Chapter 42. Finis

"I love you," had become Cavendish's customary salutation, a phrase as commonplace to him as a "good morrow." Alicia, roused from slumber by his attentions – a kiss to her cheek, a caress of her neck – barely stirred. His hand, the palm lightly calloused, found hers. Alicia, one eye momentarily open, merely blinked, presenting him with her back as she burrowed deeper into the pillows. She had, it seemed, developed a positive fondness for indolence, while he, quite remarkably, had adopted her pre-marital habit of early rising. A most curious reversal. Cavendish, with a chuckle that rumbled against her spine, simply climbed further into the bed, pulling her close. Alicia, eyes still resolutely shut, felt the warmth of him, the gentle puff of his breath against the curve of her neck. His lips, naturally, sought the pulse fluttering there. A warm, persistent pressure. Two months had passed, and he showed no signs of tiring of her. If anything, his devotion had intensified, a daily crescendo of affection. He did not hear the reciprocal "I love you," yet he understood that Alicia was not to be judged by conventional standards. She would not say it; she simply, and with admirable honesty, accepted it. He had grown accustomed to their particular rhythm. His hand, that same hand that had so expertly… assisted her… earlier, now drifted to her waist. He nestled against her, and promptly drifted back to sleep. Alicia, however, found herself quite awake. She opened her eyes, remaining still, observing his neatly trimmed left hand. The hand that could, with such dexterity, coax pleasure from her. He was, in all things, remarkably adept. He preferred holding her hand, it appeared – despite his obvious enjoyment of their nocturnal activities – to the activities themselves. He was, as he had confessed, rather partial to a good cuddle. They rose, eventually, at the shockingly late hour of ten, to partake of breakfast. Cavendish privately considered that the month-long honeymoon he'd been deprived of had been more than adequately compensated for since their return to London. He knelt before her, a supplicant at the altar of hosiery, to assist her with her stockings and shoes. Alicia gazed down at him. It was thus, last night, that he had unfastened her garter, with his teeth. His gaze, throughout the entire proceeding, had been unwavering, almost… adhesive. Those full, rosy lips, now wrapped around the powder-blue ribbon of her garter. The same shade of blue as his eyes. "Lost in thought, my dear?" she murmured, lifting his chin. He rose to meet her, allowing her to bestow a perfectly calculated kiss upon his lips. His hair, mussed by her fingers, framed eyes that sparkled with a now-familiar light. He, normally so meticulous about his attire, permitted her to tug at his cravat with an almost reckless abandon. Just as, in the darkness, she had led him, step by deliberate step, into the bedchamber. Cavendish lowered his lashes, his breathing growing pleasingly erratic, and a flurry of soft, scattered kisses rained down upon her. In social settings, he was the very picture of attentive devotion, a veritable shadow glued to her side. Evenings, when not engaged in the ton's endless whirl of social calls, were spent domestically, and quite predictably. Cavendish would invariably recline, his head nestled upon her knee, his gaze never straying from her face. A limpet, one might have thought, had he been less aesthetically pleasing. Alicia, in those fleeting moments stolen from her reading, would absently ruffle his hair, a gesture of almost negligent affection. This, naturally, would elicit a slow, satisfied curl of his lips. She would then be obliged to extract her fingers from his mouth, where he seemed intent on keeping them. "Do, I implore you, cultivate a fondness for puppies," his mournful eyes seemed to plead. He was, in truth, remarkably puppy-like. However, should she initiate any display of physical intimacy, a transformation occurred. He would rise, a predator in drawing-room attire, pinning her to the sofa with a triumphant air, her wrists captured, rendering her quite immobile. "Alicia," he'd murmur, his voice a low rumble, his eyes alight with a peculiar anticipation. He craved her struggles, her displeasure, the fleeting fire of her temper. Alicia, however, reserved her genuine ire for more significant transgressions: the crushing of her hair, perhaps, or, heaven forbid, the dog-earing of a beloved book. The faintest furrow of her brow, a subtle tightening of her lips, was enough to send him into raptures of expectation. Cavendish, fortified by liquid courage after a particularly tedious dinner party, was even more audacious than usual. Returning from an evening of insufferable politeness, he'd cornered her, not upon the sofa this time, but upon the very bed itself, pressing her down, a delightful weight, a thrilling restraint. "Six gentlemen," he announced, his voice thick with a manufactured grievance, "engaged you in conversation. I found it…displeasing." Alicia tilted her head, a picture of polite bewilderment. The etiquette of such gatherings, after all, dictated conversation with one's dinner partners, and the post-prandial tea was a veritable hotbed of polite discourse. His complaint was, to put it mildly, preposterous. "You must consider my feelings, Alicia," he insisted, seemingly aware of the flimsiness of his justification. "Perhaps…engage in extended discourse with me." More utter nonsense. Given his constant presence, Alicia found herself rather more inclined to converse with anyone but him. He had, of late, become increasingly unrestrained, emboldened by his perception of Alicia's…unusual tolerance. Her patience, it seemed, was a vast and unexplored territory, and he, being of a naturally deplorable character, was determined to chart its every boundary. "Release me," she commanded, her voice even and devoid of inflection. Cavendish, with a surprising display of obedience, complied. Yet, in a manner entirely characteristic of him, he managed to simultaneously press her further into the mattress, a subtle assertion of his…well, whatever it was he was asserting. "Promise me." Her smiles, so freely bestowed upon others, were a rare and precious commodity when directed at him. Her occasional displays of weariness, however fleeting, were a source of perverse fascination. He'd sat there, across the gleaming expanse of the mahogany table, nursing his resentment and a succession of brandies. Pippin, their ill-mannered terrier, was prone to indiscriminate gnawing, a habit that had, in his youth, extended to human flesh. Alicia's corrective measure was a swift, decisive slap, a technique that proved remarkably effective. And so, inspired by canine precedent, she delivered one. Cavendish, hand to his cheek, appeared momentarily stunned, a flicker of lucidity in his usually besotted gaze. Then, he seized her hand. Alicia, suddenly apprehensive that she might have misjudged the force of her blow, tentatively reached out, her fingers curled in a hesitant caress. "Did I…hurt you?" The question was halfway formed when he interrupted. "Again," he breathed, nuzzling her hand with a relish that was frankly unsettling. The following day, he cleared his throat, a theatrical prelude to some undoubtedly significant pronouncement. "I...?" He began, then seemed to falter. A product of those esteemed, yet undeniably brutal, boarding schools – ten long years of rigorous discipline. It was a well-known fact that a certain subset of the student body developed…unconventional tastes, shaped by the frequent application of the birch to tender posteriors. He, therefore, felt compelled to clarify, by implication rather than direct statement, his deviation from such a norm. Yet, Alicia's slap had pleased him. Immensely. The sight of her astride her mare, the crack of the riding crop against the animal's flank, stirred within him a similar, inexplicable thrill. A tremor of anticipation, a yearning to be…similarly governed. Alicia surveyed him, her brow furrowed, not with confusion, but with a dawning comprehension. It was, she surmised, a simple matter of novelty. Her cousin, accustomed to the fawning adoration of society, was unaccustomed to such…casual chastisement. He craved the unfamiliar sting. She had been overly accommodating, truly. So when he'd made his peculiar request the previous evening, she'd, with a mild degree of perplexity, administered another. He was inordinately fond of the gilded mirror that graced her bedchamber. He preferred, during their more intimate moments, to observe not her directly, but their reflections entwined. This predilection had evolved, as such things often did, into a ritual of disrobing. He would unfasten her gown, his fingers tracing the contours of her form. And then, the turn towards the silvered glass. They would face the mirror, his fingertips gliding down from the delicate curve of her neck. A shiver of sensation, a novel thrill, his head bent low, her gaze fixed upon his every movement, reflected, doubled, intensified. Her outer gown pooled upon the floor, the stays of her bodice sculpting her figure. The delicate lace of her chemise, the silk of her stockings. He was impeccably attired in dark evening dress, the subtle gradations of black and charcoal somehow managing to both accentuate and diminish his presence simultaneously. With a deliberate slowness that spoke volumes, his fingers worked at the fastenings of her bodice. Alicia curled her toes as his lips traced a path along her neck. A rather delicious sensation, she decided. Her golden hair cascaded down her back, a silken waterfall against skin newly bared as, garment by garment, she was rendered as innocent as the day she was born. He held her waist, his gaze… appreciative. For the first time, Alicia truly observed the tableau they presented: him, thus; her, thusly. She leaned into his embrace, finding it remarkably… comfortable. A blush warmed her cheeks, and she burrowed her face into the crook of his arm. A most unexpected reaction, really. She had discovered, to her own mild surprise, that she rather enjoyed sleeping nestled against him. The simple, profound contact of skin against skin, unimpeded by the constraints of polite society (or, indeed, any fabric whatsoever). The steady thump-thump of his heart against her ear was… reassuring. Alicia peeked up at him, catching him in a state of feigned slumber. "You're not asleep," she declared, with the unassailable logic of a woman who knows. His lips curved into a smile. How could he possibly sleep, with her so delightfully… present? … Perhaps it was the encroaching chill of autumn, but Alicia had grown quite accustomed to the furnace-like warmth of Cavendish's embrace. She found herself, quite uncharacteristically, detaining him when he made motions to depart. "It's hardly proper," he murmured, employing her own oft-repeated phrase against her with a mischievous glint in his eye. Alicia, with a sigh of contentment, closed her eyes and extracted her ankle from his grasp. He spent the remainder of the night in a state of restless regret, before finally, inevitably, crawling back into bed. "Until morning," he conceded, upon receiving her tacit permission. Gazing at the way her hair fanned across her back, Cavendish was struck by the sheer unreality of it all. He reveled in the warmth, the closeness. Alicia's outings had become less frequent of late, a fact that caused Cavendish a degree of… concern. He could, of course, gauge her physical responses – the wanting and the not-wanting. Their shared slumbers were, to put it mildly, satisfying. "Why are you engaged in… needlework?" he inquired, reaching out to touch her forehead, half-expecting to find a fever. She detested the activity, did she not? He had, in the past, teased her mercilessly on the subject. He'd declared he'd never known his cousin to finish a single handkerchief, let alone an entire gown. Such an endeavor, he'd proclaimed, would likely require the next life to complete. Considering his previous pronouncements, which could charitably be described as "utter drivel," Cavendish marveled at Alicia's enduring tolerance. Truly, it was remarkable. Later, Alicia, with her customary lack of fanfare, presented him with a shirt. He accepted it, a perplexed expression on his face. Had he mislaid it? She maintained her usual composed demeanor, her face a mask of serene indifference. A stark contrast to her… nocturnal vivacity. She merely watched him. "I made it. For you." Cavendish, who had been casually shaking out the shirt, froze. "What?" Alicia pointed to the delicate embroidery near the collar: his initials. W.G.C. William George Cavendish. And, of course, his beloved middle name, "Augustus." Alicia admitted, with refreshing candor, that she had observed the maid construct the basic garment, and then merely… embellished it. He held the soft linen shirt, blinking rapidly. His wish, his complaint from their wedding night, she'd remembered. Even though Alicia appeared utterly unfazed, chin propped on her hand, as if this were a matter of no consequence. The realization of his own delight, his profound affection, struck Cavendish with the force of a physical blow. Before he could articulate the sentiment, however, he had her pinned in a corner, showering her with kisses. Alicia, with a gentle push to his face, attempted to restrain his… enthusiasm. He was, he realized with a pang of insecurity, terrified of her growing weary of him. Clutching the shirt, he grinned. He would be content, he thought, forever. "To be loved thusly, she loves me!" Cavendish desperately wanted to proclaim to the world, My wife made me a shirt! The significance! A shirt, the most intimate, most personal of garments, traditionally presented by a betrothed lady to her intended. And if one were to inquire why such a token was only now being exchanged, after the wedding? Well, that was simply because their courtship was unconventional, unlike any other. The days in London flew by, a whirlwind of activity that somehow still managed to feel… monotonous. The annual highlights, apart from the spring Season with its endless balls and dinners – a veritable parade of eligible young ladies and gentlemen – was the autumn hunting season. A grand affair, held at various country estates, culminating in the exhilarating pursuit of the fox, followed by celebratory feasts and (weather permitting) camping. Both Cavendish and Alicia relished these pursuits. The ever-critical Cavendish had never, not once, questioned his cousin's hunting prowess or horsemanship. As agreed, the hunting season would be spent at the Marquis of Salisbury's estate for a fortnight, followed by a return to Chatsworth, the Cavendish family seat in Derbyshire. A pleasant little journey, punctuated by carefully orchestrated social calls. November would see them in Bath, taking the waters, before returning to London in time for Christmas and the start of the parliamentary session. A new year, a new cycle. He accompanied Alicia to select new riding habits, and, of course, the requisite day and evening gowns for their various visits. He took an inordinate pleasure in providing for his wife, mentally calculating her measurements. She had grown a little taller, he noted, her shoulders more… womanly. A surge of protectiveness, of pride, welled up within him. This year, a considerable amount of luggage would be required. Both families would be in attendance; it was, after all, the only respectable time for hunting. With the Continent still embroiled in war, one was dreadfully limited in one's diversions. Cavendish, while packing Alicia's belongings, unearthed a yellowed, sealed letter. He was, by now, quite accustomed to these occasional missives – the remnants of past… admirers. He picked it up without a second thought. Alicia glanced at it. "You may open it." Her recent return to her studies, after a period of… distraction, had left her invigorated, more capable in her pursuits. Cavendish made a dismissive sound. Alicia's indifference both pleased and, paradoxically, pained him. He retrieved a letter opener and sliced it open. "'My Dearest Angel'?" he began, his voice dripping with sarcastic inflection. Alicia paused, seemingly trying to recall the sender. Cavendish continued reading, his internal temperature rising with each saccharine phrase, each self-important declaration of undying love. Who was this imbecile? He glanced at the signature, and his jaw dropped. "Your dearest, Will." "What?" Surely he hadn't written this… treacle? Alicia approached, peered at the letter, and furrowed her brow in concentration. "It's from Cousin Caroline," she deduced. "William Lamb!" Cavendish exclaimed, recognition dawning. They stared at each other, a mixture of amusement and disbelief on their faces. Their old love letters. A relic of a past… best left buried, perhaps. Or, perhaps, a source of endless amusement.