Chapter 3: Dawn

He was down to his shirtsleeves, or rather, shirt, singular. Fine linen, it was, unbuttoned to a rather scandalous degree, revealing an expanse of ivory skin beneath. One might be forgiven for thinking that such a pristine, almost translucent complexion was the result of meticulous care, the very picture of aristocratic pallor. And one would be entirely correct. Despite two years of military service, a fondness for horseback riding, fencing, and shooting – all very vigorous, masculine pursuits, mind you – William Cavendish had managed to maintain the sort of figure that would make a sculptor weep with joy. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and the kind of lean musculature that suggested both strength and elegance. But his dearest cousin, his lovely new bride, did not so much as bat an eyelid. William, absently caressing her delicate left hand, felt a familiar stirring within him. It seemed every inch of her was exquisite, a testament to... well, something or other. "Alicia," he murmured, her name a soft sigh upon his lips. They had always addressed each other with the familiar "cousin," but here, in the intimacy of the bedchamber, he craved the simple pleasure of her given name. "Alice." He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then to each of her gracefully tapered fingertips as they lay limply in his. He implored her, with a gentle tug, to take a corner of his shirt, to aid him in removing the garment and revealing the sculpted physique beneath. The curve of his waist, revealed as he moved, was where he guided her hand to rest, warm and yielding to the touch. Alicia complied, though with an air of distinct impatience. She found her cousin's requests this evening to be somewhat... peculiar. "Do you like it?" he inquired, with all the subtlety of a peacock displaying its plumage. "Yes, yes," she responded, her tone less than enthusiastic. He gathered her into his arms then, his hands roaming freely across her skin. At long last, their bodies were pressed together, a delightful contrast of warmth, smooth skin, and supple curves. He peppered her with kisses, each one a silent vow to memorize every point that brought a flicker of pleasure to her face. He adored the sounds she made, whether intentional or not. Even in the cool of autumn, a fine sheen of perspiration soon covered them both. Alicia turned her head, a blush creeping up her neck and across her cheeks, like the petals of a particularly vibrant rose. Her lips were parted, her breath catching as she voiced a sudden request. "I want to see." William lifted his head, following the line of her arm back towards him, and bestowed a soft kiss upon her lips. She had already learned to loop her arms around his waist at such moments, a gesture that, despite his usual self-assuredness, reduced him to a state of boyish excitement. "What is it?" "Mother mentioned it. I'm curious." Her cousin was silent, having grown accustomed to the evening's unpredictable turns. "Very well," he conceded, after two futile attempts at refusal. He shifted, unfastening the buttons of his breeches. William turned his head, a touch of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Alicia rose, her figure reminiscent of a Venus immortalized by a Venetian master. She approached, her gaze inquisitive, her touch exploratory. He reached for her, drawing her close, and stifled a groan against her shoulder. "No!" he protested softly, his voice thick with suppressed desire. Alicia, finding the object of her curiosity rather underwhelming, returned to her previous position. "It's quite hideous," she declared, with the frankness of a seasoned art critic. William, his face now a deeper shade of crimson, pulled her back down beside him. He captured her wrists, pinning them gently above her head. "You're trapped now, you little vexing creature," he growled, with mock ferocity. "Hmph," Alicia responded, quite accustomed to having her own way. Her clear, guileless eyes gave him a moment's pause. William sighed, "Then, shall I begin?" "You are rather slow about it." ... "Shall I snuff the candles?" he inquired, after a moment. "Extinguish the candles and the fire in the hearth. It will be cold without the fire, even on a night like this," Alicia explained, somewhat perplexed by the question. "I thought you might be shy," he admitted, his long eyelashes sweeping down. "You are being quite talkative tonight." As if any man is capable of silence on his wedding night, he thought wryly. William attempted to compose himself, to quell the frantic beating of his heart. It was a rather futile endeavor. He bent his head, and kissed her in earnest. ... In this aspect, at the very least, he proved a satisfactory husband. William found himself experiencing a rare flicker of self-doubt, a most unusual sensation for a man known for his, shall we say, robust self-regard. He was, after all, a novice in these particular matters. He had rehearsed the encounter countless times in his mind, of course, but in the heat of the moment, the carefully planned steps dissolved into a blur of instinct and sensation. They moved together, a tempestuous sea of limbs and sighs, and he was fairly certain she was as lost in the storm as he. ... Alicia had steeled herself for this. Still, she found the entire affair rather odd, and occasionally opened her eyes, just to make sure everything was proceeding as expected. Each time she did, he would swoop in for a kiss, a rather effective, if somewhat distracting, method of ensuring her continued cooperation. Eventually, she found herself reciprocating, drawn in by some inexplicable urge. It was at this precise moment that he chose to play the aggrieved party, mimicking her earlier words with infuriating accuracy, "I do not care for your kisses, you know." She attempted to silence him with a hand over his mouth – he did have a deplorable habit of parroting her phrases. Honestly, Alicia sometimes found her cousin more childish than herself, a truly remarkable feat. He covered her hand with his own, but made no move to remove it. Instead, he turned his head and began to press soft kisses to her palm, then to each finger in turn. He paused, then, with a hint of awkwardness, inquired as to her well-being. He knew her measurements, of course – a waist of a mere twenty inches, a fact that had seemed purely theoretical until this very moment. Now, the reality of it, the delicate curve of her form, was almost intoxicating. He was utterly besotted. William was forced to admit it. He mumbled her name, her full name, her nickname, even her middle names – a litany of endearment. Alicia raised an eyebrow. "Those were my grandmother's and great-grandmother's names," she pointed out, her tone mildly reproving. He was brimming with energy, positively euphoric. Her blush had deepened, spreading from her neck to her cheeks in a most becoming manner. He murmured that she might bite him, if she wished. She turned her head away, a clear refusal. Undeterred, he pressed his lips to hers, inviting her to nibble on his tongue instead. The sight of her displeasure only seemed to heighten his enjoyment. But when a delicate frown creased her brow, he was instantly contrite, inquiring if anything was amiss. ... At last, he gathered her close, cradling her in his arms. Alicia was drowsy, her limbs heavy with a pleasant lassitude. He pressed a kiss to her smooth back, the elegant curve of her spine a source of endless fascination. They lay in comfortable silence for a time, the storm having passed. Just as he was about to speak, to break the quiet with some tender sentiment, his wife – his wife! – spoke, her voice muffled against the pillow. "You may return to your own room now." It was customary, of course, for aristocratic couples to maintain separate bedchambers. Sleeping in the same bed was considered rather vulgar, not at all the done thing. "I shan't," he declared, his heart overflowing with a heady mixture of affection and defiance. He had no intention of leaving her side. "Do you intend to assist with the cleaning?" He was well acquainted with her meticulous nature. She was fastidious about cleanliness, taking sponge baths and bathing far more frequently than was usual. He himself had taken a bracing cold bath before joining her this evening, using her favorite soap, a detail that had likely saved him from being banished earlier. "Indeed," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. Alicia could feel the dampness of perspiration clinging to her hair, forming little tendrils against her skin. She could not fathom how her cousin could be so untidy, his skin now covered with salty sweat. He wrapped her in a blanket, then slipped into his own discarded shirt. With a tug, he rang the bellpull beside the bed. He did not witness her ablutions, though the image of her slender form, damp and glistening, was forever etched in his memory. William Cavendish was summarily dismissed, banished from the room like a naughty schoolboy. Alicia declared that, in the future, a separate room should be designated for such activities, as this one was now quite uninhabitable. She would be forced to relocate to a new chamber. William pointed out that his own room was just down the hall, a not-so-subtle hint. Alicia merely arched a brow, her expression the very picture of polite inquiry. "Have you forgotten your manners, cousin?" The unfortunate Mr. Cavendish found himself pacing the corridor, casting forlorn glances at the gilded door that separated him from his bride. He thought, with no small amount of indignation, who was the architect of this ridiculous custom that decreed newly married couples must sleep apart? ... William awoke early, or rather, he had not truly slept at all, merely dozed fitfully throughout the night. He felt a pang of regret for his behavior the previous evening. He had been a besotted fool, swept away by passion, oblivious to her reticence. He resolved to be more aloof today, to give her some much-needed space. But he knew Alicia's routine. She was a creature of habit, a trait he sometimes found endearing, sometimes exasperating. Unlike the fashionable ladies of London who rarely stirred before ten, she was invariably awake by seven or eight, taking a brisk walk before breakfast. Her route took her from Devonshire House to the corner of Burlington House, and back again. He had often encountered her on these walks, particularly after a night of revelry, his senses dulled by drink. She would wrinkle her nose at the lingering scent of alcohol, pretending not to know him. He dressed with care, selecting a coat in a particularly vibrant shade, and applied a touch of her favorite orange blossom cologne, ensuring it was subtle, not overpowering. He examined his reflection, satisfied that he did not appear too much the eager bridegroom, and made his way to her room. He positioned himself outside her door, a silent sentinel. The custom was, no one was to enter until she rang. Usually, she would have been awake by now. William consulted his pocket watch. A quarter of an hour passed. Then another. He began to worry. Had he been too boorish last night? Perhaps he had been overzealous. Should he pen a letter to one of his married cousins, seeking their advice? His thoughts were a jumble of anxieties when, at long last, he heard the distinct tinkle of the bell. He did not enter immediately, but paced for a few moments more, feigning nonchalance before finally tapping lightly on the door. "Enter." Her voice, crisp and commanding as always, sent a thrill through him. He opened the door to behold a vision of loveliness. She stood with her back to him, her arms crossed in front of her, accentuating the graceful curve of her back. Below, the gentle swell of her hips flowed into long, shapely legs. She was Venus, newly born. Maids hovered around her, their hands moving deftly with soft cotton cloths, giving her a sponge bath. Alicia's morning ritual, a testament to her dedication to cleanliness in an age when bathing was not always a simple affair. William was about to avert his gaze, then he remembered – they were married now. Indeed. He made a shushing gesture to the maids, then approached silently, wrapping his arms around her from behind and pressing a kiss to her bare skin. She smelled of something fresh and sweet, like a spring meadow after a rain shower. Alicia stiffened, turning her head to avoid his kiss. A frown creased her brow. "You are being quite tiresome," she declared. Her words, though harsh, were merely a reflection of her honest assessment, devoid of any real malice. William paused, releasing her from his embrace. "Very well, my dearest cousin, my Lilia," he conceded. He remained in the room, however, a silent observer as she completed her morning ritual. Alicia seemed unfazed, accustomed as she was to being waited on hand and foot. William couldn't help but feel like a footman himself, a rather strange sensation considering their encounter the previous night. He remembered the way she had clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He tried to call her Alicia, but the word caught in his throat. "Cousin," he began instead, then stumbled over his words, "Will you be taking breakfast downstairs?" A foolish question, really. Alicia merely glanced at him, a silent dismissal. A moment of awkward silence stretched between them. Then, Cavendish seized upon a more suitable topic. "Married ladies," he announced, "may take breakfast in bed, you know." "I do not wish to," she replied flatly. "Then, will you be taking your walk?" He busied himself with selecting her clothes, discussing the merits of various petticoats, gowns, scarves, stockings, and shoes. He had noticed, earlier, that the disarray from the previous evening had been tidied away, leaving no trace of their passionate encounter. It was as if the whole affair had been nothing more than a particularly vivid dream. Alicia allowed the maids to dress her. William watched, a blush rising on his cheeks, mirroring the flush that had stained her skin the night before. First, the petticoats, then the corset, then she sat as they carefully pulled on silk stockings, fastening them with garters. The very same powder-blue garters he had gifted her. Despite their engagement being a foregone conclusion, a mere formality, Cavendish had insisted on observing the tradition of presenting her with a betrothal gift. Finally, the gown was lowered over her head. "Do I appear as though I am capable of taking a walk?" Alicia finally deigned to answer his earlier question. He looked at her, really looked at her. Her legs were still weak, she did not enjoy this disruption of her routine, and her eyes held a hint of reproach. He observed the myriad of emotions that flickered across her face, culminating in a triumphant smirk. "No kissing," she declared, holding up a hand to ward him off.