Chapter 23. Observation

William Cavendish, the Duke of Devonshire, had been quite resigned to his fate these past few days, having embraced his roles as both husband and brother with the sort of stoicism one might expect from a man facing the gallows. After all, being leg-shackled to one's cousin was hardly a fate worse than death, but it did come rather close. However, when Alicia had extended her rather unusual request, his resolve had wavered, replaced by a trepidation that had him fussing over his appearance like a green boy preparing for his first assembly. He had spent an inordinate amount of time staring into the looking glass, ensuring his cravat was tied to perfection, his hair possessed the appropriate amount of artful disarray, and that his lips were sufficiently rosy (a condition achieved by discreetly, and rather painfully, biting them). Now, standing before the door to his wife's bedchamber, he hesitated. His wife, his cousin, the woman who now shared his name and, on certain designated evenings, his bed. He pushed open the door. Alicia, already attired in her nightdress – a confection of delicate lace and silk, each frill meticulously arranged – looked up from her book. A Bible, of all things. One would think his new bride might choose more stimulating reading material for the marital bed. Perhaps the Duke was not the only one resigned to his fate. He approached, receiving a nod of permission to sit upon the edge of the bed, an act he accomplished with far more awkwardness than he had displayed on their wedding night. "Alicia," he began, his voice a touch too loud in the quiet room. "It is an odd-numbered day," she reminded him, her tone cool and precise. "As per our agreement, you are permitted to join me." Ah, yes, the agreement. That meticulously detailed, thoroughly negotiated document that outlined the terms of their marriage as if it were a treaty between two warring nations. William had almost forgotten that particular clause, in the midst of all the other bewildering stipulations. He had envisioned himself overjoyed at the prospect of sharing Alicia's bed, even if only on odd-numbered days, but the reality felt strangely…anticlimactic. Under her watchful gaze, he began to undress, placing each garment with excessive care on the bedside table. Trousers, waistcoat, jacket, each item folded with the precision of a seasoned valet. Finally, he removed his stockings, and she shifted, making room for him on the bed. They regarded each other in the soft glow of the candlelight. Her golden hair, unbound, cascaded over her shoulders like a silken waterfall, framing a face of ethereal beauty. Her skin, pale and luminous, seemed to radiate a youthful warmth that he could almost feel from where he sat. He slid beneath the covers, clad only in his shirt, and pulled a blanket up to his chin. He felt utterly exposed, despite being more covered than he had been on their wedding night. Alicia, ever the keen observer, noted that her cousin, her husband, the Duke, resembled nothing so much as a finely tuned instrument, a clock wound too tightly. One missed evening, and he became positively peculiar. He offered no smile, no tender kiss, only a nervous energy that seemed to vibrate from his very core. She continued to study him, her gaze lingering on the sharp angle of his eye, the way his upper lip curved like a delicately strung bow, the color of a rosebud just before it unfurls. Alicia picked up her journal, finding herself, for once, not irritated by his presence. He, in turn, busied himself with sharpening her quill, arranging her writing board and blotting paper with meticulous care. His gaze, however, remained fixed on the delicate skin of her wrist, the elegant line of her neck. He was, she realized, finally beginning to grasp the true meaning of her earlier comment about his "idleness." She inquired about the arrangements for their return to London, the packing of her trousseau, to which he responded with a distracted air, his mind clearly elsewhere. It dawned on him, with the force of a physical blow, that she would never love him. Not in the way he so desperately craved. "William?" She spoke his name, but he was lost in his reverie, a maelstrom of half-formed anxieties and forgotten clauses from their prenuptial agreement. What had she said about...? About what, precisely? Alicia prompted him again. "We shall stop at an inn along the way, or perhaps we could ride ahead to the posting station and change horses there. The wedding gown must be transported with the utmost care, you see. I promised to display it to Lady Beatrice." Since their return, she had reverted to calling him Cavendish, a formality that seemed to create an insurmountable distance between them. It was, admittedly, a difficult habit to break. Her father was a Cavendish, as was his uncle. Every Duke of Devonshire for generations had been christened William, making it a rather tiresome name to overuse. "What did you call me?" His despondency vanished, replaced by a flicker of hope. His eyes, the blue of a summer sky after a storm, brightened perceptibly. "William. Is something the matter?" He leaned closer, capturing her face in his hands, and bestowed a swift, chaste kiss upon her lips. The broken clock, it seemed, had sprung back to life. "We are to be presented at court upon our return," Alicia continued, dipping her newly sharpened quill into the inkwell. Newly married couples were traditionally presented to the monarch. King George III, sadly, was confined to his own residence in a state of, shall we say, mental disarray. The Regent and his estranged wife were hardly on speaking terms, so the task of receiving guests fell to Queen Charlotte. An elderly lady, to be sure, but also Alicia's godmother, a connection that might prove useful. "Could you say it again?" he asked, his voice a low murmur. He longed to take her in his arms, to feel the warmth of her body against his, but a lingering fear, a fear of incurring her displeasure, held him back. His smile, however, was irrepressible. She ignored his request, choosing instead to focus on the matter at hand. "Very well. The ivory gown, I presume? Rest assured, I shall be attired in blue, as is customary. And my dress sword, of course." He was, in truth, intensely curious about the contents of her journal, particularly the entries pertaining to himself, but his instincts warned him that they were unlikely to be complimentary. He propped his chin on his hand, observing her with an expression of rapt attention. He was being remarkably obtuse today. What had come over him? Alicia much preferred him in his more puppyish state, when he would nuzzle her hand and shower her with boisterous affection. Why, after a few days of relative normalcy, had he reverted to this peculiar, distant demeanor? Having finished her journal entry, Alicia turned her attention to a letter, the handwriting on the envelope instantly recognizable as that of her mother, the Duchess. "My dearest daughter," the letter read, "If he should happen to say 'I love you,' a polite and appropriate response would be 'I know.' It is a mere formality, you see." Alicia looked up, her gaze meeting William's. He was waiting, his expression expectant. What was it now? Was she expected to perform some sort of nightly ritual before he would deem it appropriate to retire? Cavendish was, once again, lost in thought, attempting to decipher what, if anything, he had done to displease her. He confirmed that his shirt was clean. He had refrained from any untoward advances. He had even, at her silent request, untangled her hair from its braid. She reached out, cupping his face in her hands, studying his features with an almost clinical detachment. Both her parents were strikingly handsome, a fact that had, over time, raised her standards of beauty to a rather exacting level. It was only now, after encountering a variety of individuals, that she realized just how exceptionally handsome her cousin truly was. She kissed him, a deliberate, almost experimental act. His lips were firmly closed, his teeth a barrier. He was taken aback, clearly flustered, a blush creeping up his neck and flooding his ears with a delicate shade of rose. Then, just as he began to respond, to open to her, she pulled away. Cavendish was left adrift, his hand hovering in mid-air, his heart a chaotic jumble of emotions. She had kissed him. And then she had retreated. Alicia, her eyelashes lowered, decided to postpone further experimentation. Her cousin, it seemed, was not yet ready for a more…thorough investigation. He seized her hand, his voice thick with a sudden, urgent need. "Alicia," he began, then faltered, unsure of what to say. Alicia examined his hand, noting the neatly trimmed nails, the faint calluses on his fingertips, a testament to his fondness for handling firearms. His gaze seemed to plead with her, a silent question hanging in the air: What am I to do? A sudden, audacious thought took root in Alicia's mind. Perhaps it was time to take control, to fully embrace the power she held within this relationship. Only then could she truly understand, and perhaps even accept, the desires that stirred within her. She sat up, her movements deliberate and graceful. "You are always saying you wish to please me," she said, her voice soft yet firm. "Yes," he replied, recalling the numerous, often extravagant, attempts he had made to win her favor. Did she desire that again? Or was this...? He traced the delicate line of her brow, her cheekbone, the curve of her lips. Each physical intimacy, it seemed, was invariably followed by a period of increased emotional distance. "Do you find pleasure in these acts?" she inquired. "Yes," he admitted, for it was the truth. In those moments, when she was close, nestled in his arms, she felt wholly and completely his. "Then," she declared, her gaze unwavering, "please yourself. As you did before. I wish to observe." His eyes widened in disbelief. He understood, with sickening clarity, what she meant. "You have seen me," she continued, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. "I have not seen you." "But..." His lips moved, forming the words with difficulty. "It is unseemly." It would surely taint her vision. "Yet you said, just days ago, that it was not shameful." He had to prove his own words. Trembling, he moved as she pulled aside the blanket. She watched his pale hands, the hands of a man who enjoyed the feel of a pistol in his grasp, the weight of a saber at his side. He removed his glove as if in invitation. She leaned back against the pillows, a detached observer, a spectator at a private, and rather unusual, performance. She watched as his eyes closed, a flicker of self-abandonment crossing his face. A strange sense of amusement, a thrill of discovery, coursed through her as she observed his reactions, the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his body moved. She found a certain satisfaction in seeing things unfold according to her design. As an observer, she could learn much. "Do I appear the same way?" she asked, her voice a soft murmur in the stillness of the room. She noted the flush on his face, the beads of perspiration on his forehead, and the... was he about to cry? A peculiar sense of satisfaction, a feeling of power, welled up within her. "Alicia, please, do not look at me," he pleaded, turning his head away, as if to shield himself from her scrutiny. She, however, continued to observe him with an unwavering gaze, taking in every detail. When she called him William, he turned back, his blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He made no further move, merely lifting his head, silently beseeching her to kiss him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lips, so eager for a kiss a moment ago, now trembled as she leaned away. He grasped her hand, and she permitted him to press a series of fervent kisses against her wrist, his lips hot and insistent against the delicate skin, his teeth gently grazing the soft flesh. Alicia accepted this, realizing that a man driven by desire was not an entirely unappealing sight. Indeed, there was a certain vulnerability, a raw need, that she found strangely compelling. His gaze held a different kind of hunger now, a yearning for something more than mere physical release. Her fingers traced the lines of his body, and she protested when he tried to remove his shirt, leaving only his bare torso exposed. He felt as if she were stripping him bare, layer by layer, until nothing remained but his raw, exposed self. "Alicia, I detest you," he whispered, his voice thick with a mixture of desire and despair. He wanted so badly to kiss her. But... She was warm, almost feverish, as she pressed against him, her head tilted back, inviting his kiss. He waited for the tears to fall, his eyes red-rimmed, but they did not come. He felt as if she had abandoned him, only to be gathered up again in her embrace. Their bodies pressed together, her long hair a silken curtain concealing his nakedness. She held him close, her touch light and almost absentminded. After a few brief kisses, her attention wandered, drawn to other, more analytical pursuits. Her fingers traced the contours of his spine, and she began to name each vertebra, reciting their Latin names with the detached precision of a scholar. Her touch, light as a feather, sent shivers down his spine, igniting a fire within him that was both exhilarating and terrifying. He felt as if he were on the precipice of something profound, something life-altering, and he was powerless to stop it. ... "What is the matter?" she asked, her fingertip tracing the dampness on his cheek. Cavendish stared blankly at the wall, his senses overwhelmed, his mind reeling. He was soiled. He sniffled, the sound a sharp contrast to the quiet of the room. What had they just done? "Alicia, we must talk..." he began, his voice strained. He needed to tell her that he could not always fulfill her every whim. But then he saw her smile, a rare and radiant expression that transformed her face, making her golden hair seem to shimmer even brighter in the candlelight. She seemed genuinely pleased. He frowned, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of her eye. He did not understand Alicia. One thing was certain: a gentleman should never behave as he had just done, so vulnerable, so completely under another's control. He attempted to rise, to regain some semblance of composure, but she held him fast, her hand resting lightly on his chest. She leaned against him, her fingers tracing the contours of his face with a feather-light touch. Then, abruptly, she spoke. "Go and bathe. You may stay until dawn." She refused his offer to help her, a mixture of fastidiousness and unexpected tenderness in her touch as she brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He recalled, with a sudden pang of clarity, his impassioned plea from a previous night. "Alicia," he had said then, "we are on our honeymoon. It is perfectly acceptable for us to sleep in the same bed." She had refused, repeatedly, despite his most earnest entreaties. But now, she had granted him permission to stay until dawn. Cavendish was utterly bewildered. When he returned, freshly bathed and somewhat more composed, he found her propped up in bed, engrossed in a book, her legs crossed, her nightdress cascading around her in a pool of silk and lace. Her skin seemed to glow with an almost ethereal luminescence. She instructed him to lie beside her, and he obeyed, resting his head against her shoulder as she requested that he read to her. The book was a newly published edition of Grimm's Fairy Tales, a collection of German folk stories. He read aloud from the original German, his voice soft and melodic, as he recounted the tale of "Sleeping Beauty." He did not know what to say. And so, he kissed her forehead, and whispered, "I love you." He had forgiven Alicia. He could not find it in his heart to blame her for anything. "I know," she replied softly. He paused, taken aback. "You know?" She finally understood him. Although he did not know the reason why. Putting it all together, it was probably because he had behaved himself, and had not clung to her. And... because he had listened to her? Cavendish stared blankly at the book of fairy tales in his hands. One of Alicia's greatest dilemmas had been resolved. Her previous confusion stemmed from her inability to understand and provide her cousin with what he desired. She discovered that the phrase "I know" could effectively address any situation. They fell asleep in each other's arms. He rose early, taking care not to disturb her. Their routines during the honeymoon had become strangely reversed, with him waking earlier than he ever had before. She knew he loved her. He carefully disentangled her golden hair from his body, gently moving her leg, which had been draped over his. He gazed at her face, noting the delicate down that covered her cheeks, the peaceful expression she wore in sleep. He watched her for a long time. When she finally awoke, he was standing by the door, observing her as she dressed in a gown adorned with chenille embroidery. He knew every gown in her vast wardrobe. She had worn a different outfit every day of their honeymoon. He waited for her, but when he noticed her bare back, he politely averted his gaze. By the time they reached the breakfast room, he was so flustered by the events of the previous night that he could scarcely meet her eye. He was flushed, embarrassed, painfully aware that Alicia had seen him completely exposed, stripped of all pretense and dignity. He longed to be close to her, yet he was held back by a potent mixture of shame and a lingering sense of wounded pride. "Is this very tiring for you?" Alicia, delicately consuming a portion of veal, finally broke the silence. On her writing pad, she had already dedicated a new section: an observation log specifically for her cousin, her husband. She was observing him with meticulous detail.