grand estate on the opposite shore. Wimbledon was his mother's estate, inherited by Lady Diana from her great-grandmother. Their relatives, in a display of consideration for the newlyweds, had refrained from intruding, leaving the main house unoccupied. Every time she visited, she stayed in a particular bedroom on the right wing, decorated in gold and blue, always kept in readiness for her. It offered the most splendid view, overlooking the lake and the distant hills. He had planted a row of chestnut trees a decade ago. They had matured into a pleasingly uneven line, completing the vista. Cavendish rested his head on her shoulder as they silently admired the scenery. He measured with his hand, recalling her first visit to Wimbledon at the tender age of five. "She was this tall, you see." He then scooped her up, a habit he had of lifting her by the legs and hoisting her onto his shoulders. Alicia had initially been startled by this but had grown accustomed to it. He was pleased when she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. "May I kiss you?" he inquired. "As if my refusal would deter you," Alicia thought, but she nodded. Cavendish eagerly carried her to the window seat, remembering how Alicia liked to curl up there with a book. Once, in the library, he and a friend had been engaged in a lengthy conversation. Upon drawing back the curtains, he had been startled. "How long have you been there, Allie?" He suspected she had overheard a good deal. Fifteen-year-old Alicia, already possessing a striking beauty inherited from her parents, her golden hair half-unbound, replied, "Not long. Just in time to hear—" He quickly shushed her, pulling her back, concealing her from view. "What is it, Cavendish?" His friend had come to retrieve a document. William Cavendish stood there, his posture seemingly casual but in reality, carefully shielding her. She, in a show of youthful defiance, deliberately extended a leg. ... The memories he shared with Alicia were endless. And so, he kissed her repeatedly, his lips moving to her neck. Her hand, clasped in his, moved to his waist. Alicia gazed at the landscape painting by Poussin hanging on the wall. For the first time, she was fully present, her mind not wandering. She wondered about her cousin's experience, why he seemed to grow more excited each day, never tiring. She explored this curiosity, mimicking his earlier action, touching his earlobe. This caused his grip to tighten. He lifted his head, looking at her with a smile, and kissed her more deeply, full of a yearning that seemed to grow with each passing day. ... He preferred her bedchamber, driven by a possessive instinct. It was her demesne, a place as sacrosanct as any ancient temple, and each kiss, each delicious encroachment upon her very being, was akin to a conqueror's banner unfurled, a brazen declaration that she had, willingly or not, become a prize of his affections. William Cavendish longed to bring Alicia to his own space, but she showed no interest. She favored her own room, even insisting their encounters take place in the adjacent chamber. Alicia had grown accustomed to these regular nocturnal visits. During dinner, she wore a delicate pearl forehead ornament, her gemstone eyes sparkling. As she was preparing in her dressing room, he came to kiss her. "Tonight?" he asked. "Yes," she replied. Such agreements filled him with a profound sense of happiness. Alicia observed him as he entered, impeccably dressed as always. Every garment her cousin wore was tailored to perfection, the knot of his cravat never tied the same way twice. He had broad shoulders, a narrow waist, long legs, and large hands, seemingly made for playing the piano. Cavendish noticed her gaze. He extended his hand, pale and soft, yet with calluses on the sides of his fingers from years of riding and fencing. She gently grasped it, comparing their hands. He was less impetuous tonight, and they engaged in conversation. Until Alicia asked why he wasn't kissing her. He then kissed her wrist, moving slowly to her palm, his gaze never leaving hers. Alicia asked him again why he didn't change before entering. "Help me undress. Will you?" He was quite direct, his eyes pleading. He was not like a puppy; he demanded far more. Cavendish was a most troublesome man. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it fast. "You are quicker at undressing yourself than I am," she said, frowning. "It is not the same." He placed her hand on his chest, the contrast between the dark fabric and her fair skin striking. Her palm and fingertips were flushed a rosy hue. "The knot is not complicated. Just a simple tug will do." His voice was a silken murmur, a persistent seduction. Alicia felt his breath quicken. She reached inside, pulling out the cravat that was tucked into his waistcoat, and gave it a tug. It didn't budge. She leaned closer, studying it with a frown. He hesitated, about to speak. "Don't say anything." She quickly figured out the mechanism. She had never untied a cravat for anyone before. He was the first. Cavendish raised an eyebrow, his delight evident, bordering on smugness. He held her hand, turning his head to brush his lips against her skin. He yearned for her to desire him as fiercely as he desired her.