Chapter 46. A Most Singular Understanding

The hunting party was in full swing, and not merely for foxes. Some gentlemen, with rifles in hand, were intent on bringing down birds, aiming skyward with practiced ease. Pheasants and grouse, roused from the moors, provided ample sport. The nearby woods, thick with the birds preparing to roost for the evening, offered a particularly splendid opportunity for the hunt – the long-tailed cocks a magnificent sight as they took flight, only to be brought down by a well-aimed shot. Everyone returned in high spirits, for such was the joy of the hunting season, a fleeting few months to be savored to the fullest. Alicia, naturally, had distinguished herself, earning the moniker "Diana," a veritable huntress with her bow and arrow. She surveyed her considerable pile of game with a blithe air, leaving the skinning to the servants. William Cavendish watched her, his eyebrow arched in that familiar way, her vivacity a constant source of amusement – and, if he were honest, a touch of awe. It seemed their married life had changed little, at least in spirit. She remained as free and untroubled as ever. He showered her with compliments, each more elaborate than the last. She merely glanced at him, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. He understood immediately, finding a secluded corner and offering a mock bow of submission. She rewarded him with a brief, fleeting kiss. William Cavendish, however, wore a smile of utter contentment. No one, absolutely no one, could comprehend the depths of his happiness. She had begun to refer to him as "my husband" in her letters, a subtle shift in address that had not gone unnoticed. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, listening to the chatter of the other guests, exchanging pleasantries. Alicia slipped her arm through his, their fingers interlacing. He was, quite thoroughly, woven into the fabric of her life. The pheasants, it turned out, were delicious. The rooks, surprisingly, made for a remarkably savory pie. The day's bounty contributed to the evening's feast. Lady Salisbury, ever the gracious hostess, rose to offer a toast, tapping her glass with a delicate clink, bestowing blessings upon the newly married couple. In a manner of speaking, the entire hunting party had been orchestrated in their honor. The festivities, one gathered, were far from over, extending for several days. Lady Salisbury's hunting gatherings were renowned for their impeccable quality, each activity executed with a certain panache. It was, therefore, a highly coveted invitation amongst the nobility. Even the Prince Regent, despite his increasing fondness for wine and his rather expanded girth, which made riding less appealing these days, was in attendance, ensconced in his carriage with his mistress, the Marchioness of Hertford. He was quite besotted with the lady, it was said, having first pursued her some twenty years prior, only to be rejected. Now, fate, in its peculiar way, had brought them together. Lady Hertford, a woman in her fifties, possessed a certain amplitude of figure, though in her youth she had been considered a striking beauty. A staunch Tory, she exerted considerable influence over the Prince Regent. Alicia, owing to her family's connections, was no stranger to the royal circle. Her grandfather and father had both served as Lord Chamberlain, though the old Duke had rather unceremoniously resigned his post after a disagreement with King George III. (The King, you see, had allied himself with the Tories to suppress the Whigs, particularly after the emergence of that upstart, William Pitt the Younger. The Duke of Devonshire, a self-proclaimed "Prince of the Whigs," had always been a leading figure.) The Prince Regent, when still Prince of Wales, had befriended the Whigs in opposition to his father. However, upon assuming power with the Regency Act the previous year, he had rather betrayed his earlier promises of reform and Whig appointments, shifting his allegiance to the Tories for political leverage. The former Prime Minister, Perceval, after a lengthy power struggle, had solidified the Tory position, refusing to cede authority to the Prince Regent. Sadly, he'd been assassinated in May, and after more political machinations, the Tories remained in power, with the more moderate Lord Liverpool now at the helm. The Prince Regent, amidst this turbulent landscape, was attempting to reclaim the royal authority that had been steadily eroding for decades. It was within this intricate dance of power that Alicia's potential peerage had been so conveniently raised. The Whigs, after their perceived betrayal last year, had shifted their support to the current heir presumptive, Princess Charlotte of Wales. However, the Princess was but sixteen years of age, and her parents' relationship was notoriously strained. The Prince Regent and his estranged wife had only cohabited briefly after their marriage, producing no further heirs. Her beloved grandfather, George III, having succumbed to madness, the poor Princess Charlotte found herself under her father's watchful eye, practically a prisoner. Alicia, from a young age, had been acquainted with her, appointed as a companion by her parents. Older by a year, Alicia was known for her sharp mind and unusual composure, qualities the Princess deeply admired. In her isolation within the palace, Princess Charlotte had received considerable support from the Cavendish family. She was the sole, undisputed heir, and particularly with the Prince Regent's declining health and increasingly erratic behavior, which had severely damaged the royal reputation, she was adored by the British public. Political struggles, of course, always required a keen eye for alliances and maintaining influence within one's party, garnering support and followers. Thus far, generation after generation had performed admirably. Otherwise, the Earl of Devonshire during the Glorious Revolution would not have so boldly signed the letter inviting William of Orange, earning himself a dukedom and considerable power. The Prince Regent was less than pleased about his former Whig allies supporting his daughter. However, given the potential benefits, he was compelled to instruct his Lord Chancellor and bishops to support the matter in the House of Lords. After all, he needed the balance between the two parties, and the Whigs in the Commons to propose measures favorable to him – such as funding for the renovation of Regent Street. Anything related to pleasure, he wholeheartedly endorsed. The agreement, therefore, was tacitly understood. Parliament was not officially scheduled to convene until February, but by December, members were already returning to London to discuss various proposals. William Cavendish, with a playful glint in his eye, had taken to calling her "Lady Clifford." "What shall I do, Alicia? You'll have a title, and I shall have nothing," he teased, batting his eyelashes. Alas, a man could not inherit a title through his wife. The evening's conversations, inevitably, involved a considerable amount of wine. William exuded a heady aroma of Bordeaux. He glanced at her sideways, attempting to rest his head on her shoulder in a decidedly inebriated manner. Such drinking and gambling parties were known to continue until the wee hours of the morning. He, however, had made an early escape. After the necessary social obligations, Alicia exchanged cheek kisses with Lady Salisbury and prepared for bed. As the clock in the hallway chimed twelve, Cavendish covered her ears. "Do you recall New Year's? After our engagement?" The bells had rung, and they had shared a polite kiss. He remembered the precise pressure of her lips on his. "And Vauxhall Gardens," he continued, his voice thick with memory. The pleasure gardens on the south bank of the Thames, illuminated by thousands of lamps, with orchestras, open-air dances, fireworks, water shows, and parading carriages. "When you wore that mask. I stole a kiss, even through the fabric. The one with the peacock feathers." He rambled on, his words a torrent of affectionate recollections. He had enjoyed teasing her then, taking a perverse pleasure in doing precisely what Alicia wished him not to do, a habit formed over their many years of acquaintance. He chuckled softly, his breath warm against her cheek. He had meticulously cataloged every touch, every fleeting moment of contact, replaying them in his mind like a treasured collection. Alicia cradled his face, considering. Then, rising on her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and captured his rambling lips in a kiss. He stilled, momentarily stunned, before embracing her tightly, the two of them stumbling into the shadows of the hallway for a more thorough exploration of the matter. Lady Salisbury, it must be said, possessed a keen understanding of the needs of newlyweds. She had thoughtfully assigned them a secluded guest room, separated by a long corridor, ensuring privacy and quiet. They did not, however, immediately retire. Instead, hand in hand, they danced in the darkened hallway, a waltz performed in hushed whispers and suppressed giggles, moving from one end to the other, facing each other, turning in graceful circles. Cavendish hummed a waltz he'd heard during his travels on the Continent, keeping time with a gentle tap of his foot. Her skirt brushed against his boots as they laughed, their voices a melodious counterpoint to his humming. They lingered for a while longer in the hallway, exchanging quiet words and a final goodnight kiss. After washing up, he found his way to her room. "You must have been thinking of me," Alicia said, setting aside her book. Her face was illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Cavendish approached, nuzzling her cheek. Their faces were close, and he always noticed the fine, downy hair on her skin, a testament to her youth. She embraced his neck, studying him intently, then shifted to make room for him on the bed. He grinned and joined her. William Cavendish had finally achieved his long-held ambition of sneaking into her bed. She had always, he realized, reserved a place for him, at least in her heart. He was, at times, insatiably demanding, and at others, easily satisfied. They did nothing more than hold each other, falling asleep in a comfortable embrace. The hunting party, perhaps, had stirred up a multitude of shared memories. Alicia nestled against him, and he idly played with her hair, while her fingers traced the gathers of his shirt. They looked at each other, smiles curving their lips. "I shall slip away before dawn," he whispered, kissing her forehead. "Goodnight." It was, after all, still somewhat inconvenient to be discovered in such a compromising position while guests in another's home, even for a formally married couple. Alicia nodded, her eyes heavy with sleep. He could sense her growing affection for him. Just as during the hunt, she had deliberately slowed her horse, turning back to wait for him to catch up, only to spur her horse forward again once he drew near, a playful game they both seemed to enjoy. The following day continued with the hunting, though focused primarily on grouse, venturing higher onto the moors. The two dismounted, guns in hand, tracking their quarry. Grouse meat was considered a particular delicacy, and a bonfire was planned for the evening, a rustic encampment. The Duke and Duchess of Devonshire observed, with quiet satisfaction, the seamless harmony that had developed between the two. Cavendish, frowning slightly, picked up a fallen grouse, carefully removing stray bits of grass and feathers, and Alicia, looking up at him, broke into a radiant smile. At the very least, they appeared happy, dispelling any lingering doubts. In the two months since their wedding, the newlyweds had clearly adapted to each other's company. William Cavendish led the way, holding his wife's hand, his stride long and confident. He lifted her onto her horse, standing unabashedly close, waiting for her to leap into his arms. Their rapport was remarkably intimate, especially by the standards of aristocratic marriages. Fortunately, neither of them seemed overly concerned with the opinions of others. The hunt continued throughout the day, concluding with a lively bonfire where guests roasted the freshly prepared grouse, along with other game birds and rabbits, and even fish caught in a nearby stream. The Marquis's son, Lord Cranborne, and a group of his young friends, had managed to capture a wild boar, which, after being brushed with honey and sprinkled with spices, roasted to a tantalizing perfection. William Cavendish, usually a notorious bon vivant, had contributed nothing to the hunt, his attention entirely consumed by his wife. He idly twirled a slender stick, absentmindedly flicking at the surrounding weeds. Alicia, her skirt hitched up for practicality, was searching for rook nests. Having located one, she, as usual, directed him to retrieve the contents. He insisted on a few words of praise, though a mere verbal acknowledgement sufficed, before effortlessly scaling the tree. He returned, triumphant, with a bountiful harvest. She no longer questioned whether he had "nothing better to do." Because Alicia was gradually realizing that she was, in fact, his "something to do." While the concept seemed somewhat improbable to her, she found herself thoroughly enjoying their interactions. She felt as though they were continuing their month-long honeymoon, extending it, as many newlyweds did, to a full three months. Everything was proceeding with astonishing smoothness, without a single significant disagreement. Perhaps the preceding decade had exhausted their capacity for arguments. He carved the meat for her, holding the platter, knife and fork in hand. Alicia pointed out that she had perfectly capable hands of her own, though she graciously accepted a piece he offered, leaning forward to receive it. "Please, Alicia, allow me this pleasure," he said, his manner entirely familiar, caring for her having become second nature. Cavendish reveled in every opportunity for happiness. Bottles of fine wine were uncorked, and as spirits rose, a Duke, moved by the festive atmosphere, began to dance a Scottish jig. The accompanying musicians, readily available, struck up a lively tune on the bagpipes, and those seated around the fire clapped along in time. Some of the Scottish nobles joined in the dance. Alicia, her cheeks flushed, rested her chin on her hand, watching with amusement. Then, rising to her feet, she began to kick and twirl, executing the steps with practiced grace. Cavendish joined her, and they held hands, spinning in circles. Country dances often incorporated Scottish elements, and though he was not Scottish himself, his years in Edinburgh had exposed him to their traditional celebrations. He was a quick learner, though perhaps a touch clumsy, as they faced each other, holding hands, their eyes locked as they turned. Amidst cheers and laughter, he pulled Alicia close, whirling her around and around, exchanging places with other dancers, only to swiftly return and scoop her back into his arms. He felt, in that moment, like the luckiest fellow in the entire world. The night was spent in tents, a gentle breeze stirring the canvas. He slipped inside, embracing her from behind. Alicia covered his hand with her own, his chin resting on the top of her head. The revelry continued outside, but the November night was too cold to remain outdoors for long. They would, inevitably, have to return to the house. For now, however, they had their own private sanctuary. His breath was warm on her neck, his embrace equally so. Alicia turned, burying her face in his chest. They no longer needed physical intimacy to prove anything, yet they relished the feeling of bare skin against bare skin. Cavendish stroked her hand, his other hand playing with her hair, his fingers tracing the smooth line of her forehead. He was always engaged in some small, affectionate gesture. Alicia remained silent, her eyes downcast. "I don't know what to say, Alicia, but I was thinking today how incredibly fortunate I am." His lips brushed her neck, sensing the pulse beating there. Alicia looked at him. He sometimes revealed a vulnerable, melancholic side to her, and she could always hear his heartbeat, much stronger and more vibrant than before their marriage. He was no longer simply a roguish, carefree wastrel, though he often pondered various matters, he brought her new and profound sensations. Such as an overflowing abundance of love. She wondered about its origins. Was it their shared bloodline, or their decade-long acquaintance? Everything, truly, was quite inexplicable. "I was very happy today," Alicia responded. He patiently indulged her, orbiting around her, just as he had in the past. Only now, the impatient frown of his youth had been replaced by a barely suppressed smile. "You've changed so much," she observed. Cavendish blushed slightly. His previous behavior as a cousin had been, by most standards, impeccable, yet he still felt he had treated her rather poorly at times. Just as he was about to inquire about her assessment of his present self, she closed her eyes and fell asleep in his arms. She was, understandably, exhausted from the day's activities. He gazed at her peaceful face, a helpless smile playing on his lips. On the carriage ride back, she was roused from sleep, leaning against him languidly, her hood covering half her face. He accompanied her, and Alicia, managing to regain some semblance of alertness, tidied herself up. They had slept together again, another night. She instinctively clutched his arm. Another day dawned. Activities they had experienced before took on a new dimension after their marriage. Beyond the hunt, other diversions were interspersed. Some guests continued with the hunt, while they, having had their fill of riding, joined a group of young people on the lawn for a game of cricket. They teamed up, making up for the time he had been late for their cricket date. "I wasn't forgetful, I was merely ten minutes late!" he protested, followed by a bout of playful banter. The match reached a crucial point, a decisive moment. Cavendish, with a powerful swing, sent the tossed ball soaring. Their opponents scrambled to retrieve it. Alicia sprinted between the wickets, reaching out to touch them. "Run, run, run!" "We've won!" Disregarding the gazes of their teammates, he swept her up in a joyous embrace. Alicia laughed, nestled in his arms. "You are happy." "Yes, I am very happy." The others had clearly grasped the situation: their relationship was so close-knit that there was no room for anyone else. Taking advantage of a quiet moment, they lay on the grass, basking in the sun. Alicia idly plucked wildflowers, weaving them into a garland, which he occasionally helped her with. The finished creation was placed on his head, framing his dark-lashed eyes. Cavendish, propped up on one elbow, suddenly tugged at her, pulling her down for a passionate kiss, lingering on her lips and cheeks. Amidst the sheltering tall grass, the kisses continued, repeated and fervent. Alicia pushed him away, only to embrace him again, pressing closer, and he held her waist, deepening the kiss. In short, after this hunting season, their feelings for each other had intensified considerably. Evenings were filled with ongoing feasts and dances, occupying a significant portion of their time. They danced several times, heedless of the watching eyes, as it was not the social season, designed for matchmaking among unmarried young people. One lady remarked, "Their intimacy is quite unbecoming." All decorum seemed to have been abandoned. The Duchess, upon overhearing this, merely lifted her chin, a display of haughty disdain. Her own marriage was notoriously unhappy, her husband having taken several mistresses, openly flaunting them to her humiliation. The lady's sweeping gaze spoke volumes. The offending lady, suitably chastised, fell silent, thinking that the Cavendish family truly were insufferably arrogant. The Duchess, a faint smile playing on her lips, exchanged a knowing glance with Lady Diana. Both sets of parents, with a tacit understanding, provided ample space for the couple. Things were progressing in a positive direction. "Shall we slip away?" Cavendish suggested. They held hands, retreating from the bustling ballroom. Donning cloaks, they quietly led their horses from the stables, saddling them and riding out into the night, venturing towards the open moors. "Dismount," she said, her trust in him unwavering. She jumped down, and he caught her securely, refusing, for a moment, to release her. He led her on a run beneath the starlit sky. The naked eye could discern far fewer stars than a telescope, yet she identified numerous constellations. "They remain unchanged for decades," Alicia observed. "Will we be like that?" he asked, stopping and beckoning her with a wave of his hand as she walked away, only to run and rejoin her. Alicia pondered for a moment. "Yes, I believe so," she replied, clutching her cashmere Persian shawl, her gaze fixed on the ground. "Yes. We will," he affirmed, walking slowly alongside her, his long legs easily matching her pace. If there were to be any change, it could only be for the better. Another day brought a polo match, a novel sport introduced from the Ottoman Empire by fashionable young men. Cavendish, having traveled there with a diplomatic mission, had been among the first to popularize it in England. He was, undeniably, a skilled athlete, and polo had swiftly gained popularity over the past five or six years. However, it was often difficult to play on smaller grounds. Alicia, shaded by a parasol, watched from the sidelines, chatting with the other ladies and young women. At the Marquis of Salisbury's estate, guests departed daily, only to be replaced by a fresh influx, a constant stream of visitors. The couple's harmonious relationship, combined with their status as trendsetters, coincided with the growing influence of middle-class values, emphasizing the importance of family virtues. While the aristocracy largely adhered to the profligate and hedonistic customs of the previous century, the sight of the couple's genuine affection, the man's beaming smile and demeanor so utterly different from his usual self, unexpectedly touched those around them. In a world of artifice, true emotion was a rare and precious commodity, stirring a faint longing. Even if such displays were considered indecorous, violating the unspoken understanding that marriage was merely a familial contract, and irrational notions like love had no place within it, for those of sufficient status and influence, such deviations were permissible. At the very least, they respected, even loved, each other. Some ladies inquired of Alicia how she had managed to "tame" her husband, given his reputation as a headstrong and arrogant individual. Alicia considered the question seriously. Finally, she replied, "I do not know." It was the truth. She remembered her cousin's perpetually sullen expression after their engagement, his gaze fixed upon her, only to shift away when she looked back. Now, he would hold her gaze, unwavering, even after she turned away, a silent, subtle contest between them, until he inevitably burst into laughter. He required no techniques or strategies; he had simply, willingly, transformed himself. William Cavendish, effortlessly maneuvering on the polo field, always seemed to master everything with ease, yet before Alicia, he relinquished all control, placing it entirely in her hands. During the intermission, he smiled at her from atop his horse. His flirtation was unabashed. Alicia, outwardly composed, felt a blush rising on her ears. While guests in another's home, certain actions were restricted, but he could still caress and kiss her body, and she responded in kind. They craved physical contact, drawn together irresistibly. Alicia was infected by this, much like Cavendish had been initially, she found herself undeniably drawn to his touch and warmth. He complained, "When can we return home?" His breath grew heavier, and Alicia, buried amongst a pile of clothes, raised her head to kiss him, stifling any sounds. Amidst the thrilling competition and matches, William Cavendish moved with agility and skill, expertly maneuvering the ball. Finally, he secured victory. With a flourish, he placed the victor's laurel wreath upon Alicia's head. The blonde beauty, crowned with the leaves of victory, looking down from the platform, was a radiant sight. The assembled crowd cheered, including the residents and tenants of the Salisbury estate who had come to watch. The Prince Regent proposed her, and everyone unanimously agreed to crown her "Queen of Beauty". This form of polo, in Hertfordshire, became a championship, and this title and honor were formalized, to be bestowed every few years upon visiting ladies. Alicia, as an undeniably beautiful woman, held the title for several consecutive terms. Cavendish, from a young swain to an older man, sat in the audience watching, but these were all events of the future. When they were alone, he clasped her waist, kissing her. Cavendish murmured affectionately, using a nickname known only to them. She was his "Diana," the most sacred and inviolable, a goddess to be revered, though he was always restlessly seeking to do something. The six-day hunting season finally drew to a close, a resounding success. Everyone had bestowed upon them the indelible impression of a couple deeply in love, devoid of any discord or unhappiness. Occasional disagreements still arose, such as his surreptitious comings and goings, disturbing her sleep. Alicia, clutching a blanket, remarked, "I believe Lady Salisbury is aware." William Cavendish, momentarily abashed, found her warmth quickly dispelling his embarrassment. "But she condones it," even intentionally providing them with more space. Alicia chuckled softly, directing him with a natural ease, thoroughly enjoying his attentiveness. The visit drew to a close, and with reluctant farewells, they embarked on their journey northwest, towards the Cavendish family's principal estate and residence, Chatsworth House, in Derbyshire, considered the grandest stately home in all of England. Even though they shared a residence with the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, they could easily occupy an entire wing, and, if they wished, avoid encountering them for an entire year. This journey was shared with both sets of parents. Lady Diana and Lord Cavendish would stay briefly at Chatsworth before continuing north to the Lake District for a holiday. The passing autumn scenery, a tapestry of red and yellow leaves, unfolded like a magnificent scroll. Crossing the stone bridge spanning the river, the centuries-old ancestral home, the largest private residence in all of Britain, came into view. The annual upkeep and maintenance alone, at around ten thousand pounds, amounted to the yearly income of a minor nobleman. Returning to the familiar surroundings of her childhood always brought Alicia a sense of profound contentment. Something had subtly shifted. Yet, as they held hands, descending from the carriage and gazing at the steps leading to the main building and the Palladian-style, repeatedly renovated stone arched entrance, a wave of emotion washed over them. So much of their lives had been spent within these walls. Cavendish's grandfather, the old Earl of Burlington, had inherited the estate from his uncle, also situated within the Duke of Devonshire's vast lands. They were intimately acquainted with each other, understanding every preference and inclination. Cavendish considered it essential, initially out of duty, then out of habit, and now, wholeheartedly so. He cherished her, desiring to possess her eternally. He embraced her eagerly. They laughed and ran inside, through the golden hallway, across the black-and-white checkered floor, up the staircase, chasing each other, carefree, as if transported back to their childhood. Cavendish's mind conjured another scene: they were the same age, childhood sweethearts, he had never missed a single moment of her life, playing together, hiding and seeking in the winding maze garden. Growing up, stealing kisses behind the trees. They loved each other, familial love, romantic love, all emotions intertwined, their lives intertwined for as long as they had lived. How blissful, a natural progression. But he was also content with the present outcome. A smile spread across his face. Every window offered a breathtaking view of the meticulously landscaped scenery – the trees, the hills, the river. Generations of aesthetic refinement had culminated in this expansive parkland. When the family was away, Chatsworth House was open to the public, provided visitors were of the gentlemanly class and informed the butler of their arrival. Walking through, admiring and commenting, their reflections were mirrored in the windows. Alicia, at home, was even more vivacious. The servants had meticulously prepared the house, removing the dust covers. She ran through the grand halls, the light streaming through the long windows illuminating the swirling motes of dust. She turned back to look at him. "What are you thinking?" Her voice echoed through the hall. "I am thinking of you!" Cavendish replied, his head held high, his voice ringing out. Perhaps his earnestness was amusing, for Alicia burst into laughter. She stood with her hands behind her back, retreating step by step, framed by the fireplace and statues, and the full-length Baroque painting of angels and gods. Her eyes sparkled. Her back was always held perfectly straight, her figure slender and elegant, her neck long and graceful. In the dance classes required for social deportment, ballet postures were often incorporated, the French teacher placing particular emphasis on these. She rose onto her toes, suddenly executing a series of light dance steps, approaching him and kissing him on the lips. They kissed quietly for a long time. Alicia could be described as slow-witted, or perhaps naturally insensitive, indifferent. She likely only understood familial love and friendship. She had never grasped the nuances of love and its distinctions, which, in reality, were often intermingled and difficult to differentiate. But now, her sudden elation and the act of kissing, spontaneously declared that this was different. She would not kiss her cousin, but she would kiss her husband, just as Cavendish had always said, "lover." This kiss was sweeter than any they had shared before, and it made his heart race. Cavendish felt it, stunned, the coolness of her fingertips brushing his cheek. He tried to compose himself, to no avail, only managing to kiss her with even greater intensity. He forgot to breathe, the sensation of suffocation, of drowning, drawing all his senses to their deepest point. He had always known how to kiss Alicia – technique, emotion, genuine acts, whatever it might be. Alicia would imitate him, learning to flick his tongue with hers. But this, this was entirely her kiss, a gesture initiated by the woman. This trembling sensation sent shivers through his entire being. He felt as though he were shaking, on the verge of death. Alicia, puzzled, drew back, observing his flushed face. She blinked, perplexed. William Cavendish, jolted back to reality, took a couple of deep breaths. "I am a fool," he declared, a self-deprecating assessment. Alicia curved her lips into a smile. "Then, let us do it again." She cradled his face, using her own method, or perhaps, an expression of her love. Cavendish savored the kiss, his disbelief palpable. There could be nothing more exquisite than this. "I love you," he finally uttered the words. He watched her fluttering eyelashes, like elusive butterflies, suddenly still. "I love you, too," he heard her whisper.