Chapter 25: A Cousin's Plaything

"Precisely," Cavendish murmured, his hand firmly encircling her ankle. "One must channel excess energy into other... pursuits." "We engage in numerous physical activities. Shooting, fencing, equestrianism..." Alicia listed, trailing off suggestively. He paused, his voice thick with a sudden intensity. "Alicia." She, however, was feeling rather disobedient. Her intention was to tease, to provoke, yet her eyes held no tenderness, only a cool, assessing gaze. And why was it, he wondered with a growing sense of desperation, that she could ignite this absolute craving within him? "So, you resort to brawls?" she inquired, her tone deceptively innocent. He wished, with a fervor that bordered on madness, that she would touch him again. "Of course not!" he protested, a little too vehemently. Well, perhaps a few. After all, he had a certain reputation to uphold. He was, or rather had been, one of those frightfully well-bred young men who found themselves perpetually embroiled in some sort of mischief. Though, admittedly, since his university days, he'd made a concerted effort to behave with a modicum of decorum. Now, his voice turned hoarse, almost a plea. "I feel as though I'm going mad," he confessed, his words rough around the edges. He realized, with a sickening clarity, that she was toying with him. And she remained so infuriatingly detached. Alicia ceased her prodding. She had observed enough of her cousin-husband's changing expressions for one evening. As she approached, he instinctively lifted his chin, a silent invitation. She traced the line of his jaw, her touch feather-light, before bestowing a fleeting, almost absentminded kiss upon his lips. "How many days has it been since we last... shared a bed?" she asked, her voice devoid of any inflection. Cavendish stared at her, momentarily bewildered. He recovered quickly. "I can't recall precisely. A week, perhaps?" "And how does that compare to before?" Alicia continued, her tone that of a scientist compiling research data. He longed to kiss her properly, but she withheld herself, a subtle yet effective barrier. It was as if, having tasted the forbidden fruit, he could never be sated. The craving, the yearning, the sheer, unadulterated need consumed him. He confessed as much to her, his voice heavy with a desire he could no longer conceal. "How long will this last?" he asked, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. Alicia recalled her aunt's estimate of three months. "I don't know," she admitted. It was, after all, her first time experiencing this sort of thing as well. What if it never ended? She cupped his chin, her touch firm. "You've changed so much, cousin." It had been an age since she had last addressed him so. Her hand moved, a gentle yet insistent pressure that forced him back into the corner of the sofa. Cavendish, feeling as though he were suffocating, loosened his cravat with a near-violent tug. Alicia's gaze dropped, her fingertips tracing the line of buttons on his shirt. She was giving him a silent command, expecting him to take the initiative. Cavendish fought against the tide of desire with the last vestiges of his will. "Not here," he managed, his voice strained. "Alicia," he breathed, attempting to regain some semblance of control, even as their bodies remained tantalizingly close. To repeat the events of the previous night... he felt his sanity teetering on the brink. Not here, then. That implied that elsewhere might be acceptable. "What are you thinking?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with that unsettling curiosity. Was it not what he assumed? A flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks crimson. She sat astride him, her tongue darting out to taste his. Cavendish grasped at her words like a drowning man clutching a lifeline. "You didn't want me to do that before," he said, feeling a sliver of relief. He would follow her commands, her every unspoken directive. In a daze, he fumbled with the silver buttons, his fingers clumsy and unresponsive. Then, his eyes widened, his movements abruptly halting. "No." Her palm, usually so soft, the place he loved to kiss most, was now... He tried to pull away, to reject the image, the act. "Don't move," she commanded, her hand gently cradling his face. Her eyes remained fixed on his, unwavering. He averted his gaze, unable to meet her scrutiny. "Look at me." Just as he had done once before, he sought refuge in her lips, a desperate, consuming kiss. Any words she might have uttered were swallowed by the intensity of his embrace. "What is this called?" Alicia persisted, ever the pragmatist, determined to understand the mechanics of this newfound power. He shuddered, a soft gasp escaping his lips. "I don't know. Devil take it, what does it matter?" he rasped. "Alicia, Alicia, what have you become?" He was a wreck before her, a complete and utter mess, and she reveled in it, in her power to manipulate him so thoroughly! He pinned her against the plush sofa, his hands securing her wrists, his mouth seeking hers in a fervent, almost desperate kiss. The veneer of gentleness was stripped away, revealing the raw, primal force of his masculinity. Alicia's eyes glittered, sharp and bright. She had uncovered yet another facet of his being. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder. His actions had been driven by a force akin to compulsion. He noticed the red marks on her neck, stark against her pale skin in the flickering candlelight. With minimal effort, she had gained complete mastery over his desires. Though he appeared to be the aggressor, it was she who held the reins, her control an invisible, silken net. "Can you not do this to me?" he pleaded, his voice a broken whisper. Her hand reached up, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him into another kiss. Perhaps, he thought with a sense of resignation, this was simply how it was meant to be. He had revealed his most base, his most unrefined self to his wife. It was different from their usual encounters, a solitary indulgence laid bare. And that, somehow, made it all the more humiliating. His cravat lay discarded, his clothes in disarray. A peculiar smile curved her lips. Then, with a suddenness that left him reeling, she pushed him away. "How does this differ from last night?" Alicia inquired, continuing her meticulous comparison. He was speechless, capable only of burying his face in her shoulder, his mouth seeking purchase on her skin in a desperate, almost vengeful kiss. He wanted to do the same to her, but it was unseemly. Their current entanglement was already so chaotic, so utterly devoid of morality. And yet... Her legs entwined with his, a silent invitation. Her eyes, slightly wider than his, held a question. "Where do you usually touch?" she asked, her voice soft yet insistent. She had likely already deduced the specifics of male anatomy; she was, after all, remarkably intelligent. "Alicia," he breathed, a warning and a plea all at once. Her fingertip traced the line of his cheek, brooking no refusal. He told her, the words spilling from his lips in a rush. He had never imagined they would have such a conversation. Once Alicia understood, she acted with a decisiveness that was both unnerving and captivating. And so, he watched, a helpless observer, as she... His angel, what was she doing? Cavendish gazed at her, a flush creeping up his neck, spreading across his chest. She was nestled against him, her teeth gently grazing his throat. He inhaled sharply. Paradoxically, he found himself regaining a measure of composure. "Shall I...?" he offered, but she shook her head. The initial wave of shame had receded, replaced by a different tide, one of understanding. She had grasped the nature of desire, not as something imposed upon her, but as something she could wield. Alicia, when confronted with the unknown, was driven by an insatiable need to understand, not through hearsay, but through direct experience. Cavendish realized, perhaps for the first time, that his wife could not be judged by conventional standards. She enjoyed the sensation of pleasure, and now that she had mastered it, she realized she no longer needed him. And so, she had cast him aside. "Even-numbered days," he found himself uttering, barred from her presence. Cavendish mused that she had toyed with him, that he was utterly ruined, yet he did not hate her for it. He only feared the day she would tire of her game. During the daylight hours, it was not Alicia who displayed any signs of unease, but rather Cavendish who found himself unable to meet her gaze directly. She sat perched on the edge of the bed, indulging in her habit of a morning ablution. Her nightgown had slipped, revealing the delicate curve of her shoulder. "My fingers are quite uncalloused," she remarked, a statement that was not lost on Cavendish. "Unlike your own, I daresay." "Alicia!" he exclaimed, a blush creeping up his neck. It appeared he still had some use for her, after all. She found herself rather fond of his lips, and his tongue. Alicia tilted her head, a silent invitation. And so, they enjoyed a few days of blissful indulgence. Alicia, in moments of sudden affection, would steal kisses, her proximity a tangible expression of her growing attachment. She allowed him to brush her hair, to assist her with her stockings, her gaze lingering as his knuckles brushed against her skin while fastening her衣裙. When she played the pianoforte, he would join her, their hands intertwining in a harmonious duet. She grew accustomed to the warmth of his embrace, a welcome remedy for her perpetually cold extremities. They took daily strolls and went riding, and upon their return, he would lift her down from her horse with a smile that spoke volumes. Her desire for him intensified, a sensation she now welcomed and confronted head-on, having deemed it harmless. Curiously, she refrained from initiating that particular activity again, a fact that both relieved and perplexed Cavendish in equal measure. His earlier pronouncement, that some things were best left uncounted, seemed to have taken root. He took to calling her "Crêpe," a teasing endearment that never failed to elicit a blush. He indulged her, partly out of a lingering sense of apprehension, partly out of a burgeoning possessiveness. He desired to, yet dared not. This, then, was his compromise. It was during these moments that she would become particularly amorous. He attended to her needs, knowing her disinclination to exert herself, and thus, he redoubled his efforts. "Are you going to kiss me with that mouth?" Alicia would inquire, giving him a gentle push. He would flush crimson and pause, rising to rinse his mouth without a word. Upon his return, he would often find Alicia curled up beneath the blankets, fast asleep. With a fond smile, he would join her in bed, inhaling the warm, fragrant scent of her golden hair. He would lie there beside her until the early hours, and if questioned, he would simply claim to have retired to his own room long ago. No one was the wiser. Holding her close, he would murmur, "I love you, Alicia," a confession he had never dared utter before, except in the throes of passion, when he felt emboldened to be a tad more audacious. Now, however, the words flowed freely, repeated with each whispered endearment. As their honeymoon drew to a close, Cavendish made a startling realization: Alicia had, at some point, begun to accept him. It had happened sometime after she had acknowledged his love for her. The image of her that day, her vulnerability laid bare, was forever etched in his dreams. He longed to reach out and touch her in those dreams, only to find her fading away. After a few days of such delightful diversions, Alicia finally remembered the supposed purpose of their newlywedded state. "One can hardly expect a child to result from this," she declared, a statement that sent a fresh wave of anxiety through Cavendish. "Don't think about that," he implored, intertwining his fingers with hers. "I have no desire for children." He preferred her company. He could not fathom how he would endure the eight months of pregnancy, let alone what would follow. "What are you thinking about?" she asked, her lips now readily seeking his. He had never anticipated that their relationship would progress so rapidly. He watched her on the swing, the gentle sway of her skirts a mesmerizing sight. "Don't push," she would occasionally murmur, a slight furrow in her brow as she glanced back at him. In his study, she would rifle through his documents and reports, a habit he had grown accustomed to after seeing her notes in the margins, questioning various entries. He set down his quill and looked up at her, taking in the sight of her dark hair, those striking blue eyes, the long, distinct eyelashes that framed her smiling lips. Alicia, after a moment's perusal, decided to join him. He nearly upset the inkwell in his haste to steady himself. "What are you doing?" he asked, his hands already at her waist, yet the question escaped him nonetheless. "Why is this always on your mind?" He jested, but her eyes, downcast, seemed to ask, And is it not on yours? He reveled in her willfulness and her candor, for he had, after all, awakened this very desire within her. He was certain of it. "You must feel something for me too, Alicia." There, in his study, she was wholly and completely his, perched upon his lap, enclosed within the confines of that one armchair. He turned crimson, dabbing at his hands with a handkerchief. She deemed them unclean, refusing his touch until they were properly washed. She did not rise, and a certain heady scent lingered between them. She cupped his face in her hands, but just as he leaned in for a kiss, she slipped away, leaving him in a state of bewildered anticipation. Their dynamic on the bed and off was markedly different, a fact Cavendish had come to realize. In the throes of passion, they were tender and yielding, each giving and taking with equal fervor. But outside of the bedroom, they each pursued their own interests, their interactions marked by a certain detachment. Her expression, after their intimate encounters, was one of utter indifference. During dinner, William Cavendish found himself lost in thought, staring at Alicia, the food on his plate growing cold and unappetizing. Even amidst their newfound harmony, he was plagued by a persistent fear, a fear that her interest in him might wane. Alicia's affections were fleeting and shallow. She was the mistress of her own world. He treasured every moment he could claim her in bed. He refrained from discussing their plans upon their return to London, content to savor these uninterrupted moments of intimacy. He adhered to their unspoken agreement regarding odd and even days, exercising restraint and limiting their intimacy to hands and lips, a compromise he found surprisingly fulfilling. Let this continue indefinitely, he mused. Once they returned to the suffocating embrace of high society, he would no longer be able to cling to her with such abandon. There were certain unwritten rules, after all. A husband who dared to love his wife was a laughingstock. Love was to be found in the arms of one's mistress, not one's spouse. And a husband was not to be jealous of his wife's lover, unless she flaunted the affair openly, thus publicly humiliating him and potentially muddying the waters of their eldest son's lineage. A lover, in fact, was a testament to a wife's allure, a source of pride for the husband. The more she attracted, the more it reflected his own virility. He pushed these thoughts aside, suddenly finding these unspoken rules utterly distasteful. He had initially hoped that through his acquiescence and his acceptance of a lower position, he could quietly possess her. When he discovered her growing attachment to him, he thought victory was within his grasp. But then Alicia, with an innate understanding that defied instruction, had overturned him, straddling him, her lithe, pale form a vision against the backdrop of the room. With an almost ethereal grace, she had conquered him, her slender waist swaying to a rhythm only she could hear. There he was, fully clothed, clutching his cravat, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as she bit her own, her eyes questioning his hesitation to kiss her. He had yearned to overpower her, but his hands merely hovered at her waist, his entire body taut with suppressed desire, a symphony of restrained cries echoing in the silence. I am older and more mature; I must learn to control this inner craving, this exquisite agony, he thought, his body wracked with the tremors of suppressed release. He was the first to be possessed, the first to be conquered. Amidst the waves of pleasure, Cavendish couldn't help but think, I have surrendered. "You are a little enchantress, Alicia," he breathed, finally realizing that he was the one who had taught her how to conquer him. He had been hesitant to fully indulge, but she had no such qualms. The way her waist arched against his thigh, the nonchalant way she questioned his excessive indulgence—it was all predetermined. "Alicia," he whispered, "I will love you for an eternity. I will adore you, be mad for you, always."