Chapter 21: The Portrait

Lady Alicia Cavendish was engaged in the rather tedious task of opening correspondence from her friends. Most of her female companions were, as yet, unmarried, a circumstance which often led to a certain awkwardness in their interactions after one had crossed the matrimonial Rubicon. Society, in its infinite wisdom, decreed that a married lady held a higher station, and enjoyed more freedoms, than her unwed counterpart. Certain social engagements were deemed unsuitable for the delicate sensibilities of an unmarried miss, and thus, the social circle inevitably shifted. "Who is it from?" Lord Cavendish inquired, his attention momentarily diverted from the speech he was meticulously editing. He had a mountain of reports to review later, concerning the various estates under his purview, agricultural matters, and the ever-fluctuating bonds and stocks in which he had wisely invested. He also held a position of some importance in the Foreign Office, serving as the chief secretary to Viscount Castlereagh. That, too, would need tending to eventually. He wondered, with a touch of bewilderment, how his honeymoon had come to this. Alicia, however, seemed to approve of his industriousness. Was this the sort of mature stability she admired? "It's from Anna Milbanke," she replied. "Ah," Lord Cavendish acknowledged, recognizing the name. The niece of Lady Melbourne, a woman of considerable intellect, particularly gifted in the fields of mathematics and physics. They shared a common interest, both being members of the Bluestockings Society, an organization established in the previous century for educated women to engage in intellectual discourse. They even studied under the same tutor, Professor William Frend of Cambridge University. In an age where young ladies were typically relegated to a "finishing" education, while their male counterparts enjoyed the rigors of university, Anna had received a remarkably thorough education, comparable to that of any gentleman. Their letters often delved into complex mathematical problems, and this one was no exception, featuring a particularly thorny issue in analytical geometry. Towards the end, however, the correspondence took a more personal turn. "Anna says that Lord Byron is pursuing her," Alicia remarked, a delicate furrow appearing on her brow. "Honestly, I can't say I care for the man." Anna, it seemed, was well aware of Byron's character flaws, yet she found herself strangely drawn to him. Alicia began composing a reply. Lord Cavendish, for the first time, observed a flicker of something akin to marital discontent in Alicia's usually placid countenance. And really, who could truly find joy in the institution of marriage? He resolved to tread more carefully around her. He did not interrupt her further, and they continued in companionable silence, each absorbed in their respective tasks. Alicia was, at present, engrossed in a French text on calculus, a subject not yet widely embraced in England. Her true passion, however, lay in astronomy, a science that beautifully married the abstract with the concrete, numbers and quantities, stillness and motion. This celestial fascination fueled her diligence in related fields like mathematics and physics. Her erudition never failed to impress him, and he often found himself attempting to read the same books she devoured. "Shall we go for a drive?" she suddenly asked, her fingers absently toying with her hair as she grappled with a particularly challenging equation. ... They decided to take the curricle out for a spin. Driving, particularly in the fashionable high-perch phaetons, drawn by two horses, was a favored pastime among London's fashionable young gentlemen. Although undeniably dangerous, the thrill of commanding such a magnificent vehicle was quite irresistible. They traversed the entirety of the estate, following its winding perimeter. Alicia clutched her bonnet, its ribbons fluttering wildly in the wind as the carriage sped along, Lord Cavendish letting out a hearty laugh. "Are you always this reckless?" she inquired, a hint of concern in her voice. He brought the horses to a halt and gently reached over to secure her bonnet strings. "I know," he conceded, "I shall endeavor to refrain from such activities in the future." Accidents involving carriages and horses were, regrettably, not uncommon. Perhaps this was what responsibility felt like. He placed a tender kiss on her forehead. She cares for my well-being; she must still love me, he thought with relief. Their days were meticulously planned, Lord Cavendish taking great pains to ensure Alicia did not succumb to boredom, although she seemed perfectly content to sit with a book for hours on end. He had affectionately dubbed her his "Calculus Princess." "My dearest Princess," he said, his voice taking on a playful tone, "would you do me the honor of accompanying me outside?" He covered her eyes with his hands. Upon opening them, Alicia beheld a brand-new reflecting telescope that had been delivered. "An eight-inch diameter," she deduced, her eyes gleaming with appreciation. "A small token," he said with a smile, "for your stargazing pursuits." It was, of course, not as grand as the eighteen-inch instrument at her family home, nor quite as professional. But she would undoubtedly enjoy comparing her observations with star charts, a favorite pastime of hers. And Wimbledon, with its clear skies and expansive views, was an ideal location for such endeavors. Alicia examined the telescope with a discerning eye. "The craftsmanship of the lens is quite remarkable." Naturally, he had researched it extensively. The telescope was subsequently installed in her bedchamber, positioned on the balcony facing the most advantageous direction for astronomical observation. ... Unfortunately, the weather that evening proved uncooperative, and after a brief, fruitless attempt at observation, she descended from the upper floor. They shared a few kisses, and it was then that Lord Cavendish was reminded that today was an odd-numbered day. One moment he was reveling in the joy of Alicia seeking his embrace, the next he was seized by a sudden panic as he calculated the remaining encounters for the month. The month was barely half over, and he was left with only one? For the next ten days, he would be relegated to a solitary existence? Lord Cavendish groaned inwardly. His marriage, it seemed, was a tumultuous affair indeed. "Take off your clothes," Alicia suddenly commanded. His face flushed crimson, a mixture of excitement and apprehension warring within him. "Here?" he stammered, "Wouldn't that be rather...inappropriate?" Alicia regarded him with a critical eye, a slight frown creasing her brow. "What are you thinking?" "I intend to paint you," she declared. He did look rather splendid without his clothes, his physique a perfect sculpture of toned muscle, a vision of masculine beauty. Alicia had long harbored this desire. It was only his incessant scheduling that had forced her to tolerate his various activities, much like indulging a particularly energetic puppy, although her dog, Pip, was far more obedient. "Oh?" "I wish to paint a nude," Alicia elaborated, her attention now focused on sharpening her pencil. "You will be my subject." Her tone was concise and to the point. "Did you not express a desire for me to paint you previously?" Her gaze was steady, unwavering. Lord Cavendish was in a state of inner turmoil. Was she compensating him? He found himself, quite inexplicably, agreeing, "Very well." He had, on a previous occasion, draped himself in a blanket, attempting to entice her, but now... A wave of embarrassment washed over him, particularly as Alicia rested her chin on her hand, her expression cool and detached. "Everything?" "Yes." He began to unfasten his cravat, her reluctance to assist him quite evident. He pouted slightly; she had a way of alternating between bestowing sweetness and inflicting heartache. Lord Cavendish revealed his unblemished neck. He placed the linen cravat aside, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. He removed his coat, his head slightly averted. "Might we retire to the bedchamber?" "No one will disturb us here." They were in the small sitting room on the second floor, a space Alicia often commandeered, dismissing the servants. It connected to the outside but offered a cozy, secluded haven when the doors were closed. She was a veritable tyrant, he mused. Especially with the way she was looking at him, devoid of any tenderness, merely assessing his proportions and features, calculating how best to render them on paper. Lord Cavendish shifted his gaze, unbuttoning his waistcoat with painstaking slowness. "May I at least keep my shirt on?" Alicia did not grace him with an answer, recognizing the absurdity of the question. A nude portrait with a shirt? Preposterous. He extracted his shirt from his breeches, exhaling deeply before bending slightly to remove it. His skin was pale, tinged with a delicate pink, likely a result of his mounting embarrassment. His waist was slender and aesthetically pleasing, leading up to muscular arms, a testament to his fondness for boxing. Lord Cavendish kept his head averted, unable to meet her gaze. He swallowed hard. Alicia was perplexed. They had been intimate on numerous occasions, had they not? Why was her cousin so mortified? "Look this way," Alicia instructed. She had him stand up, examining his back, adjusting his posture, searching for the most flattering angle. Finally, she nodded in satisfaction. "Alright, continue undressing." What? He was wearing a pair of fashionable trousers, paired with Hessian boots, polished to a brilliant sheen. Lord Cavendish glanced down. He instantly regretted choosing these particularly form-fitting trousers. His protests were met with silence, Alicia's eyes conveying a clear message: you've come this far. His legs were, indeed, as shapely as they appeared, his thighs taut and well-defined. He stood up straight, a posture quite different from their encounters in the bedroom. Alicia, charcoal pencil in hand, made a few preliminary measurements. She tossed him a blanket, instructing him to cover his...lower region. She had no desire to depict that particular part of his anatomy. Her artistic sensibilities were drawn only to beauty, and his physique was undeniably beautiful. See, she even disdains that part of me, he thought glumly. Lord Cavendish assumed a pose reminiscent of classical statues. He removed his stockings, standing barefoot amidst the scattered garments. He wondered how he had allowed himself to be so thoroughly manipulated by Alicia. He was, after all, offering his first ever nude portrait to her. "Are you cold?" she inquired. "No," he replied truthfully. He was, in fact, burning up, initially from embarrassment, his limbs feeling awkward and misplaced. Alicia would occasionally correct his posture, pointing out that his arm was held too low. Her face remained serene, untouched by the awkwardness of the situation, her focus entirely on her artwork. Eventually, he abandoned all pretense and simply stared at her. At first, his gaze held a hint of resentment, but then... Alicia paused, her hand hovering over the paper. His breathing had become rather heavy. She recalled the sounds he made in bed, deliberately modulated to be pleasing to the ear. In truth, his voice was naturally quite melodious. A faint blush crept up Alicia's neck, spreading to the tips of her ears. He noticed, and a slow smile spread across his face. "Would you like to touch?" he asked, his voice a low, suggestive murmur. "Hold still." Alicia was nothing if not professional. She compartmentalized everything. While he squirmed with a mixture of anticipation and discomfort, she painted diligently for a full hour. "Finished," she finally declared, setting down her charcoal. Without so much as a glance in his direction, she dusted off her hands. "You may get dressed now." What? Lord Cavendish was instantly reminded of the previous night's rejection. A pang of hurt shot through him. He couldn't allow himself to be so easily dismissed. He was her husband, after all. "No," he asserted, a newfound determination hardening his voice. "Tonight is an odd-numbered day, Alicia." He had his pride, his dignity. He would not be so casually humiliated. He strode towards her, intending to seize her, to hold her, to kiss her, consequences be damned. Alicia did not frown, nor did she attempt to evade him. She simply extended her hand, her expression serene. "Very well," she said. He did look particularly appealing at this moment, and she had been wanting to kiss him for quite some time. "Beautiful" was the highest compliment Alicia could bestow upon a man, akin to a sparkling, exquisitely crafted ornament, a delight to behold from any angle. Lord Cavendish paused, surprised by her acquiescence. He had anticipated resistance, perhaps even anger. In truth, a part of him had hoped to provoke her, to see her composure crack. He pursed his lips, then chuckled softly. "Alright." She motioned for him to bend down, and he obliged, his face now level with her hand. Alicia studied his features intently before placing a chaste, almost formal kiss upon his lips. She praised him. "You look especially beautiful today." His smile widened, a radiant expression of pure joy. He had her permission, and he pulled her into a close embrace, initiating a long, lingering kiss, a kiss filled with suppressed longing and a touch of triumph. He had waited long enough. "I want you," he whispered in her ear, his voice husky with desire. Alicia grasped his shoulders, her fingers digging into his flesh. ... He was being particularly attentive tonight, a limpet of a man, and she, rather surprisingly, found herself indulging him. When she made a move towards the bedroom, he playfully mirrored her earlier words, "Oh, no you don't." "There's no one here, Alicia," he murmured, a roguish grin spreading across his face as he gathered her close, trapping her within the circle of his arms. And, to her own astonishment, she acquiesced. He had merely intended to tease, a common sport between them of late. Did she truly like him this much? Her legs were pressed against his, her calves brushing his in a manner that could only be described as deliberate, yet not. But her eyes, those usually sharp, assessing eyes, held no hint of wantonness, only a deep, almost scientific curiosity. It was as if she had made him her latest subject of study, much like those celestial bodies she so meticulously documented. "You are a terribly forward man," Alicia declared, her tone more of an observation than a reprimand. Only the thin blanket served as a meager barrier between them. "Indeed, I am forward," he admitted, his grin widening as he captured her wrist, his touch light but firm. "You won't escape me, Ali." "What were you thinking just now?" she inquired, her voice a blend of curiosity and something else, something indefinable. He lowered his gaze, his eyelashes casting fleeting shadows on his cheeks. "What do you suppose?" "Of me?" "Naturally." "Why are you so different now, so unlike your former self?" It truly was a remarkable change. Her cousin had never smiled so much in his entire life as he had in this past month. And his actions, so utterly boyish, seemed quite at odds with a man of his years. Cavendish studied her delicate features, his fingers carefully removing the pins from her hair, setting them aside with a gentle click. The cascade of golden hair tumbled free, a silken waterfall spilling over his arms. "I haven't the faintest notion," he confessed, his fingers tracing the soft curve of her cheek. She was so young. What would they be like in ten years' time? "Alicia, may I ask you something?" She looked at him, her gaze full of unspoken questions, wondering what he might possibly ask. "Why must you always seek the 'why' of everything?" She leaned against his chest, pondering this. "Because..." "There must be an order to things, a pattern to their movements, just as the apple falls and the moon circles our world." She concluded with conviction. "But some things, my dear Alicia, simply are. They defy reason." Just as my inexplicable love for you does. Alicia, for her part, was surrendering to the sensations coursing through her body, though her mind had yet to fully grasp their meaning. She thought back to the start of this whole affair, this engagement. But what they were doing now seemed to have little to do with rooms and the producing of heirs. "No, I don't dislike this. Though, I suppose you could call it that." She listened to his words, attempting to make sense of them. "I merely wished to confirm..." He left the sentence unfinished. Instead, he used his lips to express what words could not, and Alicia was reminded of his earlier talk of pleasing. Their bodies moved as one, hands clasped, fingers intertwined. ... The following morning, she greeted him with a politeness that, while accompanied by the customary morning kiss, felt perfunctory at best. A mere performance of duty. Gone was any semblance of tenderness. She might desire his touch, his kiss, but love? That, it seemed, was a sentiment she did not harbor. Cavendish found himself, once again, confronted with the rather unsettling realization that it was merely his physical form that held her interest. Their intimacy, it appeared, was confined to the realm of the bedchamber. Once beyond those confines, she reverted to her former, aloof self. A shadow crossed his heart, but he swiftly dismissed it. Her liking his body was sufficient, was it not? At least it was his body that she fancied, and not that of another. Yet, a knot of unease tightened in his chest. Her enthusiasms, he had observed, were as fleeting as a summer breeze. He found himself in a state of perpetual oscillation, torn between exhilaration and apprehension as he endeavored to please her, treading with the utmost caution. "Did you find... satisfaction?" he inquired, his voice a mere breath. "Yes," she replied, a response as devoid of warmth as a winter's dawn. And soon enough, she refused the gentle brush of his lips against the delicate curve of her brow. Once more, she turned her back to him, presenting him with the smooth, unblemished expanse of her shoulder blades. It was a chilling echo of their wedding night, when she had recoiled from his kisses. He had not anticipated this precipitous decline in Alicia's affections. Even in the throes of passion, she seemed indifferent to his presence. It was as though, in matters of intimacy, his existence held no particular importance whatsoever.