Chapter 36: A Most Unreasonable Jealousy

The fleeting joys of matrimony, alas, soon gave way to a most inconvenient truth. For one cannot exist in London's social whirl without a certain degree of socializing, and Lord Cavandish was now subjected to thePerTrial of witnessing his wife surrounded by a veritable flock of attentive gentlemen. A generous husband, he was not. Indeed, Cavandish found himself utterly perplexed. Before the wedding, he had been quite indifferent to such matters. Now, post-nuptials, he was consumed by a jealousy so potent it threatened to curdle the very cream in his tea. At the Prince Regent's ball at Carlton House, he could bear it no longer. He simply had to seek her out. The company of married men held no appeal, not when his wife was elsewhere, likely charming the very spats off some eager young buck. And then he saw her. A vision in shimmering gold hair and black velvet, she conversed briefly with a footman before slipping discreetly from the ballroom. Intrigued, and more than a little suspicious, he followed. In a secluded corner of the garden, shielded by fountain, statuary, and strategically placed shrubbery, he found her. And with her, a gentleman, who turned with an air of anxious anticipation and seized the young lady's hand. Cavandish's brow furrowed. He ought to intervene, to put a stop to this clandestine rendezvous. But a scene, he knew, would only serve to tarnish his wife's reputation. So he lingered, observing the pair as they exchanged impassioned words. After a moment's internal debate, he decided to remain hidden, the better to eavesdrop. "What is the meaning of this, Lord Percy?" "I can bear it no longer, my lady. We have known each other these past dozen years. Surely you understand the depth of my affections... And your invitation this evening..." "What?" "Do you not profess to have no feelings for your husband?" "Indeed." Cavandish could stomach no more. His face a mask of icy disapproval, he turned and stalked away. Alicia, meanwhile, was utterly bewildered. "My sentiments toward you are precisely the same, Lord Percy. Comparatively speaking, I would always choose my husband." She was nothing if not direct. The young man before her blanched, looking as though he might faint. "Why, then, did you summon me here, Lord Percy?" Alicia pressed. "What?" The golden-haired youth seemed genuinely taken aback, his heartbreak momentarily forgotten. After a brief, confused exchange, even they were forced to acknowledge that something was amiss. Lord Percy, now thoroughly embarrassed, made a hasty farewell. Who had perpetrated this cruel jest, or whether it was merely a case of a misinformed footman, remained a mystery. Cavandish watched as Alicia rejoined the festivities. He pretended to have just arrived. "Your champagne, my dear." He presented it to her with a saccharine smile. Alicia accepted it, the odd encounter already fading from her mind. "Shall you dance? I believe a French quadrille is next." Cavandish gripped his glass a little tighter. "I would be delighted." He could forgive her anything. She was, after all, his dearest wife. Alicia, however, sensed something amiss. Her husband seemed distracted, nearly missing a step in the dance. "What troubles you?" she asked, a delicate furrow in her brow. He, the most accomplished of dancers, was faltering. He quickly recovered, not wishing to spoil her enjoyment. After the ball, well past midnight, he ushered her into their carriage. Once inside, he seized her about the waist, pulling her onto his lap for a kiss that was more punishment than passion. Alicia gasped for breath as he began to unfasten her gown, his hands roaming beneath, tracing the contours of her heated skin. This unexpected ardor surprised her, yes, but it also ignited a spark of excitement within her. She observed her husband's unusual behavior with keen interest. She will surely despise me for this. William Cavandish no longer cared. He was mad with jealousy, his gentlemanly facade shattered to a thousand pieces. This, then, was the only way he could remind her that she belonged to him. But Alicia, in a move that surprised even herself, wrapped her arms around his neck and shifted, settling more firmly upon his lap. "Continue," she murmured, her eyes gleaming with a curious light. She always did have this uncanny ability to bend him to her will. Cavandish groaned, his breath ragged as he gripped her calf, his fingers digging in so tightly they left red marks upon her skin. The carriage was well-appointed, with plush cushions lining its walls. Alicia leaned back against them, savoring this novel sensation. In the dim light, he lunged at her, his kisses wild and desperate. She cradled his face in her hands, her fingers tracing the line of his cheek until they paused. "Are you crying?" She brushed a tear from his eyelash. It was damp. She brought her finger to her lips, tasting the salt. He stared at her, unblinking. "You are crying," she confirmed. "Alicia." He pressed her into the corner, their bodies so close not even a whisper could pass between them. "They are nothing compared to me, are they?" Though she had no inkling who "they" might be, Alicia kissed his tears, feeling the tremor that ran through him, the way his long lashes fluttered closed in the darkness. Still, she offered him solace. "No." "You love me best, do you not?" He pressed, desperate for an answer. He captured her wandering fingers, bringing them to his lips. The warmth, the dampness enveloped her, his gentle sucking and nibbling sending shivers down her spine. "Cry some more," she commanded. "What?" He bit at the back of her hand, as if to leave a mark, but then hesitated, his teeth lingering against her skin. A hot tear splashed onto her hand. Alicia leaned in, their eyes meeting, his long lashes tangled together. Her free hand traced the smooth line of his jaw. "Yes, I love you best." Cavandish felt her hand drift lower, a feather-light touch that stole his breath. He was pushed back against the soft cushions. He marked her neck, a mirror of what she was doing to him. While Alicia held him captive, he longed to rebel, to do something, anything, to break free. Yet, he reveled in it. Her cascade of golden hair, the curve of her waist, the pale expanse of her back. In this, at least, they were equals. She would draw close, until their eyes met, and he saw only himself reflected there. Cavandish nipped at her earlobe, his movements fueled by a torrent of frustration and bewilderment, tears streaming down his face. Why was he so weak, so utterly defenseless around her? He could do nothing to her, or rather, nothing he did seemed to cause her pain. Alicia pushed against his chest, her hands roaming up and down. He cried so easily. It excited her beyond measure. In this, at least, he was her favorite among men. "Will," she whispered, testing the key that unlocked his restraint. She called his name, her voice a husky purr against his ear. He would pause then, his eyes closing, a feather-light surrender. "Damn you, Alicia." He kissed her, but she bit at his throat. She marked his body, her nails leaving long trails down his back. He gripped her waist. They left their indelible marks upon each other. The following morning, Alicia stared at her reflection, at the constellation of red marks that adorned her neck. She frowned. Her lady's maid, Beth, though accustomed to such sights, still blushed faintly. A high-necked gown was out of the question. After much deliberation, they settled on a hairstyle that was half-up, half-down, curled more tightly than usual to provide some semblance of concealment. But it was clear she would not be going out that day. Alicia canceled her engagements. She offered her cousin a curt nod, but no pleasantries. William Cavandish had not slept. This was nothing new; he had long since grown accustomed to such disruptions. He sought out Alicia, intending to offer some sort of apology. He had, upon reflection, deemed his jealousy excessive. Then he recalled her words from the previous night, "I love you best." And the way she had whispered, "Will." A smile tugged at his lips. He received no warm welcome, however. Alicia promptly dismissed him. Later, as she sat in the drawing-room, she complained to her parents, "I detest Will." Without realizing it, she had adopted a new form of address. "What is it, my dear?" The Duke and Duchess exchanged concerned glances. She lifted a section of her hair, revealing the vivid marks on her neck, her expression nonchalant. "I cannot wear my favorite hairstyle." The Duke and Duchess were at a loss. They were no longer worried about their daughter's relationship with their son-in-law. The Duchess examined the marks with a sigh, while the Duke dispatched a footman to fetch the family physician, in the hope that some remedy might be found. Cavandish sat in his club, lost in thought. He remembered the previous night, but what could he do? He had to accept the reality of the situation. Francis approached, offering a teasing remark. "Cavandish, we haven't seen much of you lately." He and his new bride were inseparable, always together, never apart. But even so. William Cavandish made no reply. He noticed Lord Percy entering the room, looking no better than he felt. The man's gaze was complex, unreadable. Cavandish scoffed. He sat for a while, the two men staring at each other across the room. Then he rose, removed a glove, and tossed it at the other man. "Lord Percy, I challenge you to a duel." A collective gasp filled the room. William Cavandish shook his head, the image dissipating like smoke. To duel over his wife's lover, to create a scandal that would surely ruin her reputation? He was a sensible husband. He went to the shooting range instead. In the club's gallery, he loaded his weapon, again and again. He aimed at the bullseye, imagining it was Henry Percy. If the man ever overstepped, he would surely kill him in a duel. He rarely saw Lord Percy after that. By all rights, the man should have continued his visits, engaging in polite conversation over tea, the two of them facing each other from opposite sides of the room. He must not show that he cared, lest he give the man satisfaction. But one left, and another arrived. Viscount Belgrave, dark-haired and brown-eyed, with pale skin and a scholarly air, engaged Alicia in hushed discussions. Later that evening, he inquired about it. Alicia turned, explaining that she and the Viscount were collaborating on a translation of a calculus text, to be the first English edition. She showed him the leather-bound manuscript. Of course, he would support her. He knew Belgrave was a brilliant mathematician, a near genius in the field. Richard Grosvenor. He had a pleasant enough disposition, if a bit taciturn. Cavandish found him tolerable. Emerging from the study, they exchanged a nod of acknowledgment. Cavandish entered, finding Alicia engrossed in her work. The marks on her neck had faded, much like their passion seemed to exist only in the darkness, vanishing with the dawn. He stroked her neck. "What is it?" Cavandish paused. "Nothing." He longed to ask what he meant to her. Was he merely a convenience? But even the slightest sign of affection from her was enough to keep him tethered. "How can one ensure one's wife has eyes for no one else?" Cavandish once asked his cousin, in a drunken stupor, posing this most absurd of questions. "One cannot. It is an impossibility." "Ha." "Would you not tire of seeing the same face every day?" "Would I?" He returned home and studied her intently. Perhaps there was some truth to it. Alicia observed her husband's vacant stare, thinking that perhaps this affliction would pass once he had more to occupy his time in December. She finalized the table of contents for the translation, setting the manuscript aside. "Alicia, how do I look today?" She glanced up. Dark hair, blue eyes, impeccably dressed, though his cravat was perhaps wound a bit too high. "Very well." "No, I mean, am I handsome?" "Handsome enough," Alicia replied absently, her attention already returning to her work. "Do you even see me?" She automatically filtered out his question. "Passable, I suppose." He was becoming increasingly peculiar. "Why do you ask?" Cavandish changed the subject. "You never spend my money," he complained. Husbands typically reviewed their wives' monthly expenses, but Alicia kept her finances separate. "I have my own." Her annual allowance alone was more than she could spend, and her living expenses were not drawn from her account. Alicia had no vices, such as gambling. Her yearly expenditures rarely exceeded ten thousand pounds, mostly on books and scientific equipment. She was easily contented. Cavandish played with a braid of her hair, a smile playing on his lips as he noticed her furrowed brow. "Carry on with your work, then." He reached the door, then paused, summoning his courage. "Alicia!" What was it now? Alicia set down her pen, observing him as he stood against the light, his broad shoulders and long legs, the elegant set of his jaw, that familiar curve of his lips. She did so admire his dark hair and blue eyes. Two years ago, when she was still in the schoolroom, she and her friends had debated which gentleman was the most handsome, the most alluring. Alicia had chosen her cousin. "He has a truly beautiful face." The most perfect blend of handsome and beautiful. Little did she know then that she would come to know so much about him, and so many others related to him. Gazing at that serene countenance, Cavandish suddenly realized that no answer mattered. "Good evening, my dear!" He gave a little wave and closed the door. Alicia rested her chin on her hand, wondering what on earth he had wanted to say.