Chapter 19: Fantasy

Having finished his own correspondence, Cavendish glanced up at Alicia. "And what of yours?" he inquired politely. A certain formality had crept back into their interactions when dealing with such matters, a subtle reminder of the chasm of unfamiliarity that still stretched between them, despite their newfound intimacy. This state of affairs vexed Cavendish considerably. It seemed they were only truly at ease in each other's company when utterly alone, a circumstance he found both delightful and, in the grand scheme of things, rather inconvenient. Alicia, ever forthright, replied, "A letter from Aunt Harriet." Harriet, the youngest sister of his grandfather, now married to Alicia's great-uncle. Cavendish braced himself for the usual pleasantries, no doubt filled with courteous praise for him and mundane inquiries about their daily life. Something along the lines of, 'Oh, those long walks and shared reading sessions sound utterly divine!' Harriet, unlike her sister Georgiana, had little patience for the Cavendish family's penchant for political involvement. Instead, she much preferred the lively exchange of letters with her loved ones. A woman of independent thought, she was. Their relationship with her brother and sister-in-law was lukewarm at best. Their politics were far too radical, their methods far too ostentatious. It was this very discordance that spurred her, after their mother's death, to consider marriage at all. She was, however, quite fond of her niece. Alicia began to read aloud, and Cavendish found his polite disinterest rapidly transforming into something akin to horrified fascination. "...men do tend to have an excessive interest in these matters," Alicia read, her voice betraying no hint of irony. "It may be somewhat bothersome at first, but do not overestimate their novelty. Three months at most, and they retreat, and then one can return to a normal life." The tone of the letter was one of cool detachment. She raised her eyes to meet his. In essence, Alicia had confided to her aunt that her husband was overly energetic and enthusiastic in the bedroom. Cavendish pressed a hand to his forehead. Harriet was but twenty-seven, married a mere three years ago, had given birth to her eldest daughter shortly thereafter, and was now heavily pregnant with her second. Her husband, Lord Granville, had a reputation, from his youth to the present day, as a bit of a rake. In short, Cavendish could scarcely imagine the light in which he now appeared to his female relatives. This, for Cavendish, was nothing short of a catastrophe. She was married now, and it was perfectly natural to discuss such things with one's elders. He watched as Alicia, in her reply, thoughtfully assisted her aunt in choosing a name for the impending arrival: Georgiana, after her mother and sister, if it were a girl; Granville, if a boy. He rubbed his face, lamenting the utter ruin of the reputation he had so carefully cultivated over the past two decades. William Cavendish, meanwhile, was perusing a letter from his own father. Lord Cavendish admonished his son not to be distracted by the throes of passion, reminding him that the upcoming election in the latter half of the year was of paramount importance. He hoped William would secure victory in the Westminster constituency. Appended was a report, requiring William's presence in London no later than the end of October. His grandfather, the Earl of Burlington, inquired jovially about the newlyweds' compatibility, advising his grandson to disregard his father's demands entirely. "A honeymoon only happens once in a lifetime," the old Earl chuckled. The Duke of Devonshire delicately inquired of his daughter whether she wished to return to London to inspect the new specimens recently transplanted to the botanical gardens, or if she preferred to spend the autumn hunting season at the estate in Derbyshire. The Duchess, for her part, announced that she was nearing completion of her current project concerning prison reform in London and the resettlement of war veterans. Everyone was abuzz, it seemed, with curiosity about her daughter's married life. Speculation ran rampant as to what agreements the Duke had reached with the other party, and how the inheritance would be divided. They exchanged letters, inundated by the well-wishes of their families and the looming specter of future challenges. ... At long last, they found themselves able to ride together, galloping across the verdant expanse of the countryside. Alicia's horsemanship was superb; indeed, riding was perhaps her most beloved pastime. She urged her little silver mare forward, gracefully overtaking him. Turning back with a confident air, her eyes sparkled with laughter. In these moments, he was always momentarily stunned, before spurring his own mount to follow. He pulled her down onto the grass, and they tumbled together under the dappled sunlight. She laughed, a rare and precious sound. "Alright, Cavendish," she said, breathless. He paused, propping himself up on one elbow, and began to carefully remove stray blades of grass from her hair. Their eyes met, and they kissed. He wished, with a fierce intensity, that this moment could last forever. ... Just as in the evenings, when he awaited her with a mixture of trepidation and longing, he yearned to ask if she loved him. In the dim light, she appeared, clad in a light robe, her golden hair cascading down her back like spun moonlight. Her robe was adorned with a butterfly print, the fabric spreading out like wings as she moved. And then, with a casual grace that stole his breath away, she let the robe slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale, luminous skin beneath, and stepped towards him. It was as if his very dreams, his most fervent fantasies, had taken form before him. Alicia leaned in, her lips brushing against his. "What is it?" she murmured, her voice soft as a sigh. She was like a goddess, bathed in the silvery glow of the moon, achingly beautiful. She kissed him with an easy familiarity, her skin warm against his. His face flushed, his hands trembled. Alicia realized her cousin was frozen, unresponsive. She released him, a question in her eyes. "What are you looking at?" He started, his heart hammering against his ribs, and reached out a tentative hand, his eyelashes fluttering. He kissed her, then, with a reverence that bordered on worship, his lips tracing a path along her jawline, her throat, the delicate curve of her shoulder... She sighed, a soft sound that sent shivers down his spine, and his own breath hitched in his chest. He paused, trembling. "What is it?" she asked, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, urging him to continue. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply, this embrace his favorite position. Alicia was slightly elevated, just as she had been that night. He tilted his head back, feeling reborn. He adored her body, and thrilled by her initiative in kissing him. He was fully dressed; she tugged at the edge of his cravat. "You haven't changed again." His desire, barely contained, surged anew, but she slipped from his grasp. Alicia pushed him gently. "Undress yourself." His gaze followed the graceful line of her waist, her shoulders, down to the gentle curve of her calves. His breath caught in his throat, a low, almost desperate sound escaping his lips as he fumbled with his cravat, his jacket, his waistcoat, drawing closer to her with each discarded garment. They kissed, a tangle of limbs and urgent need. He had never been like this, so utterly undone. He pulled her down, his laughter a low rumble in his chest as he kissed her again and again, his hands roaming freely. Alicia, initially taken aback, slowly closed her eyes, her fingers tracing the contours of his face, a soft caress. Their breaths mingled, his lips found hers. "Alicia," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You...?" He wanted to ask. She sought him out, her lips brushing against his ear. After that, words failed him. ... Alicia found a new delight in their lovemaking. He was so sensitive, everywhere, that a mere touch from her sent shivers through his entire body. She relished the feeling of control. The only drawback was that it made her feel just as dizzy. Her golden hair cascaded down her back. He gathered her close, tucking a stray strand behind her ear, his breath warm against her cheek. "Alicia, I know, I know..." He finally managed to complete his sentence. "Would you like to try?" "Yes." He nipped at her earlobe. "Just like riding your little mare." For the first time, he saw a blush creep across her cheeks. "Alicia." ... She found it awkward to call him Cavendish, as so many of their relatives shared the name. She called him "William." He was stunned when he first heard it. But he never heard it again. ... Love was a passionate affair, irrational, impulsive, a transgression against his proper wife. He suppressed his love. Love was a word reserved for lovers, and they never spoke of love. But he longed for her to love him. My wife, my beloved, Alicia. He didn't ask if she loved him. Because...? "Will." She spoke softly, extending her hand to him. ... The next morning, he couldn't stop smiling whenever he looked at her. Was he a fool? Alicia frowned slightly. She was exhausted. But the previous night had been exhilarating. She had seen the subtle shifts in his expression, the way his body responded to her every move. Their eyes met, and he smiled at her, his gaze softening, his lips curving into a gentle kiss. He murmured something in her ear, his voice a low, intimate whisper. Cavendish stopped her. "Alicia," he said, his eyes full of a hopeful light. "What is it, Cavendish?" The man froze, his hair delightfully tousled, his usually impeccable cravat hanging askew. "If you call me Cavendish, it would be better to call me cousin, it's too strange." He bowed his head. "William George, then?" Should she address him thus? Alicia approached, and they exchanged a brief, almost formal kiss. It was, after all, a rather affectionate form of address. But she didn't call him Will anymore. Her whispered "Wills" from the night before, as she clung to him, echoed in his memory. He had almost believed, in those fleeting moments, that she truly loved him. He stared out the window, lost in thought, while Alicia, paying him no mind, went downstairs. Cavendish refused to believe that Alicia might only have affection for him in bed. He regretted choosing a slightly larger villa. His cousin wouldn't have liked a cramped room. But now he thought, if only it were smaller. He could be closer to her. Alicia preferred a smaller bed, so the one he had ordered was on the smaller side. If only her bed were larger. They could sleep together. Alicia usually didn't like him. If only she liked him. He was so worried.