Chapter 38: A Most Improper Arrangement

The way he had dealt with those other men, so swiftly and decisively, was quite alarming, really. Even Francis had raised a disapproving eyebrow, deeming it all a bit "excessive." Cavendish, naturally, remained unperturbed. "What of it?" he'd drawled, with that infuriatingly cavalier air of his. When Alicia had brought it up, with her usual serene detachment, he'd admitted to it readily enough. She hadn't been angry, not precisely. Merely... curious, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer than usual, as if he were some exotic specimen she'd just discovered under a microscope. She was like that, of course. Indifferent to most things, including, it often seemed, his affections. He'd come home thoroughly foxed that night, and they'd encountered each other in the corridor. Alicia had simply inclined her head, the very picture of a dutiful wife, and made to step around him. Cavendish had wanted to seize her wrist, to demand her attention, but something - perhaps the lingering effects of the brandy - had stayed his hand. He'd watched her retreating figure, every rustle of her sumptuous velvet gown a fresh torment. His cousin. His wife's cousin, to be precise. A conundrum he could never quite solve, not unlike that ridiculous "odd and even days" arrangement they'd concocted. They went about their separate lives, only truly connecting in the privacy of the bedchamber, where a few intimate words were exchanged amidst the tangle of limbs. And those nights occurred a mere ten times a month, if that. He lay there, eyes wide open in the darkness, before rising and returning to his own room. Alicia, for her part, was rather pleased with the recent spell of tranquility. It seemed those other suitors had finally gotten the message. As for his drinking, well, she supposed she could forgive that, considering the constraints of her marriage. He always smelled so divine, and his eyes, the way they followed her, so dark and intense... it gave her a rather delicious shiver, if she were honest. Alicia had always suspected her cousin was planning something. And so it came to pass, on a night when she'd retired early, reverting to her usual habits and extinguishing her bedside candle promptly at ten. She was sound asleep when a rather inebriated kiss startled her awake. He fumbled for her, his fingers tracing the line of her neck. "It's an even day," she mumbled, still half-asleep and thoroughly put out at being disturbed. She made to roll over, but his hand shot out, grasping her wrist and pinning her to the mattress. Alicia's eyes snapped open, and she turned her head, a question forming on her lips. The faint glow from the fireplace illuminated his sharp profile, the hard set of his jaw. There was a new intensity in his gaze, a predatory gleam that sent a thrill of something - fear, perhaps, or anticipation - through her veins. "I've had quite enough of this 'odd and even days' nonsense," he declared, his voice thick with drink and something else, something darker. He kissed her then, fiercely, almost savagely, demanding her attention, her response. He was all over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. He was burning up, his breath hot against her skin, like a volcano on the verge of eruption. Alicia's face was cradled in his hands, his grip firm, almost painfully so, brooking no refusal as he forced her to meet his gaze. She should have been frightened, outraged, something. Instead, her eyes shone with a strange excitement. His grip tightened, his face half-hidden in the shadows. His brows were high, his nose straight, his lips forming a perfect, cruel line. He stared at her intently, especially when she tried to look away. His grip on her face tightened further, leaving faint red marks on her skin. "You like this, don't deny it. How could you not like me?" "Don't you like me? Look at me, look at me, Alicia." His kiss was fierce, plundering. Alicia tilted her head back, his words echoing in her ears. Her face was flushed; it was all so novel. Why was she... her leg snaked out, subtly hooking around his waist. He stilled, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. Sanity, it seemed, was attempting to reassert itself. His forehead came to rest against her neck. He made to pull away, but she flipped him over with surprising ease, pressing him down onto the bed. Cavendish reached up, rubbing his temples as if trying to clear his head. What in God's name was he doing? Even the finest velvet could be abrasive against bare skin, and her knees were now quite thoroughly acquainted with his thighs. Alicia leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead, savoring the lingering scent of his cologne, the faint trace of wine on his breath. His long eyelashes brushed against her cheek. "Why did you stop?" she murmured, her lips moving to his throat. "Continue, please." "Will," she breathed, her voice thick with desire. "You can't be indifferent to me," he insisted, a hint of desperation in his tone. "Of course not, darling. I shall be the very picture of attentiveness," she purred. The breaking of their established rules seemed to agree with her. Though, in truth, she had rather enjoyed his earlier, more forceful approach. He was not so gentle this time, their teeth clashed, but it all felt perfectly, exquisitely right. The following morning, Cavendish awoke to a scene of utter disarray. The events of the previous night came flooding back, and his face drained of all color. And then, to make matters worse, he raised his head and saw Alicia, perched on the edge of the bed, her legs crossed, chin propped on her hand, watching him with an unsettlingly serene expression. "Is this why you drink?" she inquired, her tone maddeningly sincere. Her cousin, it seemed, had a penchant for the unconventional. She observed him, her gaze lingering on the contours of his body. She could feel herself drawn to him, to the sheer physicality of him. Before Cavendish could even begin to stammer out an apology, she leaned in, bestowing upon him a surprisingly tender kiss. "Are we quite alright, then?" "Breakfast is at ten." It was barely five. "Perhaps a different establishment next time? Their claret is rather astringent." Cavendish was struck by the sheer youthfulness of her, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief, the way she made everything seem so utterly natural, so right. They indulged in each other's company. Mindful of being under Alicia's parents' roof, they were somewhat quieter than usual, but this clandestine air seemed only to heighten her excitement. Cavendish, meanwhile, was doing some serious soul-searching. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd behaved abominably, that he'd been far too forceful. Even though Alicia would smile at him now, a secret, knowing smile, and beckon him to her room with a crook of her finger. Every curve of her body, from her arched brows to her full lips, spoke of a woman well and truly aroused. But a nagging doubt persisted. Was she simply bored? He was, after all, the only man she could be close to at present. Was he to monopolize her affections for the rest of their lives? Theirs was not a union of love, and what she felt for him was likely more akin to habit than genuine affection. If it were someone else, not him, Alicia would still enjoy the physical intimacy and service. He couldn't sleep, having just returned from her chambers. She, finding his usual, methodical approach a tad tedious, had already drifted off. As he left, he cast one last, longing glance at her serene face. He was her husband, meant to be her lifelong companion, not some jealous lover. They were bound together for the rest of their lives. It would be far too dull if only one of them was bored. And so, William Cavendish, ever the pragmatist, began to mentally compile a list. A most interesting list, indeed. The morning after, following a breakfast that could only be described as strained, he did not depart. Alicia watched as her cousin approached her formally, indicating his desire for a private word. One might have thought, given his serious expression, that he was about to ask for her hand in marriage, had they not already been wed these past months. "Here will do," she offered, gesturing to the space beside her with the air of a queen granting an audience. He remained conspicuously silent, a tapestry of complex emotions woven across his features. He stood, making no move to sit, a peculiar stance for a man about to propose such an unconventional arrangement. "If you cannot find love with me," he began, his voice oddly devoid of its usual confident timbre, "you may seek out a lover." This was his opening gambit, if one could call it that. Alicia, still processing this startling declaration, barely registered the small, leather-bound book he presented to her. "I have taken the liberty of curating this list," Cavendish continued, the words seemingly causing him physical pain to utter. Compromise, it appeared, did not agree with him. He paused, gathering himself as one might before a particularly unpleasant dose of medicine. "Their physical attributes are satisfactory, and they are free of any unsavory habits. You may select your paramour from among them." Alicia, having patiently endured this peculiar speech, finally lowered the book she had been perusing—some novel, no doubt. "What? Will," she questioned, using his given name as she rarely did. "What new bee has flown into your bonnet?" she inquired, regarding him with an expression of utter bewilderment. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, so she took the offered book, her eyes widening as she scanned the first few entries. Hair color, eye color, height, daily habits, and even attire were meticulously noted. There were even comments on the state of their teeth. All in all, a veritable catalog of fifty of London's most eligible—and apparently dentally sound—gentlemen, handpicked by her own husband. Alicia considered this with the gravity it deserved. "Lovers?" she finally asked, her voice laced with incredulity. "Am I to... use up all of these? It would take fifty years, at a rate of one per annum." "What?" It was his turn to be bewildered. She tilted her head, a gesture that somehow managed to convey both innocence and a hint of condescension. "Why should I need a lover?" she inquired. "Is this some new fancy of yours, dear cousin? Some peculiar, husbandly whim?" Cavendish stared at her, truly looked at her, perhaps for the first time. Alicia's gaze seemed to say, Having you is trouble enough, why would I want another? "But," he stammered, "nearly every married lady of our station has one." "Mother does not," Alicia pointed out, with the irrefutable logic of a seasoned debater. "Nor did Great-Grandmother, nor your own mother, for that matter." Why her cousin, usually so astute in matters of business and politics, was so dense in matters of the heart was quite beyond her. It was at this moment, Cavendish felt, that something—something fundamental—had been utterly misunderstood from the very beginning. "Am I not your husband?" Alicia rose and gently touched his face, then leaned in to press her forehead against his. Was he feverish? His thoughts seemed addled. "I am yours, and yours alone," he declared, finally grasping the truth of it. He took her hand, placing it over his heart. "Yes," Alicia agreed, her nose brushing against his cheek. "What else could you possibly be?" Cavendish turned his head, a slight smile playing on his lips despite the lingering confusion. All that jealousy, all that uncertainty and inner turmoil, vanished like smoke in the wind. Later that night, nestled in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking, he began to confess. "Alicia," he whispered, "as I said before, I don't particularly enjoy this sort of thing." At this, Alicia raised herself on one elbow, regarding him with an expression of utter disbelief. Cavendish, realizing the sheer absurdity of his statement in light of their recent activities, quickly amended, "I simply wish to hold you, to be near you." He played with a lock of her long hair. "To possess each other, in a way." "That is why I loathe our agreed-upon schedule," he admitted. "We could do nothing at all, simply sleep in each other's arms, and it would be enough. To awaken each morning and see you beside me fills me with such joy." Alicia propped herself up further, her eyes searching his. Cavendish smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile. "Do you know, Alicia? I have been living a lie all this time, and only now do I dare admit it?" "When I learned of our engagement, I took a good, long look at you. And in that instant, I fell hopelessly in love. It happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that I haven't realized it until now." Alicia traced the lines of his face with her fingertips. She suddenly understood the meaning behind her mother's words, "I know." Her cousin, her husband, simply wanted her to know that he loved her. "Alicia, do you recall the night I asked you what I was to you?" Alicia nodded. "You said I was your husband, your cousin, that we had known each other since your birth. Yes, from the moment you were born." Alicia corrected him, "We did not meet then." "I heard of you in letters, saw the portraits that were sent." "And that is what satisfied me, at first. But," he rose, cradling her face in his hands, his eyes searching hers as if seeing her for the first time, "I long to be your lover, your paramour." He shook his head, seemingly embarrassed by the confession. "Damn it all, forgive me," he murmured, pressing his lips together. "Alicia." "I love you, so fiercely, so completely. The mere thought of being with you fills me with an almost unbearable happiness. I cannot imagine a life without you; I would be utterly lost, a solitary wanderer in a desolate land. We are meant to be together, always." He repeated his declarations of love, his vocabulary somewhat limited in this area, his words tumbling over each other in his eagerness to express the depth of his feelings. Alicia silenced him with a kiss. "I know," she whispered against his lips. "And I feel the same." Though the concept of love was still somewhat alien to her, the physical and emotional responses she experienced when he spoke these words, when he touched her, convinced her that her feelings must, in some way, mirror his own. Or, at least, those of her husband. Thereafter, their encounters took on the air of a clandestine affair. He would slip into her room under the cover of darkness, their mornings a hurried parting before the household stirred. When they appeared in public, they did so hand in hand, oblivious to the whispers and the envious glances of other men. The steadfastness of his love, once realized, had rendered him immune to such trivialities. They would be together for an eternity. That was his bedrock, his unwavering conviction. Cavendish added new roles to his repertoire, believing, as he did, that he could be husband, lover, and even manservant, all in one. He would tap on her window with a pebble, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. Alicia would open the window to find her husband standing in the garden below, looking for all the world like a character from some romantic play. He would make a show of stealth, then, with a burst of athleticism, scale the wall, using the stone carvings and the columns as footholds, until he tumbled through her window and into her boudoir. Alicia was, understandably, startled. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed, "This is the third floor! You'll break your neck!" Cavendish placed a finger to his lips, a conspiratorial "Shush," before closing the window and pulling her into a passionate embrace. "There, there, my lady," he murmured, affecting a theatrical air. "Your husband is away." "Have no fear, he'll never suspect a thing," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, his hands already moving with practiced familiarity. "What, pray tell—?" Alicia's head was awhirl. Really, the man was incorrigible. "I am your lover, remember, my lady?" he teased, winking. "Your best lover." "And I have come to steal a moment of your precious time." He lifted her onto the table, kneeling before her to kiss her legs, his hands slowly, deliberately, tracing a path upwards. He was utterly engrossed in his performance, and Alicia, her heart pounding in her chest, found herself believing him, so convincing was his act. And when he dressed and undressed her, he claimed to be her devoted manservant, his fingertips tracing patterns on her skin, his breath a soft caress, expertly stoking the fires of her desire. His repertoire of scenarios was seemingly endless, each more outlandish than the last. "Your husband is just next door," he would whisper, his voice thick with mock concern. "Does he suspect?" Though this newfound sense of adventure and excitement had rekindled the flames of their honeymoon period, Alicia nevertheless felt a growing unease. In a letter to her aunt, she confided, her words heavy with apprehension, "I cannot help but feel that something is amiss with Will." Cavendish, ever attuned to her, reached out and plucked the quill from her hand. "My dearest Lady Alicia," he purred, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "might I be so bold as to request a visit this evening?" He could not help himself. With a laugh, he swept her into his arms, lifting her high and spinning her around. "To continue being your devoted lover, of course."