Chapter 2: The Nuptial Night

William Cavendish stood frozen, rooted to the spot as if he'd taken up permanent residence there. A waft of youthful fragrance, a veritable bouquet of maidenhood, drifted towards him, subtle yet undeniably present. It wasn't the perfume he had selected for her, mind you, but something far more intrinsic, something that bloomed only upon closer inspection. It was the scent of her, a bud about to burst into flower. Alicia, in her customary fashion, merely brushed her lips against his, a fleeting touch that spoke volumes of her utter boredom. Her lips, soft as the petals of a rosebud, barely lingered before she, with a sigh of ennui, withdrew. In that singular moment, the reality of their union struck William with the force of a runaway carriage. They were truly married. Alicia's brow was perpetually furrowed, a delicate line of impatience etched upon her features, lending her an air of animated charm that was quite captivating. Before she could make her escape, a maneuver he suspected she was already plotting, William, with a firmness that surprised even himself, pulled her back into his embrace. A smile played upon his lips as he held his breath, claiming her mouth with his own. He rather enjoyed their little battles, their verbal sparring, their delightful disagreements. Regrettably, Alicia did not share his enthusiasm for such skirmishes. She was a creature of directness, always speaking her mind with a bluntness that bordered on the scandalous. Others were expected to cater to her whims; she, in turn, paid absolutely no mind to the sensibilities of anyone else. To his astonishment, she did not resist his kiss. Instead, she accepted it with a stillness that bordered on alarming. Alicia had, of course, received the customary instruction prior to the wedding. The Duchess of Devonshire, well-acquainted with her daughter's temperament, had wisely advised a straightforward approach. "Simply tell her what to do," she'd said, "and she won't even bother to ask why." Her lips were pursed, unused to the strange intrusion of his. This was, it must be noted, William's first foray into the realm of kissing. He discovered, with a thrill of surprise, that a lady's lips and tongue were remarkably soft. During their brief sojourn at the posting inn earlier that day, he had attempted a similar advance, only to be met with a swift and decisive rebuff. She harbored a most peculiar aversion to any form of physical intimacy. He had, perhaps foolishly, assumed that she had finally accepted him. He patiently pried her lips apart, counting each perfectly formed tooth with the tip of his tongue. He introduced her to his own, a fiery, silken thing. What a deliciously sweet kiss it was. William Cavendish had always been rather fond of himself, and why shouldn't he be? Blessed with a noble title, considerable wealth, and a face that could launch a thousand ships (or at least a few yachts), he was, by all accounts, a specimen of utter perfection. His second favorite person was, naturally, his cousin, Alicia. She was, after all, just like him: proud, aloof, and utterly indifferent to the opinions of the world. They shared the same blood, a fact that was not lost on either of them. He concluded the kiss, a task he felt he had performed with considerable skill. He had always been rather vexed by the necessity of marrying. But as the future inheritor of her father's title and estates, he felt a certain obligation, a responsibility to shoulder. This duty, he now realized, had its own unique set of rewards. Alicia, however, was easily bored. At this particular juncture, the kiss had, in her estimation, lasted far too long. She pushed against him, a gentle nudge that, to his delight, only spurred him on. He tightened his grip upon her waist, his superior height (he was a good deal taller than she) giving him a distinct advantage. Alicia took after her mother, standing at a respectable five feet six inches, a height that was considered quite tall for a lady of her age. Her cousin, however, towered over her at a towering six feet two inches. She couldn't be bothered to stand on her toes, so he obligingly bent down to accommodate her. Step by step, he guided her backward until she found herself pressed against the edge of a table. He kissed her with a passion that was both skillful and tender, a veritable symphony of affection. But to Alicia, it all felt rather the same. Her mother had been right, it seemed. The wedding night was not proving to be a particularly enjoyable experience. Finally, having had his fill of kissing, he released her. He sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, and smiled at the sight of her flushed cheeks. His gaze lingered upon her face, his deep blue eyes softening as his warm breath fanned across her neck. He moved lower, exploring the delicate skin, the soft curve of her throat, the tempting lobe of her ear. He suckled gently, rewarded by a soft moan that escaped her lips. His smile widened. He was about to continue this delightful exploration, his hands already moving to her waist, ready to lift her onto the desk, when Alicia spoke. "What happens next?" William paused, momentarily stunned. He stared at her, his mind racing. He quickly grasped her meaning. "You think this is... a prescribed sequence of events?" "Yes," Alicia confirmed, without a hint of embarrassment. He was utterly flabbergasted. William Cavendish was, at that moment, attempting to determine precisely where things had gone so terribly awry. "Should I summon Beth to help me change?" Alicia asked, diligently recalling the steps as they had been explained to her. "No!" her cousin exclaimed, a touch too vehemently. "Then, can you?" It was then that William noticed she had made no move to touch him. Her hands remained at her sides, as if she were a mere spectator in this most intimate of encounters. "You always assume I'm incapable of doing anything," he muttered, a hint of pique in his voice. Cavendish darkened. He reached for her hand, then hesitated, lowering his head to angrily untie the ribbons at the front of her gown. "Of course, I know," he mumbled. Her wedding gown and jewels were all his design. A bride's trousseau for the honeymoon was expected to be entirely new, with not a single garment repeated. Morning gowns, day dresses, walking dresses, carriage dresses, evening gowns, and so forth. He had personally selected each and every item. They were so familiar with each other that, during the tedious negotiations of their prenuptial agreement, they had not bothered with the usual courtship rituals, the contrived attempts at intimacy. She wouldn't even let him kiss her! Everyone envied him for marrying his cousin, a lady of such exquisite beauty and noble bearing. She was known for her serious demeanor, her face often described as cold and unyielding. Only William knew the truth. He had overheard Alicia's protestations to her parents on that fateful day. She had not minced her words. "He's nine years older than me," she'd declared. "I don't want to marry an old man." His heart, usually so full of self-regard, had been pierced by an unexpected thorn. An old man, indeed! The thought of her other suitors, all closer to her in age, only served to deepen his gloom. He knew her measurements by heart, every curve and contour meticulously recorded. He had tracked the subtle changes in her height and form over the years, ensuring that her wardrobe, from gowns to slippers, was always a perfect fit. Her discerning eye, he knew, only truly appreciated his own impeccable taste. She would, after all, only deign to wear the clothing he had commissioned for her. Alicia lowered her gaze, observing the deft movements of his hands as he untangled the intricate lacings of her gown. He wore a perpetual frown, his habitual expression of patient forbearance honed over their many years of acquaintance. She always appeared so guileless, so innocent, that no one ever suspected it was she who invariably instigated their little spats. The buttons, a newfangled fashion, were located at the back of the dress. His fingers brushed against the delicate slope of her spine, causing him to pause. The curve was firm, smooth, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh, a gentle hollow at its center. His fingertips traced the line, his heart beating a rather frantic tattoo against his ribs. "Are these in the back?" "Have you no recollection of the garments you are currently wearing?" William's composure returned. "They're all the same, no significant difference," Alicia said, gathering her golden tresses, which cascaded down her back, damp with a fine sheen of perspiration. He was momentarily speechless. "Yesterday's was adorned with primroses, today's with jasmine," William muttered, ever the stickler for detail. "You always fuss over such trivialities." Once the buttons were undone, his hands hovered in mid-air. His fingers traced the edge of the lace that adorned her shoulders and neck, his middle finger gently lifting the fabric, preparing to place a kiss upon the skin beneath. The flickering light from the hearth and the candelabra cast a soft, ethereal glow upon her, leaving him utterly captivated. "I shall require the champagne-colored nightgown, the one with the large ruffles," she announced, extending her hand as if he were a mere footman. William stood there, momentarily rooted to the spot. "I shall not fetch it," he declared, with a hint of defiance. "Hmm," she responded, unfazed. She wasn't ill-tempered, merely forthright in her speech and actions. "Do you truly know what you're doing?" her cousin inquired, a note of skepticism in his voice. Alicia tilted her head, a silent question in her eyes. He considered that she was but seventeen, a mere slip of a girl compared to his own advanced years. Surely, a degree of ignorance was to be expected, even tolerated. "Very well," he conceded. Fortunately, the ladies' maids were always meticulous in preparing the garments for the following day, ensuring they were pressed and ready for wear. William located the desired nightgown amongst her belongings. Turning back, he found the young lady had proceeded to remove her outer gown without him. It was half-undone, revealing the layers of petticoat, corset, and chemise beneath. The fine lawn fabric of the chemise hinted at the shadowy form beneath. She turned her head, a slight frown marring her perfect features, and gestured impatiently. He hastened to her side, bending down to assist her, helping her step free of the voluminous skirts. Her countenance remained impassive, yet a subtle warmth emanated from her, a delicate fragrance unique to blossoming young women. Her petticoat reached only to her calves, revealing the slender length of her legs encased in sheer silk stockings. The elegant curve of her calf was too much for his resolve. He gently took hold of her leg and, to her surprise, pressed a kiss upon it. Alicia looked down at the dark head bent over her, his hair a stark contrast to the whiteness of her petticoat. Warm kisses followed, a trail of sensations that crept up her leg. Her cousin, she decided, was behaving rather oddly. She shifted her leg, but he held it fast, his hand sliding upwards, his fingers brushing against the delicate lace of her garter. He unfastened it, his touch lingering, moving higher until it reached the hem of her chemise. This undergarment served as a sort of under-linen in this era before drawers became commonplace for ladies. This meant, of course, that beneath the delicate fabric, she wore absolutely nothing at all. Alicia watched as the dark-haired man raised his head, his blue eyes rimmed with a faint blush, his lips bearing the anxious marks of his teeth. He steadied himself, suppressing a low groan that rumbled in his throat. "My dearest cousin," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Alicia," he breathed, the name a soft caress upon the air. He took her hand, cradling it against his fevered cheek, his eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, gazing at her with an intensity that was both unnerving and captivating. "Are you certain you wish to proceed with this?" "What other course of action is there?" she replied, her voice devoid of any inflection. She had a remarkable talent for dispelling any hint of romance, a skill she employed with ruthless efficiency. William, somewhat disgruntled, planted a firm kiss upon her hand, a touch more forceful than intended. He felt a tremor run through her and, with a chuckle, pulled her closer. "We did make a promise, cousin," Alicia reminded him, her voice a melodious purr, low and languid, like that of any other noblewoman of her age, yet tinged with a certain coolness. A promise? Ah, yes. To fulfill their marital duties, to produce an heir, and then to go their separate ways. Their child, after all, was destined to inherit the dukedom. William exhaled, a slow release of breath. "Indeed, we did promise," he echoed, his tone laced with a touch of irony, a subtle mimicry of her own cadence. But he was a man of his word. He proceeded upwards, unlacing the loosely fastened corset, which served more to shape the figure than to constrict it, a necessary complement to the high-waisted Regency gowns. Through the thin fabric of her chemise, he could feel the frantic flutter of her heart, like a trapped bird beneath his palm. He pressed his lips to hers, savoring the taste of her, the softness of her mouth. He was rewarded with a soft sigh, a mere whisper of sound that sent a thrill through him. He continued his descent, peeling away the layers like the petals of a delicate flower, until only the chemise remained. A slender ribbon secured the garment at the front. He stared at it for a long moment, his fingers meticulously, almost reverently, untying the knot. "You never made me a shirt," he suddenly blurted out, the words a non sequitur that hung in the air. It was customary for an engaged lady to present her betrothed with a hand-sewn shirt. "I believe a box of them was sent over," she replied, her tone matter-of-fact. "Those were not made by you." "I have no fondness for needlework." He paused, his ear pressed against her chest, listening to the rapid beat of her heart. "Are you still intending to wear the nightgown?" "No, it's too much bother." William let out a short laugh. "I do wonder what you did learn during your lessons." "They told me that on the wedding night, my husband would kiss me, remove my clothing, and then... do something," she recited, as if quoting from a particularly dull textbook. "Not a husband, your husband. Me," he emphasized, pulling her closer, his body molding against hers. Men's trousers, too, were high-waisted in this era, and tailored for a close fit. Alicia cast a glance downwards, a flicker of awareness in her eyes. William followed her gaze, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he captured her earlobe between his teeth, nibbling gently. He adored everything about her, a revelation that had only truly dawned upon him this very day. The fragrance emanating from her intensified, a heady perfume like that of night-blooming jasmine, intoxicating and alluring. "You may still change your mind, my dearest, dearest Alicia," he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper, a blatant attempt at enticement. Alicia stifled a yawn. "Do get on with it," she implored. William froze. He instantly regretted attempting to flirt with his cousin. He wondered, not for the first time, why so many men were utterly besotted with this beautiful, yet utterly wooden, creature. He lifted her onto the bed, his gaze sweeping over her. He laced his fingers through hers, a sudden wave of shyness washing over him. Her golden hair spread across the pillow like a halo, her blue eyes gleaming with an almost otherworldly light. "You are mine," he declared, his voice filled with a newfound conviction after a long moment of silent contemplation. Alicia felt her mind growing increasingly muddled. She did not disagree. Her lips were swollen and red from his persistent kisses. Her cousin, she decided, was far too demanding. He clung to her, nipped at her skin. She was growing weary, her limbs heavy. She kicked at him, a feeble attempt at protest, but he caught her foot, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her ankle. The sheer stockings remained upon her legs, the silky fabric a tantalizing caress against his skin. Alicia finally remembered what she had been meaning to say. He waited, anticipating some profound declaration, some heartfelt sentiment. Instead, she drew a steadying breath and exclaimed, "William George! You haven't removed your clothes! You're pricking me!" There she lay, completely unclothed, while he remained fully attired. When she was angry she always called him by his full name. He found her anger oddly endearing. His greatest pleasure, it seemed, was provoking her. "Undress yourself," Alicia commanded, turning her head away, the delicate line of her neck accentuated by the soft shadows. But for now, he had no choice but to comply. He rose from the bed, his face set in a determined frown. He removed his green velvet coat, then unwound the intricate folds of his white cravat, followed by his waistcoat. His shirt, with its ruffled front, hung open, revealing the strong column of his throat and a glimpse of his chest. She still wouldn't touch me, he thought bitterly, she just lies there and watches. William couldn't help but think that this was a most inauspicious beginning to a marriage. Whose wedding night, he wondered, was ever quite like his?