Chapter 16: Confessions

"You are incorrigibly noisy," she declared, pressing a hand over his mouth. Her head, however, remained resolutely averted. A kiss, it seemed, was not on the agenda. "Am I not handsome? I daresay I am far more pleasing to the eye than he is," Cavendish pouted, his jealousy rearing its rather unattractive head. It was true, his nose lacked a certain aristocratic refinement, and his eyes, perhaps, did not possess the same hypnotic allure. But really, not a single kiss since their engagement! It was utterly barbaric. "You are strikingly handsome, to be sure," Alicia conceded, "but not precisely pretty." He refused to be placated. "But am I dashing? The most dashing man you know?" "Indeed," she hummed, her voice a soft melody amidst the tempest of his emotions. "And you knew him when you were seven?" he pressed, his voice tight with a desperation that was, frankly, quite unbecoming of a Duke's heir. She sighed, a delicate puff of air that nonetheless carried the weight of her exasperation. "Five, to be exact." Childhood sweethearts, they were. The more Cavendish learned, the more his carefully constructed composure threatened to crumble. He was, to put it mildly, a wreck. He covered her eyes, a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control. With her vision obscured, her other senses heightened, sharpened to an almost painful degree. Alicia, in a moment of clarity that often eluded her in such situations, finally understood. "Is it the painting?" she murmured, her voice muffled by his hand. "Do you believe that I love him because of it?" She had painted countless portraits. Was she expected to be enamored with each and every subject? The very notion was preposterous. Cavendish, upon hearing her denial, was instantly buoyant, though he attempted, with limited success, to conceal his elation. He had the good sense not to ask if she loved him. Such a question would be an exercise in self-inflicted torment. But he would most certainly demand, "You are not to think of him any longer." A rather pathetic attempt at a commanding tone, if one were being honest. For the moment, at the very least, she would obey. Alicia, in a rare display of physical affection, embraced him. "But it was you who brought him up," she pointed out, her voice a low purr. "I stand corrected," he conceded, without a hint of argument. "My apologies. I shall endeavor not to let my thoughts wander in such a ridiculous fashion again." Alicia, feeling rather mischievous, nipped at his shoulder. Their fingers intertwined, a silent testament to the undeniable harmony they found, at least, within the confines of the bedchamber. In this space, she was wholly, unequivocally his. Their recent estrangement, it seemed, had inadvertently ignited a spark. Never before had Alicia felt such a surge of... well, enthusiasm. Every place he kissed sent shivers down her spine, culminating in the most delightful little gasps. Even minor interruptions couldn't dampen her spirits. Unfortunately, he refused to cry again after that. He was simply too marvelous when weeping. Alicia found herself captivated by this novel discovery. And as promised, he refrained from mentioning him again. Thus, she remained blissfully ignorant of the details of their acquaintance, their interactions, the very essence of their past. Instead, she found herself nestled in his arms, her head pillowed on his arm. All his anxieties were tucked away, hidden deep within the recesses of his heart. Cavendish bestowed a tender kiss upon her forehead. He resolved, then and there, to know her better than he did now. The following morning, Alicia awoke to the disappointing realization that he was not, in fact, crying. She briefly entertained the notion of inducing tears but quickly dismissed the idea. As he assisted her with her attire, he couldn't resist embracing her, his face pressed against her back. He was a maelstrom of anxiety and yearning, requiring constant physical reassurance. Alicia decided the best course of action was to banish him to some productive activity. His energy, at present, was simply too much. During breakfast, Alicia, ever the pragmatist, felt compelled to elaborate on the previous night's discussion. "I have painted a great many people, Cavendish," she stated, with utmost seriousness. "Oh?" William Cavendish found himself flushing, last night's display feeling rather mortifying in the light of day. "Alicia, must we—" But he let her continue. After finishing her meal, she led him to her collection. "Observe," she declared, gesturing towards the dusty portfolios. Alicia, blessed with an impeccable memory, retrieved the relevant volumes. Cavendish accepted them one by one, his initial trepidation giving way to curiosity. He opened them to find a veritable gallery of familiar faces. There were relatives, friends, acquaintances – all individuals within their social sphere. Her parents, and Alicia's own, were undeniably striking. Their union, many years ago, had been rather unexpected. The Duke of Devonshire had been two years younger than his bride, not even of age when they wed. Her two aunts were present, as was their husband, who was also their great uncle. Lord Granville, a renowned beauty, possessed particularly exquisite features. The sons of her great-aunt, the Countess of Bessborough, the Ponsonby boys, including the youngest, William Ponsonby, a mere twenty-five years of age. He was, in the convoluted tapestry of their family tree, a sort of cousin once removed. Then there was Earl Spencer's youngest son, Robert Cavendish, twenty-one, another distant relation. As Cavendish studied the portraits, he noticed Alicia's meticulous attention to detail, her ability to capture the unique characteristics of each individual. She had a penchant for categorization. Every relative, no matter how distant, along with family friends of all ages, found their way into her art. In this grand scheme, R.F.B., or Robert Francis, as it were, was merely one among many. Inconsequential, really. Except, he had but one portrait. "I hardly see you, and you never sit for me," she explained. "Is that so?" He thought about it. It was true that he had become more distant after he came of age, keeping an appropriate distance. He didn't want her to be tied to him completely. After Alicia turned twelve, they seldom saw each other. "Besides, your face is utterly flawless. There are no distinguishing features to capture," Alicia declared, neatly arranging her portfolios. With that, she departed, resuming her constitutional. Cavendish, upon hearing this pronouncement, was overcome with a complex mix of emotions. Should he be pleased or not? He decided he was very pleased, and promptly followed her. This marked the third week of their honeymoon. Time, as it often does, had flown by at an alarming pace. They embarked on excursions, took leisurely strolls, and the previous incident seemed but a fleeting shadow, easily dismissed. Cavendish chose to focus solely on Alicia's assertion that he was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon. All other perceived flaws were promptly discarded. They strolled across the verdant fields, their hat ribbons trailing behind them in the gentle breeze. He watched as her white gown billowed, catching the wind like a ship's sail. She turned her head, the veil framing her face, obscuring the delicate curve of her nose. Suddenly, he darted forward, sweeping her into a tight embrace. "Alicia, Alicia!" he exclaimed, his voice brimming with unadulterated joy. His wife, his cousin, his beloved. She was as adorable as a fluffy little cloud. "You are being excessively loud," Alicia remarked, a delicate furrow appearing on her brow. He was, in truth, being quite boisterous today. They discussed potential subjects for her paintings, the changing colors of the autumnal forest, and the shimmering reflections in the distant lake. They observed a flock of sheep grazing in the valley below. Cavendish, with a mischievous glint in his eye, successfully maneuvered her towards a muddy patch. Without a moment's hesitation, he scooped her into his arms and carried her across, his steps sure and steady. Alicia observed, with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment, that her cousin seemed to have reached new heights of happiness. His moods were as changeable as the weather. "You may put me down now," she informed him, once they had reached solid ground. "Not just yet... Give me a kiss first." He swiftly planted a kiss upon her cheek before reluctantly setting her down. The absence of her weight in his arms left him feeling strangely bereft. Alicia stood there, observing the way his smile, usually tinged with a hint of mockery, was now pure, unadulterated happiness. He held his hat, his eyes squinting slightly against the sunlight. Alicia tilted her head, a small, almost imperceptible smile gracing her lips. He approached, his lips brushing against her cheek in a fleeting caress. And so, they continued their journey, returning along the wooded path. It was on this fine day, as he hummed a military tune with uncharacteristic exuberance, that Cavendish experienced a profound realization: he was in love. He was undeniably, irrevocably in love with his wife. Love, he had always believed, was an emotion reserved for mistresses, not for respectable wives. Wives were to be respected, cherished, perhaps even cared for in a familial manner. But this... this was something altogether different. He found himself suddenly understanding the passionate verses of poets he had once dismissed as overly sentimental. He gazed at her with a mixture of longing and delight. Love, it seemed, was a most curious thing indeed. After dinner, Cavendish settled at her feet, basking in the warmth of the fireplace. He proceeded to toast bread, declaring with unwavering confidence that no one could perform this task with such skill. He was eager to showcase all his talents, like a proud peacock displaying its magnificent plumage. Alicia, reminded of the peacocks she had observed in a neighbor's garden, imported all the way from India, couldn't help but find the comparison apt. She reached out and gently stroked her cousin's dark hair. He seemed to preen under her touch, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. His hair was a deep, rich black, not overly soft, with a natural wave. In his youth, when men still wore their hair long, tied back in a queue, his had been a striking sight. A cascade of Roman-esque black locks, framing a face of almost ethereal beauty, accentuated by his intense blue eyes. He was a slender youth then, all sharp angles and youthful grace. He had changed considerably since those days. The handsome features remained, but his physique had matured, becoming broader, more muscular. He was now a man in his prime, with broad shoulders, a lean waist, and long, powerful legs. He rested his head upon her knee, the soft fabric of her gown brushing against his cheek. His fingers toyed with the ribbons of her dress. He attempted to reminisce about the past. "Do you recall what I was like when I was younger? When I was your age, or even younger still?" Alicia pondered this for a moment. "You always had a rather sour expression," she finally declared. In his youth, Cavendish had been insufferably arrogant. Yet, upon his young cousin's arrival at Wimbledon Manor and Burlington House, he was invariably tasked with her care, ensuring her safety and catering to her every whim. He was incredulous. Had he truly been reduced to the role of a glorified manservant? Cavendish considered this, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his features. It was, he had to admit, an accurate assessment. He had fetched and carried, fulfilled her every request, all while maintaining a perpetually disgruntled expression. He had detested children. And after encountering the little whirlwind that was Alicia, he was quite certain he never wanted any siblings. He had enjoyed bickering with her, teasing her relentlessly, his words often sharp and laced with sarcasm. Indeed, he had probably insulted half the nobility of London with his sharp tongue. People often remarked that Alicia Anne Cavendish was the very picture of a perfect lady. He would scoff at such pronouncements. Clearly, they had never witnessed her utter indifference to, well, everything. ...Perhaps that wasn't such a flaw after all. Cavendish beamed, his smile radiant. "And now, Alicia? What do you think of me now?" He was attempting to make amends for his past aloofness, those years Alicia claimed to have little memory of. "Perhaps you should refrain from smiling quite so much," Alicia suggested, gently smoothing down the corners of his overly cheerful mouth. William Cavendish deflated slightly, still utterly perplexed by Alicia's preferences. Among the books Alicia had selected for the evening was Petrarch's Canzoniere. This Italian poet's unrequited love for his beloved Laura had inspired him to compose 366 poems in her honor. The toast, predictably, ended up burnt to a crisp, as Cavendish was far too preoccupied with perfecting his smile. He frowned, utterly bewildered, and insisted on trying again. Alicia, however, handed him the book, instructing him to read aloud instead. He felt, rather keenly, that he was being dismissed.