Chapter 22. Hot and Cold

He observed her, back turned to him in a manner most uninviting. He had, in the manner of husbands, embraced her earlier, only to discern a certain displeasure on her part. Thus, he had somewhat reluctantly donned his shirt. Her skin radiated an unusual warmth, a heat that emanated from within. He pressed his cheek against hers and started. "Are you unwell, my dear?" He made to rise, to fetch a physician, though the local doctor resided in town, a journey best made on horseback, he mused, calculating the time such a trip would necessitate. "No." Alicia offered a slight shake of her head. She was, for reasons unknown even to herself, vexed. "Might you loosen your hold?" His own warmth was proving rather bothersome. "Oh." Her attitude had taken a decidedly precipitous turn. A mere moment ago, she had been tracing patterns on his back with her fingertips, a gesture he had found most agreeable. Cavendish was rendered momentarily speechless. "Shall I take my leave, then?" It appeared his new bride had little desire to share a bed with him at present. Alicia, clutching a pillow, offered no protest. He dressed in silence, tidying the remnants of their recent... interlude. Yes, he had just exhausted his last allowance for the month. The proceedings had been, to his mind, quite satisfactory. But afterward, Alicia's fleeting tenderness evaporated like morning mist. He had been so confident. He had thought that her lack of dislike for him was enough, that her enjoyment of his body would suffice. Now, he found himself utterly adrift in the uncharted waters of his new wife's affections. He did not understand her thoughts, and it was becoming increasingly evident that she did not comprehend his. "Perhaps a bath would be beneficial," he suggested, ever attentive to her needs. He wrapped her in a blanket, relieved to find her temperature slightly reduced. "Goodnight," she murmured, permitting him a chaste kiss upon her brow. But as he turned away, he felt a chasm opening between them, a gulf as wide and deep as the ocean. Alicia herself was perplexed. She desired his closeness, yet, paradoxically, found it stifling in excess. His absence, however, left a void, a cold emptiness where his warmth had been. She rose from the bed, her agitation growing. It was rare for Alicia to experience such emotional turbulence. Even during her monthly indisposition, a vigorous ride or a spirited game of cricket usually sufficed to restore her equilibrium. She recalled his whispered "I love you" against her ear, followed by a shy smile as he awaited her response, before bending to kiss her with an eagerness that had bordered on the desperate. Love? Alicia was well aware that such pronouncements were customary between husband and wife. Her own parents frequently exchanged these three little words. But she struggled to grasp the nature of this "love." How did it differ from the affection she held for her parents, her friends, even her beloved dog and pony? Was it merely the act of physical intimacy that set it apart? For the first time, Alicia did not pen a letter to her parents seeking their wisdom. She resolved to unravel this enigma on her own. She had, in her haste, quite forgotten that some things defy rational explanation. In the morning, he sat and watched her as she dressed, their eyes meeting occasionally in the mirror. Cavendish, having spent a sleepless night in contemplation, had reached a conclusion. Alicia was simply not accustomed to such... premature physical intimacy. It had, in all likelihood, robbed them of the chance to fall in love properly. He was full of regret. She did not offer him a good morning kiss, a fact that did not escape his notice and served to deepen his melancholy. He suddenly felt that any attempt to bind her with obligations or customs was abhorrent. Cavendish realized their beginning had been a misstep. Alicia needed to know love before sex. But he found that even he could not differentiate the two. They discussed the news from the papers. Alicia was willing to engage in such discourse, but any further intimacy was clearly off the table. She felt that the closeness of the past few days had muddled her thinking. She pinched the corner of the newspaper, disliking the way her emotions were being toyed with. She decided to cut her losses. The 16th of September saw Moscow engulfed in flames, a conflagration that raged for two days, even reaching the Kremlin. The French army, caught unawares, was forced into a hasty retreat. By the time the news reached them, it was already four days old. "What a pity," William Cavendish murmured, thinking of the northern city, with its centuries of history, its architectural marvels, and artistic treasures, now reduced to ashes. Neither of them had anticipated such a devastating fire. "With their warehouses and supplies destroyed, how will the French manage their logistics?" Alicia frowned. "They're finished." The tide of the Russo-French War had quietly turned. News of this magnitude, once it reached England, would undoubtedly be the talk of London and beyond. The stock exchange, at long last, might see a reprieve. Cavendish found that he had lost his allure for Alicia. He had obtained the portrait, but she showed no interest in painting another. His attempts to inquire were met with polite refusal. Her smiles, once frequent, were now as rare as a sunny day in November, and even the slightest upturn of her lips had vanished. "Are you unhappy, my dear?" He racked his brains for ways to amuse her, taking her on various outings and excursions. They chose a fine day for a picnic on the hill, she shielding herself from the sun with a parasol, extending a hand for him to assist her ascent. She wore a pair of delicate lace gloves, her shawl billowing in the gentle breeze. Reaching the summit, they spread a blanket and enjoyed their repast, her gaze sweeping over the landscape below. The entirety of Wimbledon Manor, and its surrounding environs, lay before them like a meticulously painted canvas. The shimmering lake, the Palladian grandeur of the main house, the formal gardens, and the little island in the center of the lake. Beyond, the rolling hills and woodlands stretched as far as the eye could see. And there, the charming red cottage, covered in ivy and surrounded by a profusion of flowers, with its own little greenhouse, where they had spent their honeymoon. "Do you recall your first visit to Wimbledon?" Alicia pondered. Her delicate health had necessitated her spending her early years in the milder climates of Southern France and Switzerland. She had returned to England at the age of five, deemed fit enough for travel. So, it was not entirely accurate to say she had never been abroad, merely that her memories of that time were hazy at best. Invitations from various noble families had poured in, eager to make the acquaintance of the Duke's daughter. She was not yet the official heir, but the continued absence of a sibling had fueled speculation. Her mother had announced their intention to visit a distant relative, and they had embarked on a carriage journey. Thanks to the four-horse carriage, it had taken less than two hours to travel from London to Wimbledon. Upon her arrival, she had been greeted by the sight of a group of young boys on horseback, resplendent in their hunting attire, accompanied by their yapping hounds, returning from a successful hunt. The leader of the pack, a flamboyant and boisterous youth, had caught her eye. He had dismounted with a flourish, his spurs jingling, and had given her a once-over. He remembered her, but she had no recollection of him. He had taken her under his wing, in those days before the necessity of marrying her had even crossed his mind. He had delighted in showing off his cousin, for he had no sister of his own. His uncles had all married late, and among the girls his age, apart from his aunt's daughter, there was only Alicia. Thus, he had treated her as a beloved younger sister, showering her with gifts. How beautiful she was. He was an avid collector of jewels, and his trip to Russia had yielded a particularly impressive haul. Whenever he acquired a new gemstone, he would consider its setting, and inevitably, his thoughts would turn to Alicia. She was deserving of the very best the world had to offer. "Alicia, if I have done anything amiss, pray tell me." Perhaps it would be best if they remained as family. The girl leaned against him, her parasol casting a shared pool of shade. Alicia, it must be said, had always regarded her cousin's rather exuberant lifestyle with a certain degree of disapproval. He drank with an enthusiasm that bordered on the excessive, gambled with a recklessness that often left him temporarily embarrassed, engaged in fisticuffs with a frequency unbecoming a gentleman, raced carriages as if the hounds of hell were at his heels, and generally comported himself in a manner not entirely dissimilar to the other profligates of his set. His laughter, a low rumble, often carried a note of what one might euphemistically term roguishness. The very notion that she might, through some unfortunate twist of fate, find herself succumbing to such a lifestyle filled her with a disquiet that settled like a stone in the pit of her stomach. But he also possessed the ability to elicit genuine joy. Perhaps she needed to encourage him toward greater restraint? That evening, as they sat ensconced in the library, a tableau of domestic tranquility, Alicia made a most peculiar request. She desired that he read aloud from The Book of Homilies. Cavendish was, to put it mildly, nonplussed. It was a text of a decidedly didactic nature, positively brimming with exhortations on the proper conduct of a virtuous woman, and one that she had, in the past, treated with the same enthusiasm one might reserve for a particularly virulent case of the measles. Alicia was, after all, the very same young lady who had, with the audacity of a seasoned revolutionary, excised the word "obey" from her wedding vows — those sacred vows that traditionally bound a wife to "love, honor, and obey" her husband. She had simply omitted the offending syllable, leaving a rather noticeable gap in the solemn proceedings. It was only due to her parents' not inconsiderable social standing that the Archbishop had, with a barely perceptible tightening of his lips, elected to overlook this rather blatant act of liturgical defiance. "What troubles you, Alicia?" he inquired with concern. Alicia, her brow furrowed, explained that their recent immersion in "carnal love" required a period of purification. Cavendish had initially assumed she was jesting, but one look at her serene countenance convinced him of her sincerity. "Ah?" He opened the book, his eyes glazing over at the dense text. He avoided attending church services whenever possible. They had a frank discussion, he pouring her a cup of hot tea. "Have my actions these past few nights caused you to feel coerced?" "No, merely... perplexed." "I apologize, Alicia," he said earnestly. "Do you find it distasteful? Or unpleasant?" He needed clarification. The girl frowned. "But I fear that excessive indulgence in such desires can cloud one's judgment." "One is not entirely devoid of desires, and it is desire that often compels one to act decisively." They engaged in a friendly debate. She was, at heart, a creature of ancient Greek philosophy and religious doctrine, a most old-fashioned young lady, with a sense of self-discipline quite out of step with the times. "As long as reason and desire are in balance," he argued, "one can indulge in moderation and practice restraint when necessary. Carpe diem." (Latin for "seize the day," meaning to make the most of the present moment). Cavendish knew he could not force Alicia to change her way of life. He merely assured her that no feeling was shameful, nor would it lead to true madness. If she did not wish to engage in such activities, then so be it. Forget wifely duties. He would not compel her, nor would he demand his "husbandly rights." Others might find it peculiar. Under English law, a wife's body belonged to her husband after marriage; they were considered one flesh. But Alicia, before she was his wife, was first and foremost herself. She looked at the ring on his little finger. In addition to the extravagant yellow diamond wedding ring, there were two simple matching bands, engraved with her initials. He always removed the ring before their intimate moments, placing it on the table, and then slipped it back on afterward. Alicia was still not accustomed to wearing hers. "Sweet dreams, my dear," he said playfully. "Habeas somnia dulcia." She had a habit of translating everything into Latin. He enjoyed mimicking her. Alicia raised her eyes to his, and he gently stroked her hair. He then replaced The Book of Homilies with Horace's Odes, a volume more to her liking, selecting the third book. "Shall I read the Roman Odes, the ones dedicated to your beloved Augustus?" "The ninth." The dialogue with Lydia. He began to read softly: "'While I was your favorite, and no preferred youth Dared to embrace your white neck...'" "'Though he is more beautiful than a star, You are lighter than cork, and more irritable than the stormy Adriatic, With you I would love to live, with you I would gladly die.'" He finished reading. Alicia rose and embraced him, planting a swift kiss upon his lips. She was grateful for his understanding. Though he longed to kiss her more deeply, he restrained himself. Cavendish sobered up from the intoxicating haze of their early passion. He realized that he was a husband, not a lover. A husband should be responsible, dependable, and certainly more mature than his wife. But he missed the halcyon days terribly. He would cherish those memories forever. He still had unconscious gestures, an involuntary urge to draw closer. For instance, he might place a hand on the small of her back or caress the nape of her neck. Alicia would gently evade his touch. Cavendish maintained a calm exterior, but inwardly, he was fragile, tormented. He adored the texture of her skin, and now he could only gaze upon it from afar, forcing a smile when she inquired about his somber mood. Alicia was meticulous in her self-examination. She spent several days analyzing her feelings, even making comparisons. The experience had indeed been pleasurable, but it left her with an insatiable longing, an unfulfilled yearning that followed each encounter. After the initial euphoria, a wave of sadness would wash over her. After careful consideration, she decided to abstain. If Cavendish had known that this was his cousin's reasoning, he might not have put in so much effort during those early days. Alicia found that after two days of abstinence, her mood improved significantly. She could solve complex equations, prepare specimens, and examine mineral slices under the microscope with unwavering focus. She felt she had made the right decision. On odd-numbered days, he would attempt to join her in her private sanctuary. "You've used up your monthly allowance," she informed him, referring to the meticulous record she kept in her little notebook, where each of his attempts to test the boundaries was duly noted. "Have I?" He paled, offering a dazed goodnight before retreating. Yes, indeed, he was relegated to solitary confinement. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering where he had gone wrong. Was there still a chance to salvage their relationship? Were they destined to spend their lives together in this state of polite detachment? Oh, he had promised Alicia, but was there any way to make her love him? He tossed and turned, his heart breaking a little more each time he thought about how his efforts had backfired so spectacularly. The following day, at the breakfast table, Alicia made an announcement. "We shall return to London at the end of the month." What? Their honeymoon, typically lasting two or three months, was being cut short by half. Cavendish suddenly realized that this was his only chance to make Alicia fall in love with him. And it was about to end. After the honeymoon, he would no longer have a legitimate reason to be so... close to her. Although Alicia explained that her Aunt Harriet was nearing her confinement and she wished to be by her side, and that London offered the best medical care should any complications arise, and that Mrs. Granville was residing in their suburban villa in Hampstead to escape the city's noxious summer air, it all sounded perfectly reasonable. They penned letters informing their families of their impending return. Cavendish was despondent. Under the weight of these successive blows, his spirit was utterly crushed. Alicia noticed his dejection as she put the finishing touches on a ribbon for her hat. She assumed his sadness stemmed from his inability to engage in their physical activities. He was at a loss for words. In a way, she was right, but his true sorrow stemmed from her inability to love him. "You may seek solace elsewhere," Alicia suggested casually, as it was not uncommon for wives to procure mistresses for husbands whose appetites they could not satisfy. He stared at her, utterly aghast. "What?" She was suggesting he take a mistress? He was utterly devastated. She... how could she be so calm about it? Alicia looked at him, her expression impassive. Cavendish felt compelled to clarify matters. "I have never been with another woman, Alicia. What were you thinking?" He was breathless. In the hallowed halls of the aristocracy, an unmarried lady's virtue was prized above all else, guarded more fiercely than the Crown Jewels. A gentleman, however, was afforded a rather more… liberal interpretation of propriety. Indeed, it was practically expected that a man of noble birth would sow his wild oats with the enthusiasm of a farmer scattering seeds in a particularly fertile field. Mistresses were flaunted like trophies, a testament to a man's virility and charm, or so they liked to believe. The wedding night, therefore, presented a rather stark imbalance of experience. One might even call it a travesty. Alicia had witnessed this firsthand within her own family. Her two aunts, the very pictures of wifely duty, were burdened with the rather unenviable task of raising their husbands' illegitimate offspring. Her grandmother, upon entering the sacred bonds of matrimony, had been greeted with the delightful surprise of her husband's pre-marital dalliance with a milliner, a charming woman who had produced a daughter. This child was promptly delivered into her grandmother's care. Such arrangements were accepted with astonishing equanimity among their circles. Her grandmother, though initially heartbroken—her own parents, in a rare twist of fate, had been one of those insufferable love matches, utterly devoted to one another and scandalously faithful—had eventually resigned herself to the reality of her situation. Aunt Harriet, in her letters, even referred to her aunt's husband's illegitimate children as "darling little things." And the gentle Georgiana, bless her heart, had already welcomed two such "little things" into her own household. The objects of a nobleman's affections were not limited to married ladies of a certain age. Oh no, they extended their amorous attentions to commoner girls, and even, dare I say it, to the demimonde of actresses and, in the most shocking of cases, women of the night. It was, to put it mildly, a world of utter chaos. Alicia, with an arched brow, regarded him. Her expression seemed to say, "You, a man of such... experience?" He scrambled to explain, his carefully constructed facade of rakish charm crumbling before her very eyes. "Can't you see? Have you truly believed that all this time? Oh, Alicia, heavens above!" He had always prided himself on his restraint, his discretion. He had, in truth, found the whole business of amorous entanglements rather… tiresome. He was a man of refined tastes, not given to such base desires. Or so he had thought. Until now. But why would she think otherwise? "It all began the first time I kissed you..." She was the first girl he had ever touched. He had never known that love could be so joyful. Oh, and so very painful, too. He had no mistress? Alicia regarded him with a thoughtful expression, her head tilted to one side. "Has no one ever fancied you?" she inquired, as if discussing a particularly uninteresting species of beetle. No wonder he was so remarkably clingy. He could have wept. From sheer frustration, mind you, not sentiment. With a forced, brittle laugh, he retorted, "I assure you, there are plenty who find me quite… agreeable." "As do many find me," Alicia responded, blinking with an air of utter bewilderment. "Is there something the matter with you?" Cavendish felt his heart shatter into a million tiny pieces. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, a shuddering breath that seemed to carry the weight of his despair. "Then why, during our pre-nuptial negotiations, did you mention that?" Alicia pressed, her gaze unwavering. What? He recalled, with agonizing clarity, the careless words he had uttered during their rather businesslike discussions of marriage. "I shan't concern myself with your mistresses. It is quite common, after all, for people in our position." He had even mused, at the time, on what sort of mistress she might choose for herself. The buried landmine had finally detonated. "So you have none." Alicia seemed to forgive his previous clumsiness. He never could understand a woman's feelings. The way she had uttered those words, so calmly, so coldly, as if discussing the weather. Did she truly believe he was some sort of libertine, interested only in carnal pleasures? Cavendish felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over him. He found himself unable to summon his usual righteous anger. Instead, a deep ache settled in his chest. Alicia was perplexed. She simply couldn't fathom what her cousin desired. "Yes," he admitted, nodding curtly, his long eyelashes sweeping over his reddened eyes, a stark contrast to his usual proud demeanor. "Alicia, I am a terrible person. Yes, I only seek to satisfy my own base desires. I am a man of low character." He spoke in bitter irony. It wasn't because he loved her. He was wounded. He felt as though his heart had been set ablaze, like Moscow. I will no longer deceive myself. If you are tired of me, then I will stay away. Such were his thoughts, though he dared not utter them aloud. With a polite nod, maintaining a semblance of gentlemanly decorum, he murmured, "I shan't disturb you any longer, cousin." Once we return to London, we shall adhere to our agreement. I shall never trouble you again. He took two steps, then paused, struck by a sudden realization. How could he? It was his fault. She was so young, so innocent. Why had he spoken such words before their betrothal? Alicia watched as her cousin turned back, a silent drama playing out on his expressive face. "I apologize," he said, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I have never belonged to another. I have only ever loved you." Her hand was on his face. It was the first time he had uttered the word "love" in such an ordinary setting. And he discovered that it wasn't so difficult to say after all. I have only ever kissed you, only ever been intimate with you. I do not want us to be free to have lovers. I only want you. Alicia observed the redness rimming his eyes. He had no one who loved him. How utterly pathetic. Perhaps she would love him, then. He was, after all, a novice in matters of the heart. A little clumsiness could be forgiven. Like many newlyweds, they would inevitably encounter friction as they adjusted to each other's habits and routines. And so, their first marital spat came to an end. William Cavendish even felt a pang of shame for his unilateral display of temper. Alicia was always so composed. He never could decipher her thoughts. That night, Alicia penned a letter to her mother. "Dearest Mama, My husband, or rather William, is constantly declaring his love for me. And every time he does, I find myself at a loss for words." Alicia was not one to casually utter the words "I love you." She was a creature of deep thought, of meticulous study, with a keen interest in dissecting everything around her, both literally and figuratively. Her previous hesitation had morphed into a sort of detached fascination. Cavendish was proving to be even more chaotic than she had anticipated. And that, in a strange way, made her own uncertainties seem less daunting. She could no longer find any trace of the self-assured, confident cousin she once knew. In short, Alicia found herself increasingly drawn to his vulnerability, to the ebb and flow of his emotions. William Cavendish, meanwhile, was lost in his own thoughts. She is both intelligent and obtuse, capricious and willful, yet possessed of a surprisingly gentle temper. He pondered what he might do to make amends. Alicia only desires my physical presence, my touch. She does not love me. She could replace me with anyone else. It isn't about me. That was why she could utter such cruel words. Alicia found herself increasingly amused by the spectacle of her husband. There were dark circles under his eyes; he clearly hadn't slept well. He looked utterly wretched, yet still strikingly handsome. His usually impeccable hair was in disarray, and he was wearing the same cravat as the day before. A most unusual oversight, considering her cousin's penchant for never repeating a cravat style. Alicia found these details quite fascinating. I must proceed in a manner that pleases Alicia, not myself. Though, in truth, he still had no earthly idea what truly pleased her. They encountered each other in the long gallery, a narrow passage where paths were bound to cross. Even during wartime, the latest fashions from Paris continued to flow into London, dictating the ever-changing whims of style. This year, for instance, skirts had risen, abandoning the cumbersome trains of seasons past. Roman-inspired hairstyles had given way to the more playful, Grecian curls. She looked exquisite. A crimson shawl draped over her shoulders, revealing the elegant curve of her neck. He remembered her measurements, which had subtly changed, marking her transition from girl to woman. He gazed at her, transfixed. Alicia, hands clasped, offered a greeting. It was the first time she had truly looked at him when he was fully dressed. "Good morning." He appeared younger than she had imagined, especially in that light brown suit, which softened his usually sharp features. He maintained a proper, respectful distance, befitting a husband and trusted cousin, just as he had promised during their courtship, never to impose. Alicia couldn't discern any lingering anger in his demeanor. She didn't care about him. Cavendish lowered his gaze. Then, he heard Alicia say, "A good morning kiss?" He looked up, bewildered. She approached and brushed a fleeting kiss on his cheek, then promptly moved away. He touched his cheek, a look of utter confusion on his face. How very odd. She didn't seem to detest him after all. Cavendish was utterly bewildered. He was not yet accustomed to such mercurial shifts in her affections. Alicia, far from being displeased by the previous night's events, found herself developing a rather peculiar interest in her husband. If he had ever witnessed her dissecting a rabbit, or extracting a short knife from her boot to skin a fox after a hunt. He would have recognized the gleam in her eyes. He probably had seen it, but simply hadn't paid much attention at the time. She yearned to dissect him, inside and out, to uncover the vast differences between her cousin and herself. Alicia realized that they were fundamentally different beings. At the breakfast table, he inquired whether she would like to go boating, or perhaps riding, or even take a drive in the carriage. Over the past few days, they had exhausted nearly every conceivable activity. It was, perhaps, time to return to London. The village was planning a harvest festival, complete with a torchlight procession and the arrival of gypsies. Alicia expressed her usual indifference, stating that any activity would suffice. He longed to make her happy, but she remained perpetually unfazed, agreeable to anything and everything. He helped her into the small boat, which bobbed precariously as he climbed in after her. Taking up the oars, he rowed them away from the shore. He rowed alone, while Alicia admired the scenery along the lake's edge. They were to cross from one side to the other. Eventually, he abandoned his efforts and reclined, resting his head on her lap as the boat drifted lazily. Neither of them broached the subject of their return to London, choosing instead to savor this rare moment of tranquility. "I recall you once traveled to the Lake District, Alicia," he remarked, his eyes closed. After the tumultuous events of the past few days, nothing she did could surprise him anymore. He simply wanted to be with her. With foreign travel curtailed by the war, many of England's scenic destinations had gained newfound popularity. The Lake District, nestled in the northwest, boasted breathtaking mountains and serene lakes. In autumn, the landscape transformed into a tapestry of red and gold, the vibrant hues of maple leaves reflected in the mirror-like surfaces of the lakes. The Lake Poets, a group of writers who had sought refuge in the region's beauty, penned verses celebrating the splendor of nature. After her grandmother's passing, Alicia had sought solace in the Lake District, accompanied by her governess, a chaperone, and a gaggle of servants. He, on a rare holiday and finally having attained his majority, relished his newfound freedom and patiently kept her company. His diplomatic mission had ended in a rather farcical manner. Upon his return, he had thrown himself into the campaign for a seat in Parliament, representing Derbyshire—a family tradition, as a seat in the House of Commons required one to be of age. They reminisced about their travels. It was unlikely that either of them, amidst their adventures, could have foreseen that they would be married five years later. Alicia had produced numerous sketches during that trip. Afterward, he had journeyed north to Scotland, while she had returned to Derbyshire. They had not seen each other for nearly a year. "Cavendish, what do you mean when you so frequently speak of love?" He was taken aback. He had never truly contemplated the question. It was true; he had simply, naturally, declared his love for her. "Love, I suppose, is the desire to be with someone forever," he offered, surprised at his own lack of eloquence on the subject. "Is that so?" "Yes." Alicia pondered this, counting on her fingers. "I wish to be with my grandfather, my father, and my mother forever. I love them." He nodded, almost reaching for her hand, which rested on the edge of the boat. He didn't expect to hear his own name. But Alicia knew that they, like her grandparents, would one day pass away. Would he be with her then? A frown creased her brow as she suddenly grasped the true meaning of marriage. She looked down at him, watching as he stealthily tried to take her hand. She pretended not to notice. "What amuses you so?" Alicia noticed her cousin's particularly radiant smile. "I was just wondering if this little boat might sink," he blurted out. "Like Elaine?" Alicia inquired curiously. Elaine, heartbroken by Lancelot's unrequited love, had met a tragic end. Her lifeless body was placed on a boat, a letter clutched in her left hand, a lily in her right. "Yes." Then they could perish together. Cavendish was startled by the morbid thought. No, Alicia must live a long life. Fortunately, she did not love him and therefore would not be overly grieved. He quietly curled his pinky around hers, as if sealing a secret pact. That evening, they turned their attention to the heavens. Alicia, perched by the window with her telescope—a rather modest instrument, sadly inadequate for observing Uranus, though she gamely tried—expounded upon nebulae and constellations. "There are many planets that orbit it," she murmured, her voice soft as starlight. Nevertheless, she meticulously recorded her observations, following the charts to the letter. Lord William, playing the role of her devoted assistant, dutifully made notations. It required a stack of books to elevate him to a suitable height for this task—a small price to pay for the privilege of being in her company. Fortunately, his legal background had instilled in him a certain tolerance for tedious documentation, so this was hardly an imposition. And so, the evening unfolded, a comfortable rhythm settling between them. He found himself musing, not for the first time, on how long it had been since he had... shared her bed. Not that it was strictly necessary, perhaps. They could continue as they had before the wedding, a relationship not unlike the one they shared before their engagement. After all, their honeymoon had been hardly different. Alicia's heart was not a lump of ice, but a delicate crystal, which he held with the utmost care, afraid even to breathe upon it lest it become clouded with mist. She hummed a tune from an opera—a consequence of her astronomical triumphs, no doubt—and rattled off a list of theatrical performances she intended to see upon their return to London. With a flourish, she executed a graceful pirouette, her slippered feet light upon the floor. He could not help but smile. They had both been subjected to the rigors of dance lessons in their youth, drilled in posture, steps, and rhythm, forced to memorize the chalk marks upon the floor. Alicia, with her sharp mind and remarkable memory, had excelled, of course. She never had need of scribbling prompts upon her fan, unlike some young ladies of his acquaintance. Dance was an indispensable part of social life. The conservative English still clung to their country dances, and the quadrille had only just been introduced this year. As for the waltz and the polka, so popular on the Continent, they were viewed with suspicion, for the scandalous practice of dancing with only one partner throughout the entire dance. He took Alicia's hand, assuming the role of a partner, and they fell into the familiar steps of a well-known English country dance. As cousins, they had often danced together at family gatherings, but public displays and private parties were quite another matter. Since their engagement, even such innocent pleasures were largely forbidden, for dancing was intended for unmarried ladies and gentlemen to become better acquainted. He guided her through the steps, matching her pace. They held hands, turned together, and she switched to a Scottish reel, a lively dance that brought a smile to her face as they linked arms and skipped across the room. Alicia's mother was half Scottish, and the heritage was evident in her blood. When he had attended the University of Edinburgh, exploring the wild beauty of the Scottish Highlands, he had thought of her constantly. Without realizing it, Alicia had become an integral part of his life. He dared not imagine what his existence would be like without her—a desolate, lonely affair, no doubt. Others might claim he had everything, yet still he felt a void. But now, he had her. During his travels on the Continent, he had indulged in many a waltz. In fact, his desire to visit Sweden and Russia was partly fueled by the prospect of dancing with her. Not only could he regale her with tales of his adventures, as they rode in a sleigh, but he could also, in the context of a social gathering, take her in his arms and whirl her around the dance floor without causing a scandal. "Would you like to waltz, Alicia?" he asked, summoning his courage. She placed her hand in his, as if they were standing before the altar once more. He lowered his head and placed his hand on her waist, and even through the layers of fabric, the contact sent a thrill through him. With his other hand, he clasped hers. Unlike the country dance, with its rigid lines and prescribed movements, the waltz was an intimate affair. They counted out the three beats, a smile playing on his lips as he guided her through the steps. Alicia was an excellent student; she never once trod on his toes. She flowed away from him and returned, a graceful dance of separation and reunion. He supported her with his hand, the role of the male in the waltz being primarily one of support. He pressed his lips together. What if he and Alicia had met at a ball? Her the same age as he was. And then they would have fallen in love, he would have made his intentions known, and then spoken with her father in his study. That was the proper order of things. During their honeymoon, they would have adjusted to each other, with many harmless quarrels. She would have smiled, sitting in his carriage, holding her straw hat with its fluttering ribbons. They danced from the balcony into the drawing-room, spinning in endless circles. In the flickering light of the corridor, her skirts and his boots seemed to flow together. He bid her goodnight. "Indeed, no one could learn faster," he said, knowing she enjoyed praise, especially when she excelled. "Sweet dreams, my dearest Alicia." They were in love, after all. It was like in the letters, when he wrote My Dearest Alicia, just an intimate address, with a comma in the middle. My Dearest, Alicia. My lover, Alicia. Only suitable for lovers' correspondence. The salutation of his letters to her had slowly changed, he wondered if she had noticed. His forehead touched hers, and he smiled. "Good night," she replied. She tugged at the corner of his coat, her high chignon and the glittering hair chain catching the light. She had gradually transitioned from simple maidenly white dresses to the attire of a married woman: red velvet with a black belt. Elegant and dignified, she wore them interchangeably. This made her seem like a girl one moment, and a woman the next. He thought she might offer him a goodnight kiss. Instead, she said, in a tone that brooked no argument, "Come to my room tonight." "I beg your pardon?" "Sleep with me." The gold bracelet on her arm, set with emeralds, felt a little loose. At home, there was no need to wear kid gloves, and they had just danced hand in hand. In the dim light, all his senses were heightened. She brushed her lips against his. "Good night."