Chapter 31: A Most Unwelcome Suitor

Alicia watched her cousin approach on horseback, a picture of nonchalant elegance, if one could ignore the faint sheen of desperation clinging to him like a poorly tailored suit. He peered down at her from atop his steed, offering a slight bow and a murmured excuse about merely passing by. "On my way to the Green Park for a ride," he declared with a nod, as if venturing out at such an ungodly hour was the most natural thing in the world. Alicia, however, had consulted her timepiece. It was barely past nine. Did her cousin usually rise before the sparrows had even considered their first chorus? Something was decidedly amiss. Cavendish, his lips pressed into a thin, displeased line, was staring intently in a particular direction. Following his gaze, Alicia's eyes landed upon the figure emerging from the side of the house. A young man, or rather, a boy, halted in his tracks. He was remarkably young, and positively bursting out of a uniform of bright blue with red trim, the very picture of youthful, if somewhat misplaced, enthusiasm. Cavendish's brow unfurrowed, though his displeasure lingered like a persistent fog. The boy, with his dark brown hair and blue eyes, bore a striking resemblance to their family, particularly in the shape of his eyes. "Cousin," the boy offered, a reluctant greeting that hung in the air like an unwanted guest. "Titchfield?" Cavendish dismounted, a flicker of bewilderment crossing his face. "Have you taken to soldiering now?" He pointedly drew his wife closer, a blatant display of possession that made Alicia wonder if he'd taken leave of his senses. And then, as if to further prove her point, he proceeded to embrace her waist and plant a rather enthusiastic kiss upon her lips, right there in front of their cousin. Only then did he turn back, a smugly satisfied expression plastered on his face. The boy, bless his heart, blinked, utterly flabbergasted. His face turned a delightful shade of crimson, and he let out an indignant "Humph!" Cavendish, feigning ignorance with the skill of a seasoned actor, inquired, "Titchfield, were you not at Westminster? Have you run away to join the army?" He was, of course, intimately familiar with the young scamp's reputation for being a spoiled, pretentious brat. And he took great pleasure in tormenting him thus. William Henry Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, Marquess of Titchfield, eldest son of the Duke of Portland, had only recently celebrated his sixteenth birthday. His grandmother was the sister of Alicia's grandfather. This young Marquess, thoroughly indulged by his late grandfather, was the very definition of entitled arrogance, exhibiting the same obnoxious, affected manners as the rest of the Devonshire clan. In short, a younger, more naive version of Cavendish himself. He had once idolized his older cousin and harbored a deep affection for his cousin Alicia. They had grown up together, their families being quite close. He had always imagined he would marry her. "I graduated this year," the young Marquess declared, lifting his chin with an air of misplaced pride. "Joined the Royal Horse Guards, cousin." "A Cornet, are you? How impressive," Cavendish drawled, a dawning realization of their cousin's true intentions flickering in his eyes as he observed the faint blush on Alicia's cheeks. "Lieutenant," the boy corrected, with no small amount of petulance. Cavendish frowned, wondering how he could have been so blind. "Well then, Lieutenant Bentinck, shouldn't you be off on patrol? I believe you're already late for your duties." He, after all, had served in the army himself. Back then, Titchfield was but a sniveling five-year-old. William Cavendish had, until now, considered his young cousin harmless, a mere gnat buzzing about his periphery. The sight of the couple's intimate display, however, fueled the Marquess's resentment. He felt utterly wronged. He had proposed to his cousin, and she hadn't even bothered to look up from her book. "Bentinck," she had said, "you're still a child yourself." He had always believed that his gentle, kind cousin had been forced to marry his ill-tempered cousin. Everyone said they were ill-suited. If only he had been a little older. The Marquess of Titchfield bit his lip. "Alice! You promised you would watch my changing of the guard." He had been in the army for less than a month, having purchased his commission. In truth, his parents, concerned by their son's melancholy, had arranged it to give him something to occupy his time. So that was his game. Attempting to seduce his wife. Alice. What was he playing at, not calling her cousin? William Cavendish watched on, his displeasure growing with each passing moment. To his astonishment, Alicia, in a tone of voice he could only describe as gentle, replied, "I know, Bentinck. Five o'clock this afternoon. Now, off you go." The Marquess beamed, his joy short-lived. Cavendish, his voice dripping with icy disapproval, interjected, "Titchfield, you must address her properly. Given your youth, such informality is inappropriate. Furthermore, your cousin is married. You shall address her as 'Lady Alicia.'" The Marquess shot a pleading look at his cousin. This time, however, Alicia sided with her husband. "He's right, Bentinck." Her tone was gentle, but firm. The Marquess of Titchfield, with ill-concealed reluctance, adjusted his form of address. He realized, with a pang of despair, that he and his cousin could no longer enjoy the carefree outings and playful banter of their youth. Cavendish practically chased him off, then proceeded to parade his intimacy with Alicia, whispering in her ear about dress fittings and the subtle changes in her figure. Alicia's neck flushed a delicate pink. The young Marquess, for all his outward bravado, was surprisingly naive in the ways of the world. He could have easily pursued the role of a lover, but he lacked the awareness to do so. He retreated, thoroughly defeated and simmering with resentment. Cavendish, however, was far from pleased. He distinctly remembered the unprecedented gentleness in Alicia's voice when speaking to Titchfield. A tone she had never used with him. Alicia explained that on even-numbered days, she would breakfast with her parents, and on odd-numbered days, she would be at Burlington House. Meaning that if he hadn't come today, hadn't peered through the window like a lovesick fool, he wouldn't have seen her at all. Alicia couldn't fathom why he had been so eager to dismiss Bentinck, especially since she had ordered extra breakfast. "Then I shall have it," Cavendish declared, the image of his cousin's lovesick expression still rankling him. At the breakfast table, the Duchess mentioned that Bentinck had recently graduated from public school, among the top of his class. He planned to serve in the army for a few years before attending university. A path remarkably similar to Cavendish's, a fact that seemed to please the Duke, who even offered a few words of praise. William Cavendish glanced at Alicia. She alone seemed unfazed by the comparison. After breakfast, they strolled through the gardens. Cavendish, in a roundabout way, attempted to ascertain his importance relative to Bentinck's. He sullenly inquired why she had been so kind to him. Alicia, with her usual candor, replied, "He's young." Ah, yes, he was simply guilty of being older. A whole nine years older. It seemed a valid point, somehow. After much deliberation, he finally blurted out, "You are not to look at him." He added, as an afterthought, "He's too thin. He doesn't look good in a uniform." He critiqued with practiced ease. "If you like uniforms so much, I could always—" Alicia began, casting him a curious glance. She clarified that she was merely planning to take a carriage ride through Hyde Park with Lady Cowper and a few other ladies, and would happen to pass by the changing of the guard. Of course, Lady Jersey had also mentioned that the newly enlisted officers were quite a sight to behold. Cavendish felt a surge of something akin to panic. He had a dreadful feeling that this was only the beginning of his troubles since their return to London. The Marquess of Titchfield, to his credit, was relatively harmless, adhering to a certain code of conduct. But the freedom afforded to married ladies in their interactions with gentlemen was far greater than that of unmarried misses. While unmarried ladies had to be cautious, married ladies could enjoy carriage rides and close company without raising eyebrows. Alicia then outlined her schedule for the week. A visit to her maternal grandfather in Hampstead at the weekend, as the Marquess of Stafford preferred to avoid London in the autumn. Then, a few days at Aunt Harriet's, whose physician predicted the arrival of her child within the week. They would stay for a few days, though he was not obligated to join them. Cavendish seized her hand. "Whatever you do, I shall be by your side." Alicia recalled her cousin's appearance that morning. He had claimed to be merely passing by, yet his cravat was askew, and his riding coat was wrinkled. Most unlike him. His hostility towards Bentinck was also peculiar. Usually, he maintained a facade of brotherly superiority, albeit with a sharp tongue and a critical eye. Alicia found her cousin's behavior quite intriguing. Cavendish, upon reflection, realized that his attempt to prevent Alicia from fulfilling her promise to Titchfield was utterly irrational. He ought to be a more understanding husband. ... Cavendish found himself utterly alone during the days he and his wife were apart. He hadn't explicitly asked, and Alicia hadn't invited him. They dined together, and they even made a public appearance at the theatre, displaying a united front. But none of it silenced the wagging tongues of London society. After escorting her home, no matter how tightly he grasped her wrist or how passionately he kissed her in the carriage, Alicia would invariably depart with an air of cool detachment. She would smooth her skirts, retire for the night, and remove her finery, all without a single glance or gesture to suggest that her cousin should follow. It seemed that men, after the initial fervor, inevitably cooled in their affections. Alicia, however, was not overly concerned. Her own desires had waned considerably of late. Cavendish observed his grandparents' enduring affection, even after decades of marriage. They still strolled together, basking in the sun in their garden. His mother, draped in her fox fur, would attend every social gathering with his father, her laughter echoing through the halls. But he was alone. When he visited her at Devonshire House, Pipi, that wretched canine, would nip at his heels and cling to his trousers. It was utterly unbearable. He had even placed a wager of three thousand pounds at White's, and compelled Francis to do the same. It did nothing to alter the rising odds. What was a mere six thousand pounds, after all? Among his companions, Francis was the only one who had been married for a respectable four years, and remained devoted to his wife. But Cavendish would never, under normal circumstances, seek marital advice from him. There were three other newly married couples this year. Two had eloped to Gretna Green, later formalizing their unions. At Brooks's, they encountered John Lambton, a strikingly handsome young man. His father had passed away, leaving him the wealthiest commoner in England, with coal mines in County Durham that now yielded an income of sixty thousand pounds per annum. He was not yet of age, and earlier that year, he had married the illegitimate daughter of Earl Cholmondeley, two years his senior. His wife was with child, due in two weeks. Lambton, a man of nervous disposition and delicate health, was understandably anxious. Francis reassured him, mentioning that his own wife's delivery had been uneventful. Cavendish shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Their own marriage, despite its grand beginnings, seemed to be on the shakiest of ground. Francis, never one to miss an opportunity, mentioned the other newly married couple of the year: Catherine Tylney-Long, the heiress of Wiltshire, and William Pole-Wellesley of the Wellesley family. Their wedding, held in a church, had been the epitome of a fairytale. The groom had presented the bride with diamond jewelry worth tens of thousands of pounds (though it was the bride who had footed the bill). Their wedding had been overshadowed by his own and Alicia's. The bride was indifferent, but the groom, a man of considerable vanity, was likely to be displeased. This newly married couple was known for their ostentatious displays of affection, and were considered to be deeply in love. Pole-Wellesley was one of Cavendish's least favorite people. The man was a notorious rake, with countless lovers to his name. Yet his wife adored him, bringing a vast fortune to their union. The comparison stung Cavendish, filling him with a sense of unease. After dinner, Alicia observed that her husband had rekindled the passion of their honeymoon, and he finally voiced his request, albeit in a rather businesslike manner. "Cousin, to quell the rumors, I believe we should reside together. I shall move to the ducal residence, to avoid causing you any undue inconvenience." "Very well," Alicia agreed. Cavendish, maintaining a stoic facade, suppressed a triumphant grin. He could scarcely believe how easily she had acquiesced. And so, Cavendish moved in. Though it was somewhat unconventional for a man to reside in his wife's family home, he was nonetheless pleased. During one of their walks, Alicia, in a tone of utmost seriousness, instructed him to visit on odd-numbered days to fulfill his marital and procreative duties. This pleased him even more. Alicia had learned from other married ladies that securing an heir was paramount. Once an heir was produced, their position was secure, and they could prove that there were no issues in the marriage. After that, they would be free to do as they pleased. Everything seemed to be falling into place. Cavendish walked along the corridor, admiring the flickering gaslights and gilded decorations. He felt a mixture of unease and anticipation. He saw her waiting for him, they kissed, and one by one, their garments fell to the floor. He carried her to the bed. To hell with those who claimed they were not in love. They were perfectly attuned to each other in bed. Alicia buried her face in the pillow, contemplating the prevalent culture of extramarital affairs among the aristocracy. Lovers, it seemed, were sought not only for love but also for the sexual services they provided. Husbands typically focused on procreation, often completing the act without even removing their clothes. So what was he doing now? Alicia pondered whether she still needed a lover. One seemed quite enough of a burden. "What are you thinking about?" he murmured, not expecting an answer. He captured her lips with his own, silencing her protests. Alicia moaned softly as they reveled in their rediscovered passion. He lifted her, and in the midst of their fervent embrace, he bit her shoulder. "You bit me last time, too," she recalled, a hint of fondness in her voice. Alicia bit him back, with even greater force. His muscles were firm and yielding beneath her touch. She pressed her face against his chest, her fingers kneading his flesh. He was losing his grip on control far faster than she was. ... He whispered scandalous words in her ear. He had abandoned all pretense of propriety. If Alicia would not acknowledge him outside of the bedroom, then he would ensure she remembered him within it. He nibbled on her ear, a sudden surge of jealousy prompting him to ask, "You said I wasn't good enough. You never praised me." The comment from the gathering of married ladies had apparently reached his ears. "No, I said you were alright." He had learned to gauge Alicia's limits, and since discovering that she did not object to more adventurous forms of intimacy, he occasionally indulged in them. "But you also said you regretted getting married." In the midst of their lovemaking, Alicia protested. She had heard about that, too. He stilled, and Alicia, sensing his withdrawal, wrapped her arms around his waist. He held her close, his lips brushing against her cheek as he playfully whispered, "Alright, let's forget about all that." She had once stifled her cries, but now she allowed herself to express her pleasure, though her voice remained soft, a series of short, sharp gasps that made him smile wickedly. Their physical intimacy had reached a new level of harmony. In a way, they were quite the loving couple. Cavendish, having misjudged his own role, had inadvertently solved some of their problems. For instance, Alicia discovered that he alone was sufficient to satisfy her needs. They had, in their own unconventional way, achieved a form of fidelity. Cavendish no longer cared about the opinions of others. They did not understand. They did not understand Alicia, whose love was simply a bit out of the ordinary. Though she might kick him, drive him away, or rebuff his ill-timed advances, he alone understood her. But upon overhearing someone say, "She must feel nothing for him," Cavendish felt a pang of discomfort. He spotted the young Earl of Sunderland, with his golden-brown hair, green eyes, and slightly pointed nose, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He was the grandson of the Duke of Marlborough, another of his cousins, eighteen years old, from his mother's side. He was making this bold statement, and had placed a wager of several hundred pounds, probably his entire allowance for the quarter. Like the Marquess of Titchfield, he belonged to that particular breed of London gentleman who seemed to have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a distinct lack of purpose in his heart. However, where Titchfield was merely a green sprig, this one was a fully-fledged, venomous weed in the garden of London society. Cavendish narrowed his eyes. How had he never noticed before? Alicia, his delicate flower, was surrounded by a swarm of these brightly colored butterflies.