Chapter 39: Moving House

And so, the marital bliss of the Duke and Duchess commenced, in a fashion quite oblivious to the gossipmongers at White's, who, having finally conceded defeat in their wager, were now forced to find new sources of amusement. The Duke, you see, had won his Duchess's heart, much to the chagrin of certain hopeful gentlemen. Lord Percy, a man whose affections for the Duchess had been rather publicly known, came to offer his formal farewells. Cavendish, now secure in his marital triumph, received him with the magnanimity of a victor. He even confessed to the incident in the garden, a confession that, under ordinary circumstances, would have been quite scandalous. "Lady Alicia," Percy declared, his voice tinged with a wistful melancholy, "I had always believed her to be unaware of her own feelings. But I was forced to concede that her heart belonged to you. She said, you see, that among all the eligible gentlemen, you were the only one she would ever choose." Percy's words, a verbatim account of the Duchess's own, caused Cavendish's eyes to gleam with a triumphant light. He bowed, a gesture of gratitude, and announced his intention to depart for the Peninsula, to serve as aide-de-camp to Viscount Wellington. "Do try to return in one piece, there's a good fellow," Cavendish said, clapping the departing lord on the shoulder. A reconciliation, of sorts, had been achieved. Cavendish found that marriage was not at all what he had anticipated. It required a degree of tolerance and compromise that exceeded any of his previous experiences. Percy, however, offered a parting shot, a revelation that caused Cavendish's brow to furrow with concern. It seemed the garden incident had not been a chance encounter. Someone, it appeared, had deliberately contrived to bring Alicia and him together, a fact that, coupled with the recent whispers and innuendos circulating in London's drawing rooms, gave Cavendish much to ponder. "Thank you," Cavendish said, his mind already racing. Percy opened the door, then paused, turning back. "But I must say, Cavendish, your advantage was merely a matter of fortunate birth. You possess your own fortune, and you are, after all, her relative." He paused, his gaze lingering. "You are a lucky man." Cavendish merely arched an eyebrow. "Indeed, I am well aware. There is no man luckier." He declared this boldly, with a hint of boastfulness. Percy, visibly irked, managed a stiff nod and departed. Cavendish, after a moment's contemplation, followed him out, his gaze sweeping over the familiar sights of the front courtyard – the square, the fountain, the bronze statuary. A faint smile played upon his lips as he stood there, a picture of leisurely contentment. His pack of foxhounds, released for their daily exercise, bounded into the courtyard. One particularly boisterous pup, upon seeing the Duke, leaped towards him with unbridled enthusiasm. Cavendish, attempting to dodge, was not quite quick enough. The hound's paws made contact with his leg. He seized the creature by the scruff of its neck and lifted it into his arms. "You little scoundrel," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He nuzzled the dog, his gloved hand preventing any nips. "Alicia is your mistress," he informed the hound, tapping its nose gently, "and I am your mistress's beloved. Therefore, you must show me respect." "Do you hear me?" he added, with mock severity. "Pippy!" A voice, clear and melodious, cut through the air. Cavendish looked up to see his Duchess standing there, a vision in white, swathed in a shawl the color of a particularly fine Burgundy. She clapped her hands, and the foxhound, wriggling free from Cavendish's grasp, scampered towards her, tail wagging furiously. A smile bloomed on Cavendish's face as he approached his wife. "I encountered Lord Percy on the road just now," Alicia said, stroking the hound's head. "He informed me of his imminent departure for Spain." "Ah," Cavendish acknowledged, making no attempt to conceal the truth. He told her of Percy's visit and the conversation they had, including the mention of the garden. Alicia pondered this for a moment. "So that's why you were crying?" Cavendish shifted, slightly embarrassed. She reached up and kissed him, a swift, spontaneous gesture. He, in turn, became flustered, glancing around to ensure their privacy before bending down to capture her lips in a deeper, more lingering kiss. "I was a fool," he murmured when they finally parted, breathless. "There was never any need for jealousy." He kissed her cheek softly. "Is that what you're like when you're jealous?" Alicia asked, her eyes studying his face. He stopped her. "Don't even think about it. I can become whatever you desire," he murmured, taking her hand and lowering his voice. Just as he always managed to squeeze out a tear or two. "I'm not very good at crying. There are so few occasions for it." William, as a child, had been remarkably beautiful, often dressed by the Duchess of Burlington in frilly, lacy garments, making him resemble a girl. During his time at public school, there had even been boys who attempted to kiss him. The experiences had been so dreadful that he had learned to fight. As an only child, he had been thoroughly spoiled. Any perceived slight was met with immediate retaliation. It was only later that he mastered the art of verbal sparring, a far more civilized form of combat. They became inseparable, finding moments of intimacy whenever and wherever they could. He would pull her into an empty room, or a secluded alcove, and close the door. He would lift her, his hands firm on her waist, and kiss her in a hundred different ways. The grand ducal mansion became their playground, a place for stolen moments of passion. "Why do we do this?" Alicia asked, her cheeks flushed, her voice a breathless whisper. The thrill of avoiding the watchful eyes of her parents and the servants added a frisson of excitement to their encounters. Even in the privacy of their bedchamber, she found herself overcome with a delicious sense of shyness. She would bite his arm, her teeth grazing his skin, the sensation exquisitely clear. They would make love, drenched in sweat, she preferring to be on top. He would blindfold her, and she would take his fingers in her mouth, her tongue soft and warm. The velvet curtains, slightly rough to the touch, would brush against her skin. Her golden hair spread across her pale shoulders, a sight that never failed to captivate him. He tried to kiss her, but she turned away. He was, after all, quite vengeful. "You want to kiss me," he accused, remembering how she had always done this when he asked for a kiss before. Alicia ignored him, her face pressed against the cool glass of the window. He persisted, trying to pry her lips open, but she resisted. He grew impatient. They stared at each other, a silent battle of wills, until she finally relented, a soft laugh escaping her lips. He pulled her into his embrace, grateful for his strength, which allowed him to hold her effortlessly. He recounted the time he had returned from the Duke of Dorset's residence. "The exact same dress," she said, still puzzled. Cavendish explained that the buttons were different. Alicia looked at him, astonished. He clarified that her dress had been splashed and she had changed into a spare. The original dress had been laundered and returned. "I really am a fool, aren't I?" Alicia soothed him, knowing his occasional bouts of foolishness. He, in turn, repaid her with a playful nip at a certain sensitive spot. She blushed, covering her mouth with her hand, biting her knuckle as she turned away. She moved like a sleek, sinuous snake. "I've noticed," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear, "you don't make a sound. My little mute." "That's not true," Alicia protested weakly. He deliberately breathed softly in her ear, a teasing gesture. Alicia pushed his face away, her palm covering his mouth. His tongue flicked out, a tentative touch against her skin. She met his gaze directly. They collapsed together, laughing. They became a fixture at social gatherings, always together, never apart. Cavendish, caressing her hand, whispered in her ear with a chuckle, "We're like a couple engaged in a courtship." The rituals typically reserved for the betrothed were now being enjoyed in the midst of their marriage; they were falling in love. Alicia glanced at him, hooking her little finger with his, a gesture that made his eyes light up with excitement. She had indulged in a bit more wine than usual, for married ladies were not bound by the same restrictions as unmarried girls when it came to alcohol. Excessive drinking was, after all, a common vice among London's aristocracy. Cavendish, concerned, cautioned her, "That wine is rather potent." "It's the same one you had last time," she reminded him. "Ah, yes," he replied, a fond memory of that delightful evening surfacing. Once inside the carriage, Alicia bestowed upon him a sweet, lingering kiss, their mouths infused with the lingering taste of wine. She leaned against him, her body warm and yielding. In the evenings, they would fall asleep in each other's arms. He would wait for her to return from her social engagements, for she had developed a fondness for late nights and a moderate amount of wine. Alicia found that a bit of indulgence made life more interesting. Cavendish now realized how foolish he had been to make her wait for him during his fits of pique. For he now found himself waiting for her, filled with a restless anxiety. In the darkness, they kissed, and she, with a mischievous laugh, pulled him by his cravat into her bedchamber. They stumbled, and he fell onto her small bed. "Will?" she whispered. "Yes?" he replied, gazing at her silhouette, at the way her red velvet dress clung to her curves, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He thought that perhaps waiting for her to come home each night, even if it was to her own home, might not be so bad after all. Alicia reached out, her fingers tracing the lines of his face. The way he looked at her, his eyes half-closed, his lips parted, was utterly captivating. "I want to ride you," she declared, her voice husky and filled with a playful command. She kissed his ear, a series of soft, teasing nips. Cavendish licked his lips, a wide, eager grin spreading across his face. He breathed unsteadily, "Alright, you can ride me." His hand began to roam upwards. Never in his wildest dreams had Cavendish imagined his wife would become like this. Alicia reveled in the experience, in the feel of his smooth, supple skin beneath her fingertips, the strength of his lean waist. She leaned in, studying his dark hair, his striking blue eyes, the elegant line of his nose. He was, she decided, quite beautiful. He blinked, startled by her proximity. Alicia, having had her fill of admiring him, moved away. He, however, was not ready to let her go. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him, using his body as a cushion to protect her head. She sank into his warm, firm embrace. His actions were childishly impulsive, with a hint of possessiveness, brooking no argument. But Alicia did not mind. He knew her preferences, her fondness for his feigned vulnerability, and her enjoyment of his occasional displays of gentle force, like when he would grasp her wrists and hold them above her head. "Licentious," Alicia declared, her gaze lifting to meet his. "And you, my dear, are hardly a model of prudishness," he retorted, his hands already seeking the delightful curves of her form. One could hardly be blamed for wishing to explore such a slippery creature. Alicia reached out, her fingers giving an experimental squeeze to the muscles of his chest. She pressed her face against him, the tip of her nose damp with a delicate perspiration. He held his breath, a most inconvenient reaction. She treated him, it seemed, as one might a particularly diverting plaything, to be toyed with at her leisure. He captured her finger between his lips, a blatant act of enticement, even as her fingertip traced the edge of his teeth with infuriating nonchalance. Their behavior was, to put it mildly, rather unseemly, though they exercised a modicum of restraint. After all, they were, at present, guests within the Duke of Devonshire's estate, the very abode of Alicia's esteemed parents. And yet, such stolen moments had become increasingly frequent, the pair dedicating copious amounts of time to their own private pursuits. For the first time in her life, Alicia found her studies suffering from a severe case of neglect. She now understood, with startling clarity, why her cousin had previously embraced the life of a libertine with such gusto, dedicating himself to the pursuit of pleasure with an almost religious fervor. They were ensconced in the drawing-room, ostensibly engaged in scholarly pursuits. The door, naturally, was firmly closed, and the servants, as was their custom in such instances, had been strategically dismissed. The books, however, remained quite unopened. Alicia, engrossed in her book, had practically melted into the plush depths of the sofa. Cavendish, meanwhile, was engaged in a more tactile form of reading, his fingers tracing restless patterns upon her stocking-clad leg. The sensation, through the fine weave of silk, was not unpleasant, especially with the fire crackling merrily in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room. She glanced at him. The look was one of silent, yet eloquent, reproach. Cavendish, ever a man to acknowledge his baser instincts, had procured the right to press her down onto the sofa and cover her legs with kisses. Alicia observed this development with a certain detached interest. It was at this precise juncture that the door swung open, revealing the Duchess, who announced her intention to drag Alicia off to visit Lady Beaufort that very day. She paused, taking in the scene before her. The two young people, flushed and slightly disheveled, sat up a little straighter, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from their attire. Alicia, maintaining an admirable degree of composure, replied, "Of course, Mama. At eight, Will and I shall be ready." Cavendish, on the other hand, hid his face in his hands, quite convinced his life was over. The Duchess, a knowing smile playing on her lips, quietly closed the door. The atmosphere, if possible, had become even more strained. Alicia, with a pointed flick of her foot, sent his shoe skittering across the floor. He retrieved it and, with a sigh, assisted her in putting it back on. Although Devonshire estate was vast enough to ensure that, no matter what they did, they would be undisturbed, the newlyweds found it inconvenient. After some discussion, it was decided: they would remove to Park Lane. Cavendish had a perfectly respectable townhouse there, a property entirely his own. A love nest, as it were, free from the well-meaning but ever-present scrutiny of their respective parents. The matter was broached at dinner. The Duchess seemed unsurprised, as if she had anticipated this development. The Duke, however, despite his impeccable manners, allowed a slight frown to crease his brow. His gaze lingered on his son-in-law and nephew, this man who had so swiftly supplanted him in his daughter's affections. Cavendish caught Alicia's eye across the table. They exchanged a smile, a silent pact sealed between them. Park Lane, situated in the fashionable district of Mayfair, bordered Hyde Park, offering breathtaking views of its verdant expanse. It was a street renowned for its opulent residences. This particular townhouse had been Cavendish's abode since he came of age, a legacy from his maternal grandfather. Later, he moved to the prestigious Albany in St. James's, a set of chambers reserved exclusively for bachelor gentlemen of refined taste. The Park Lane house, therefore, was rather masculine in its décor. Yes, some redecoration was certainly in order. Before the wedding, it had been agreed that Alicia would continue to reside with her parents. He had been too occupied with the renovations of their honeymoon villa to make any alterations. Compared to the hardwood tables, those edges would have to be padded. For he was rather fond of perching her upon them. It saved him the trouble of bending down to kiss her, after all. "Our relationship is quite splendid, you know. So splendid, in fact, that we've moved out," William Cavendish announced, with an air of smug satisfaction, to the habitués of his club, an establishment he had been frequenting less and less of late, owing to his preoccupation with his wife. Since his return to London, he had made every effort to demonstrate that, yes, they were indeed a most loving couple. And now, it seemed, his efforts had finally borne fruit.