Chapter 15: Fancies and Foibles

The war, a distant rumble of thunder beyond their gilded cage, did little to disturb the tranquil, if somewhat stifling, atmosphere of their lives. Cavendish often found himself in a curious predicament, lamenting Alicia's lack of a Y chromosome, only to be immediately grateful for it. After all, his cousin, his wife, was blissfully devoid of the belligerence, the impulsiveness, the altogether tiresome animalistic drive to dominate and possess that plagued the male specimens he'd had the displeasure of encountering. Alicia was, in a word, perfection. Or so he told himself, frequently. "My little mare," Alicia cooed, her voice a stark contrast to the usual cool detachment she employed with him. She stood admiring the newly arrived creature, a silver filly with a meticulously groomed mane, a picture of equine grace. Cavendish managed a tight smile. Transporting the beast all the way from London without incident had been an exercise in sheer frustration, one he'd rather not repeat. Several days of rest had been required for the creature to regain its composure, and it was only now deemed presentable enough for his wife. "You found the stable offerings... unsatisfactory," he offered, a statement rather than a question. Alicia stroked the filly's velvety nose. "Pearl, my sweet, my pretty girl, aren't you a beauty?" The corner of Cavendish's mouth twitched. A horse received more tenderness from her than he did, it would seem. "If only Pip were here," Alicia sighed, meticulously selecting the roundest apple from the basket. She held it out to Cavendish, a silent command for him to slice it for the pampered equine. Pip, a foxhound of discerning taste, had taken an instant and profound dislike to Cavendish, often expressing its displeasure by attempting to make a meal of his ankles. Cavendish's gaze drifted to a painting on the wall, a portrait of a young boy, a foxhound cradled in his arms. The boy from the painting… His eyes darkened momentarily. "I should like to ride back to London. Eventually," Alicia announced, her tone surprisingly firm. Such a notion was utterly unbecoming for a lady of her station. Besides, sidesaddle was hardly suitable for extended journeys. "That would take at least three hours," Cavendish calculated, omitting the high probability of inclement weather. A damp chill was a sure path to a cold, and a severe cold could, on occasion, prove fatal. "Very well, we shall take the carriage once we reach the outskirts of town," she conceded, with a sigh that suggested she was humoring a particularly dim-witted child. Foxhounds, typically kept in packs of a dozen or more for hunting purposes, were hardly known for their docile temperament. Yet, Alicia, with the same methodical patience she employed to tame her husband, had chosen the most spirited of the lot and, through some arcane combination of treats and sheer willpower, trained it to sit, stay, and even accompany her on hunts, trotting faithfully beside her horse, a hunting rifle at the ready. Alicia found herself perplexed by her cousin's uncharacteristic reticence. The usual suffocating embraces were absent, as were the surreptitious kisses and wandering hands. He would, on occasion, stare at her with an intensity that bordered on unsettling, only to avert his gaze the moment she met his eyes. One afternoon, she discovered her reading journal defaced with the initials "R.F.B." scrawled across a blank page. With a sigh of bewilderment, she tore out the offending sheet. "This evening...?" he began, his voice a low murmur as he approached her from behind, his breath warm against her neck. He nuzzled her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. Alicia felt her resolve weaken, her body melting into his embrace. In these moments, her cousin displayed a rare assertiveness, a desperate hunger for something she couldn't quite define. "No, it's an even-numbered day," she reminded him, her voice surprisingly steady. He did not argue. He simply gazed at her, his expression unreadable, before placing a feather-light kiss on her forehead. "Good night, then, Alicia." Cavendish longed to ask the question that plagued his waking thoughts, but he dared only voice it when Alicia was at her most vulnerable, her most pliant. In the throes of passion, her usual icy demeanor melted away, leaving her unguarded and open. But tonight, they did not share a bed. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, sleep an elusive phantom. He reached for a bottle of sherry, then hesitated, placing it back on the nightstand. She disapproved of his drinking, particularly when he became overly maudlin. His thoughts drifted to their shared moments of intimacy, each encounter a fleeting glimpse into a paradise he could never fully possess. A muffled sigh escaped his lips as he buried his face in his pillow, the silence of the room amplifying his loneliness. Alicia, ever the dutiful daughter, reported her observations to her mother in her weekly correspondence. In her previous letter, the Duchess had assured her that such reactions were indicative of a harmonious union. Nevertheless, she urged her daughter to prioritize her own desires and to tolerate no coercion. Alicia confessed that while she enjoyed the physical intimacy with her cousin, she craved personal space in her daily life. It seemed her wish was gradually being granted. Having folded the letter, she set aside her writing board. A sudden wave of longing washed over her, a yearning for the warmth of his body, the reassuring weight of his presence. What a magnificent specimen he is, she mused, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. With that thought, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. He did not seek her out the following day, his absence a palpable void in her routine. The reason for his withdrawal, however, was something Cavendish found utterly mortifying, a secret too shameful to utter aloud. He did, however, manage to join her for breakfast, though he pointedly turned his head away, maintaining a distance that felt both absurd and agonizing. He had defiled her. In his thoughts, no less. William Cavendish could scarcely comprehend how he, a married man, could commit such an act of indecency, such an insult to his wife's honor. He had scrubbed his hands raw, yet he still felt unworthy to touch her. Alicia observed her husband's increasingly flushed complexion with growing concern. Was he ill? He hadn't kissed her all day. A knot of unease tightened in her chest. During their afternoon stroll, his fingers fumbled with the ribbons of her bonnet, his usual dexterity replaced by an awkward clumsiness. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she reached out and gently touched his forehead. "I have done something wrong, Alicia," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper as they walked along the lake. "What is it?" Alicia braced herself, assuming he had damaged some prized possession. She was prepared to forgive him instantly; material things held little value for her. His face crimson, he remained silent, his shame a tangible barrier between them. They stopped, finding a secluded bench to sit upon. He finally spoke, his words halting and fragmented, whispered into her ear. Alicia listened, her own cheeks gradually flushing a delicate pink. Her long lashes fluttered in disbelief as she turned to look at him. There was a vast difference between the mere act of satisfying a physical urge and the act of engaging in a fantasy. The latter implied a certain... sordidness. Marriage, after all, demanded respect for one's wife. And yet, his description painted a picture of a dream, a strangely beautiful, albeit forbidden, one. Alicia recalled her own secret reveries. She did not feel offended, but rather... intrigued. "How did you feel, Cavendish? Were you happy, in that moment?" she asked softly, her hand reaching out to offer a gesture of comfort, a silent absolution. "No, not happy. I missed you, terribly. And I was ashamed of myself for it." She leaned in and gave him a chaste kiss. William Cavendish sometimes clung to Alicia as if to an anchor in a storm, perhaps because she was his constant, his unwavering, emotionless center, a statue of a saint in a quiet chapel. Three nights had passed since they had shared a bed. Alicia had spent two days resenting him and two days forgiving him. Now, acutely aware of her own burgeoning emotions, Cavendish approached their interactions with a newfound reverence, savoring each stolen moment. He engaged her in conversation, his voice a soothing balm. He brushed her long, silken hair, his touch gentle and deliberate. He watched her pen her daily entries in her journal, their shoulders brushing. They read together, their voices blending in a harmonious duet, as if they were truly husband and wife, not this twisted, tangled version of it. Their eyes met, and she lowered her lashes, a silent invitation. He leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a lingering kiss, a tender exploration of shared longing. His hands moved to caress her, his touch igniting a fire within her. He pulled her into his embrace, his fervent kisses raining down upon her shoulders. Her skin, now exquisitely sensitive, both craved and shied away from his touch. They clung to each other, shedding their shirts, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies pressed together. Alicia, for once, found herself fully present in the moment, her curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar sensations coursing through her. "Yesterday, this is precisely how I imagined you," he breathed, his voice thick with desire, his lips seeking hers with an almost desperate urgency. "I imagined you walking into my bedchamber." Imagined that she desired him, loved him, as much as he did her. "Radiant, alabaster-white, in the moonlight..." His voice trembled with the intensity of his longing. Alicia's face burned at his words, yet he pressed closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "I cannot help but imagine you." "I am torn between shame and yearning... I truly miss you, Alicia." ...... Alicia simply held him close. There was a perpetual warmth about her, a gentle heat that radiated from her very core. He buried his face in her hair, utterly captivated, the heat rising between them like steam from a kettle. They basked in each other's tenderness, a silent communion of souls. When she tilted her head up, he kissed her. Her waist, yielding beneath his palm, was slender as a willow branch. Every muscle in his body tightened. Yet, when her fingers traced his form, a shiver, quite involuntary, danced down his spine. Alicia felt as though she were adrift on a cloud, weightless and untethered. He murmured inquiries about her pleasure, his voice a low thrum. Words failed her. "Would you prefer to lie down, my dear?" he asked. "Yes," she breathed. They sank into the mountain of pillows. It had become quite fashionable to sleep propped up by pillows, rather than lying flat, a trend that Alicia, in her own way, did not adhere to. She preferred to be fully reclined, but she did enjoy the sensation of being enveloped, as if embraced on all sides. At this moment, she felt a desperate need to cling to something solid, and so she held him tighter still. She was embracing him too, pressing herself against him. Yet his face, usually alight with joy, was clouded with a peculiar anxiety. He feared she did not care for him. A preposterous notion, but there it was. He was more gentle than usual, hesitant, lacking his usual decisiveness. Alicia, in a rare moment of clarity, found her voice. "What troubles you?" she asked, her arms encircling his neck. He remained silent, and instead, bent his head to kiss her, a silent plea. He endeavored to please her with a newfound earnestness, his tongue tracing hers, a motion that brought to mind a certain previous evening. This time, however, she returned his kiss with equal fervor. She felt herself spiraling into a vortex of sensation, her head resting upon his shoulder. "Alicia, Alicia," he murmured her name repeatedly, like a prayer, as if to reassure himself of her very existence. Her fingers, as if possessing a will of their own, threaded themselves through his dark hair, each touch sending a fresh wave of shivers through him. He brought her to the precipice of ecstasy, and just as she was about to initiate a kiss, he finally voiced the question that had been tormenting him. "Who is R.F.B.?" he whispered in her ear. "What?" Alicia's hand stilled. She did not comprehend. Her mind, slowly returning to the realm of reason, began to ponder the question. Cavendish pressed his face against her ear. They ceased their movements, locked in a silent embrace. Alicia loosened her hold, her arms falling to her sides. He instantly regretted his query, convinced he had ruined everything. Cavendish, in his silent misery, tried to draw closer to her. Her fragrance, a delicate floral scent, was intoxicating. "The boy in your drawings," he clarified, his voice thick with emotion. Alicia heard a muffled sob escape his lips. "Are you crying?" she asked, momentarily forgetting the interrupted pleasure, the peak of which had been tantalizingly close. He shook his head, then kissed her earlobe, adding, "The one with brown hair and brown eyes. You've drawn him countless times." He could not bear to meet her gaze. Alicia remained silent for a long moment, and he could feel the warmth slowly ebbing from her body. Did she despise him? "He's rather young, and quite pretty, though, well, not particularly striking, I suppose," he added, in a fit of self-sabotage. Alicia, however, was merely lost in thought. Then, a flicker of recognition. "Do you mean Robbie?" she asked. His hand, which had been resting on her waist, began to withdraw. Robbie. Such familiarity. He ought to be consumed by jealousy, but a profound sadness was all he felt. Alicia was utterly bewildered. "Might we... continue?" she ventured delicately. "What?" Cavendish was jolted from his reverie of woe. "You don't mind?" "No," he said. He blushed furiously. "You are...?" She urged him to kiss her. It was all rather peculiar. Still, he instinctively sought to please her, to do as she wished. "Why did you ask about Robbie?" Alicia persisted, ever inquisitive. He silenced her with a kiss, a rare display of dominance. Her cheeks flushed, she finally uttered the name after their kiss ended, "Robert Francis Burdett." It was him! But all he could recall was that he was the son of a radical Whig MP, Sir Francis Burdett. Oh, and he had married Miss Sophia Coutts, the youngest daughter of the banker Thomas Coutts, whose residence was at Number One, Piccadilly. Right next door to the Duke of Devonshire's residence at Number Two. They were neighbors. "Why bring that up? If you hadn't mentioned it... I would have forgotten all about him," Alicia said. Alicia's continued questioning was cut short. He had intended to pretend he knew nothing, had heard nothing. It was a deliberate act of spite. He was being dreadful, but after all, Alicia did not care for him. Or did she? Cavendish was aghast. "You had forgotten?" Oh, this was a disaster. He should never have prompted her memory. Alicia was accustomed to her cousin's dramatic pronouncements. She was about to press him further. He pleaded with her, "No, no, no, Alicia, don't think about it." "Please, I implore you." With his dark hair, blue eyes, and full, rosy lips, he looked utterly pitiable. "Look at me, only at me," he begged, cupping her face in his hands, desperately trying to salvage the situation. Alicia gazed at him intently. "You've been crying," she observed, her fingertip gently brushing away a stray tear. "I have not," he insisted, with a touch of defiance. But then, a moment later, "Yes, I have." He buried his face in her shoulder, letting out two restrained sobs. This time, he did not neglect his duties, all the while murmuring plaintively. "I couldn't sleep last night," he confessed, pausing as if embarrassed by his own vulnerability, but then continuing, "I thought you were in love with him." Alicia, while still immersed in the throes of passion, listened patiently. "What?" "Why did you draw him so many times?" William Cavendish never imagined he would cry in front of Alicia. He was certain he was utterly ruined in her eyes. Alicia blinked, then explained, "Because he was obedient. He could sit still for hours." "Why didn't you ever draw me?" "Because you were never there," Alicia replied, matter-of-factly, genuinely perplexed by his distress. Cavendish considered this, and it did seem to hold water. He had been occupied with his studies at Lincoln's Inn at the time. He was drawn into her logic, nodding in agreement. It made a peculiar sort of sense. "I...?" Cavendish wondered why he had harbored this jealousy for so long, only daring to voice it now. He looked rather fetching when he cried, his eyes slightly red-rimmed in the firelight, his long lashes glistening with tears, Alicia mused. They gazed at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. She leaned in and curiously kissed away one of his tears. It tasted salty. She found she rather enjoyed seeing him cry. But he, suddenly self-conscious, turned his head away, his tears ceasing. ... She watched as fresh tears welled up in his eyes, making them sparkle. Alicia found herself utterly fascinated by him. They resumed their earlier activities, he burying his face in the crook of her neck, she emitting soft sounds of pleasure against his shoulder. She did not, however, forget her earlier question. "Why is it that you're the one crying today?" "Hush now, just kiss me," he murmured, his lips pursed, seeking her lips. "You kiss me, Alicia."