Chapter 17: A Kiss Most Unsettling

"Why this, precisely?" Alicia, her chin propped delicately on her hand, her hair arranged in a fashionable Romanesque half-updo that cast a halo of light around her neck, recited the very phrase he had uttered, with no small amount of ironic inflection, only days before. "I beheld upon the earth angelic grace, and a beauty not of this mortal place." "Alicia!" He flushed crimson. His behavior of late had been, to put it mildly, juvenile. And perhaps just a touch petty. Alicia regarded him with an amused quirk of her brow. "What is it? Have you not been perusing Petrarch?" Cavendish recalled, with a jolt, that he had yet to explain himself. He lowered his gaze, flipping a page at random, and began to read aloud. Like Alicia, he was fluent in Greek, Latin, French, German, and Italian. His linguistic prowess extended even further to Russian, Spanish, and Ottoman Turkish, a testament to his years in diplomatic service. He was not ignorant, but he was utterly baffled as to how to make her love him. This was the conundrum that occupied Cavendish's mind that day. "Now was the hush of every sound, the very winds at rest, Beasts and birds alike in slumber deep." He recited the verses softly. "The stars wheeled overhead, their nightly quest, The sea lay still, in tranquil sleep." Alicia leaned back against the sofa, listening to his melodious voice. Her cousin always strove for perfection. His appearance, his voice, his very countenance were all meticulously crafted to present the most favorable impression. "I watch, I ponder, I burn, I weep, She who destroyed me, before me still, my sweet sorrow to keep." Cavendish could bear it no longer. He decided to confess. "I actually saw this in a book of paintings," he admitted. "What?" He set down the poetry collection and retrieved the aforementioned item. He'd been carrying it with him, folded neatly in the inner pocket of his waistcoat. One of the reasons he'd assumed it was significant was because Alicia had kept the note with the poem he'd written to her. And that line, "To Lilia." Alicia took it and examined it. She understood now why he had been reciting such foolish poetry. "Who wrote it?" "Ah?" Cavendish was momentarily taken aback. Before he could salvage the situation, she asked, "Was it Robbie?" He accepted his wife's use of such an intimate nickname, assuming it was a friend of Alicia's. "Yes. You won't..." Cavendish instantly regretted his words. So Alicia... Her face was a mask of curiosity. "I've never seen it before. Was it tucked inside the album?" "Yes," he mumbled, defeated, leaning against her waist. She gave a slight, involuntary shudder. Robert Burdett was two years her senior, nineteen this year. It was said that early the previous year, he had suddenly come to her, spoken politely about trivial matters like the weather and refreshments, and then returned the next day, pale-faced, never to be seen again. He had been sent to Ireland to study. Cavendish understood immediately. He felt a surge of sour jealousy, his teeth practically grinding together. He grunted, his gaze fixed upon her. He desperately tried to recall where he had been at that time. Alicia, possessing a superior memory, informed him that he had been occupied with his legal apprenticeship and had failed to attend a cricket match he had promised her. "Ah." "Do you not dislike me?" "Not really." Perhaps she had always known how unreliable her cousin could be, yet in moments of consequence, he became surprisingly dependable. She mentioned that Robbie smiled more than anyone, that he was a handsome boy with a gentle disposition, a lover of books, and a quiet soul. This was because he insisted on knowing Robert Burdett's virtues. Cavendish cut her off. He couldn't bear to hear any more. "...He stutters a little," Alicia concluded. He looked at her, and she suddenly felt the urge to continue. His eyes were rimmed with red, and in the firelight, his face seemed gilded, softer, his usual sharpness dulled. He knelt before her, looking up at her, yearning to kiss her. She evaded him, and his expression turned even more morose. He didn't appreciate her praising others. But he remained silent. He sought her lips, persistent. ... "Alicia!" He was on the verge of giving up, their playful chase nearing its end. He was about to surrender. Alicia gestured for him to sit beside her. He obeyed, his face a mask of sullen obedience. They sat side-by-side, his lips pursed in a pout. He couldn't help but inch closer to her. Her gown draped over his feet. The atmosphere shifted, becoming charged with a strange tension. He longed to kiss her, but she had already refused. Alicia traced the lines of his handsome face with her eyes. At such moments, his expressions became remarkably vivid. Joy, anger, sorrow, delight - all were etched upon his features. He was looking at her. Alicia recalled how he usually kissed her. She rose, her knees on the sofa. He tilted his head back, gazing up at her with a bewildered expression, his lips full and inviting. She embraced his neck, leaned down, and bestowed upon him a kiss, a gift freely given. Alicia simply wanted to kiss him, so she did. He, however, seemed utterly flummoxed by her forwardness. It took him a long moment to react, to return the kiss. His hands, previously idle, now found their way to her waist. They kissed on the sofa, exploring, experimenting. They tumbled together. Alicia held him loosely, her arm draped casually around him. He held her waist, tilting his head for another kiss, seeking, their bodies pressed close. He longed to pull her into his embrace, to meld her into him. She knelt on the sofa, her golden hair cascading around his neck. Her body was soft and yielding, every touch a perfect fit against his palm. He lifted her, their clothes rustling, her calves and the hem of her skirt resting on his knees. It was like a game. She sensed something, tried to pull away, but he held her fast, their lips meeting once more. He poured all his earlier jealousy into the kiss. He nipped at her lips, but when her tongue darted out, he lost himself, wanting only to entwine with her. He smiled, pulled back, looked at her, and then kissed her again. Cavendish employed every technique he knew. He pressed her down, mussing her hair. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, the delicate, exposed skin. The air grew thick with heated breaths, a dizzying passion. Alicia was not as enthralled as he was, though she was breathless. After a time, she decided she'd had enough. "That's enough," she declared, pushing him away, bringing their passionate interlude to an abrupt halt. William Cavendish was left in a state of utter bewilderment, his movements frozen. He raised his eyelashes, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. After a moment of contemplation, he pulled her back into his arms, seeking reassurance. Alicia would still return his kisses, but she would stop him. "What is it?" Her dress was wrinkled from his touch. Cavendish bent down to smooth the skirt that had ridden up to her shoulders, adjusting the pearl-studded lace trim. He couldn't fathom it. Was his kiss not good enough? Her neck was slender and white, marked with faint red imprints, and he couldn't resist the urge to add more. Alicia, as was her custom, covered his mouth with her hand. Good heavens, they had only been kissing for a few minutes. "You don't like me kissing you?" He feigned a pitiful expression. "You kiss exceedingly well, but I'd like to read now," she replied, picking up the book she had been reading earlier. Her lips were red, her cheeks flushed. Like him, she was still catching her breath, yet she could calmly resume her reading. He was being treated like a dog. Cavendish realized this with a jolt. I detest you, Alicia. They were the most familiar strangers. He knew of the small mole on her waist, yet he had no inkling of what she was thinking. ... He retaliated by kissing her calf. She rested her leg on his, her eyes lifting to meet his gaze. "What are you doing?" Summoned and dismissed at will. It would be some time before William Cavendish truly understood his position in Alicia's life. ... He had thought, for a fleeting moment, that she loved him, only to be discarded so readily. He fussed, but she remained unmoved, accustomed to his antics, save for a gentle nudge of her foot against his face before she withdrew it. She paid him no mind. Cavendish composed himself, lost in thought. His long lashes cast shadows, his expression one of profound confusion. He steadied himself and glanced at the book's title. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. The first two cantos, written by Lord Byron upon his return from his European travels, depicting the landscapes of Portugal, Spain, and Greece, and his sympathy for the local people. Published in February of that year, it had catapulted him to overnight fame, making him the object of widespread adoration. She had read this book three times already. The book was more important than him, more captivating than a night of passion. "You're reading this." "Mm-hmm." He moved closer, embracing her, his head resting on her shoulder. They read together. "Not a ripple on the azure sea, golden oranges adorn the greenest trees..." Alicia tolerated his presence. He nodded as they finished reading, turning the page. "Do you wish to go to Lisbon? Yes, when the war is over." He remembered that some officers' families would accompany them to Lisbon during the Peninsular War. Every time he went to war, he looked forward to something. At that time, what kind of wife did he imagine? Ah, she must be like an angel, loving him, not just respecting him. Now? Alicia raised her eyes, inquiring if he had finished reading. His arm came around to hold the other side of the book. Perhaps it was so. He rubbed his chin against her cheek. "Your beard, it's not clean-shaven." "What? Where?" He was incredulous, wanting to check in a mirror. He looked at her, his upper lip bearing a faint shadow of stubble, as he leaned in again. ... They chatted about mundane matters, as they always did. A question, an answer, and Alicia grew weary of him once more. Having finished the first canto, she turned her head. "Are you still going to hold me?" she hinted delicately. "Of course." He would certainly hold her, Cavendish pressed closer. Alicia had never had such a clingy puppy. Her grandfather had over twenty foxhounds, each one perfectly obedient. They leaned against each other. "I recall Lord Byron wrote two poems for you," he remarked, remembering a detail he had previously paid no heed to before their marriage. In February, Lord Byron, having re-entered London society, was captivated by his cousin, calling her "The sun of the sleepless! Melancholy star!" The most mysterious statue standing in the Temple of Athens. She was already his fiancée at the time. When he heard about it at the club, the magnanimous William Cavendish had simply smiled it off. Lord Byron, after all, was known for such behavior. He fell in love with every woman he met. Her status as a betrothed woman ensured that the Lord made no untoward advances. His pale, melancholic appearance held an irresistible allure for women. He was at the height of his fame, with a legion of admirers. Later, he turned his attention to Alicia's great-aunt, the married Lady Caroline Lamb. She was the daughter of Alicia's grandmother's sister, Lady Bessborough, and had married the son of Lord Melbourne. After a highly publicized six-month affair, he grew tired of her and abandoned her. The tragedy was that Caroline remained infatuated with him. This extramarital affair damaged her reputation, and the influential Cavendish and Spencer families behind her were also affected. "He is a morally bankrupt devil," Cavendish thought with a shudder of apprehension. He refrained from voicing his criticism. His usual sharp-tongued remarks had softened considerably since his marriage. He had begun to adopt a more gentle demeanor. Lady Caroline had been taken by her husband to Ireland to escape the gossip. Recalling this ill-fated pair, who had once been considered a match made in heaven, he sighed. Ten years ago, 17-year-old Caroline Ponsonby fell in love with William Lamb, who was six years her senior. However, her family opposed the match because he was only a second son from a newly wealthy family - his grandfather had even been a merchant. Caroline, on the other hand, came from the prominent Ponsonby and Spencer families, and their close relatives, the Cavendishes, were all members of the high nobility. She was also the only daughter of her parents, with no other sisters, only brothers, and thus held immense value in terms of forging alliances through marriage. Three years later, William Lamb's elder brother died of consumption, making him the heir apparent, and the marriage was finally approved. When they married in 1805, they were considered the happiest couple in all of England, having persevered for three years. But now? He began to worry about his own marriage, fearing that even the greatest passion could be eroded by time. Alicia had never imagined that her cousin would have such high expectations for marriage. His cheek rested against hers, and he was dozing off by the fire. Lord Byron. Alicia had a favorable opinion of his poetry. Cavendish couldn't deny the man's talent. In fact, he had been the one to procure the first edition for her, as he too admired the epic poem. However, that didn't change the fact that Alicia disliked the man himself, particularly his dissolute lifestyle. She commented directly, "Lord Byron is an exceedingly emotional individual. And 'morally shattered'." She cast a sidelong glance at Cavendish. He defended himself, insisting that he was different. He wondered what had come over him. He used to be a cold and decisive person. He had completely changed.