Chapter 6: The Third Night

The kiss, when it finally concluded, did not prompt him to release his hold on her waist. Instead, he lingered, his fingers tracing patterns of affection as he nuzzled his face into the delicate curve of her shoulder. "I have missed you terribly," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her skin. Alicia, ever practical, found herself distracted by the slight prickle of his dark hair against her cheek. London gentlemen, as a rule, were rather fond of perming their hair, a fashion he had once adhered to. Now, however, it lay straight, save for a natural, pleasing curve. She had mentioned, in passing, her utter distaste for the practice of men curling their locks. One did wonder when he had made the change. "We have spent the entire day in each other's company," she pointed out, tilting her head slightly, her voice soft yet devoid of any discernible flutter. For instance, this afternoon, when he insisted on a game of chess. William Cavendish, however, was utterly captivated by her scent, a subtle fragrance that clung to her skin. The pulse at her throat throbbed gently, a delicate rhythm beneath the soft flesh. She did enjoy playing chess with him. Likely because it was one of the few times she could make him appear intelligent. He had also, with an air of enduring patience, watched her embroider. Alicia, with her methodical nature, restricted herself to a single petal per day. Such a charming little stickler for routine. Later, as evening descended, he had read aloud to her from letters penned by their family. And then, a newly published travelogue. Due to the seemingly endless wars, Alicia had yet to truly experience the wonders of Europe. He, on the other hand, had enjoyed a brief sojourn with his parents during the fleeting peace afforded by the Amiens Treaty in 1802, and two years later, had been fortunate enough to join a diplomatic mission that meandered through Europe, eventually reaching the Ottoman Empire. It was during these moments, when reminiscing about his travels, that he was most acutely aware of their age difference. Eight years ago, Alicia had been a mere child. He had sent back a plethora of statues and bronzes, along with some trinkets for his younger cousin, to his father, an avid art collector. Alicia, to her credit, seemed genuinely interested in his descriptions of foreign lands, although her focus tended to gravitate towards the local vegetation, climate, and topography, questioning whether they truly matched the accounts found in books. Cavendish, who was far more enthralled by the local customs and social intricacies, found himself falling silent. He had never considered such things. Fortunately, he had a wealth of knowledge regarding historical sites and monuments, which he eagerly shared. Their bond, once familial, had deepened, blossoming into something far more profound. As they settled down to read together, the weight of their shared intimacy pressed upon them. He delicately brought up the tale of Paolo and Francesca from the Divine Comedy. She tilted her head, her gaze meeting his, and he, emboldened, seized the opportunity to steal a kiss. "We are just like them, finding love amidst the pages of a book," he declared. "And then they were promptly murdered by her jealous husband," Alicia retorted, her eyes blinking slowly, stating the fact with her usual unflappable demeanor. William Cavendish fought back a grimace. He was accustomed to her ways. Instead, he leaned in for another kiss, a more determined one this time. At least he had diligently studied the classics; they had that much in common. The bed, piled high with pillows, was perfectly adequate for one. With him, however, long-limbed as he was, it became decidedly cramped. Cavendish, finding his feet dangling off the edge, shifted and sat up, drawing closer to her. Their previous encounter had been rather rushed; this time, the prolonged proximity bred a certain awkwardness. He reached out, his hand finding her waist, and pulled her gently against him. Why had she suddenly transformed into a woman, and why was he so utterly besotted with her? Alicia's waist was surprisingly soft, a warmth radiating through the thin fabric of her gown. "What are you doing?" she inquired, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. He met her gaze, his dark lashes framing his eyes. "Did you not come here for... well, for the usual marital activities?" Alicia was remarkably direct. She had a habit of employing rather clinical terminology. William Cavendish found himself pondering the enigma that was his wife. How could she be so brilliantly astute in some areas, yet so utterly obtuse in others? Ah, but his cousin had never bothered to learn anything that did not pique her interest. "There is more to marriage than just... that," he explained, feeling a desperate need to justify his presence lest this unusual princess banish him back to his own chamber. He had no doubt she would. After all, the Prince Regent himself was her godfather and had graced their wedding with his presence. "But you enjoy it," she stated, with no room for argument. "I most certainly do not," he protested, perhaps a tad too vehemently. "Last time, there were two, and you wanted...?" William Cavendish, with a groan, covered her mouth with his hand. "Please, do not speak of it," he implored, mortification flooding his features. The first time had been remarkably brief; had he not been forewarned by certain... educational texts, he might have fled in abject terror. Alicia, at the time, had assumed it was over and had calmly instructed him to leave, as she wished to sleep. "No, no, we shall not do anything of the sort," he assured her, adopting a soothing tone. Alicia, seemingly appeased, allowed the matter to drop. William Cavendish resumed their conversation, attempting to steer it towards less treacherous waters. "Are your legs not aching?" he asked. "Not aching, precisely. Simply devoid of strength," she corrected. Cavendish felt a blush creep up his neck. Alicia, with a swift, decisive movement, pushed his hand away. "I shall write in my diary, then," she declared. Reaching for the mother-of-pearl-inlaid journal, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write, the quill scratching softly against the page. "What does my entry look like?" he inquired, making no move to peek, simply content to savor these last precious moments of the day. Alicia, incapable of falsehood, paused, considering her words carefully. "Acceptable. Not entirely disagreeable," she finally summarized. Cavendish knew this to be the highest of praise from her. A small, triumphant smile played on his lips. He hooked his arm around her bent leg, lifting it gently onto his lap. Alicia glanced at him, a silent question in her eyes. William Cavendish, without a word, began to massage her leg with practiced ease. "Are you still uncomfortable?" he inquired softly. "It is tolerable," she conceded. One of Alicia's more surprising passions, considering her otherwise tranquil disposition, was dancing. She moved with remarkable grace, her chin held high with an air of aristocratic pride. To the outside world, she appeared the very image of a haughty, aloof noblewoman. In truth, her demeanor stemmed from a deep-seated reserve and a general disinterest in the frivolous pursuits of society. However, as her cousin, propriety dictated that he refrain from monopolizing her time on the dance floor. After their engagement, dancing together became even more unsuitable. Social dances were, after all, intended for single individuals seeking a match. Perhaps the only fond memory he had was from her debut ball, where they had shared two dances. Due to their familiarity, Alicia had been spared the obligation of polite conversation. It was then that he had suddenly realized she was no longer a child but a young woman, resplendent in a white muslin gown, adorned with coral beads, her golden hair elegantly upswept, radiating a natural brilliance that captivated all who beheld her. William's time in London had been fleeting. Following his cousin's debut, he had departed with the diplomatic mission to Russia. Alicia, accustomed to his ministrations, confirmed that he was to proceed no further, then helpfully directed him to the precise spots that required his attention. It seemed that she, and she alone in this great, wide world, possessed the audacity to direct the actions of the aforementioned gentleman. From his earliest years, William had been the subject of universal obsequiousness. A young man of haughty demeanor, accustomed to having his every whim catered to, he found himself, for the very first time, being instructed to pluck an apple for his cousin. Preposterous! And yet, pluck it he did. His initial inclination had been to hurl the offending fruit as far as his considerable strength would allow, reducing the girl to tears. But then, a more... civilized notion took hold, and he presented it to her with a flourish, if one could call it that. Alicia, ever polite, murmured her thanks. This elicited a slight softening of his features. But her interest in the apple, as with most things, proved fleeting. She soon bestowed it upon one of the gaggle of youths that perpetually trailed in her wake. William, seizing an opportunity to reclaim what was rightfully his (or so he reasoned), snatched the apple back and proceeded to devour it with a ferocity that bordered on the savage. Just wait, he vowed internally, I shall never again lift a finger for her. And then, like a particularly well-trained hound, he was off, chasing after her wind-swept handkerchief all the way to the riverbank. Honestly. Unendurable. Having changed into her nightdress, she was, naturally, without stockings. Cavendish harbored a particular fondness for the tantalizing glimpse of stockinged leg. He had, on a previous occasion, managed to procure one such stocking, which he kept as a rather peculiar memento, its silken texture a source of endless fascination. William tore his gaze away. The supple flesh, smooth and yielding beneath his touch. His ministrations slowed, becoming languid, almost contemplative. Alicia, having completed her nightly journal entry, continued with her reading, seemingly unaffected by the intimate attentions being lavished upon her person. "A tad to the right," she instructed, her tone carrying a hint of exasperation. She had, after all, made this particular request on two prior occasions. Once again, he was relegated to the role of a manservant. William let out a derisive snort. Lowering his head, he bestowed a rather pointed kiss upon the very spot she had indicated, a hint of defiance in the gesture. "You are much like Pip," she remarked, referring to her foxhound. "With your penchant for nipping." Alicia, it must be said, was not a conventional lady. Her skills in horsemanship and hunting were quite remarkable, much to the chagrin of certain members of the ton. This observation only served to further inflame William's passions. He surged forward, his hands now framing her face, his lips exploring every delicate contour with a newfound urgency. Alicia, with a sigh that spoke volumes, set her book aside. Leaning against the bedpost, she inquired, "And just what do you think you're doing?" "Being a dog, of course!" When he finally lifted his head, his face was flushed crimson. His breath came in ragged gasps as he leaned in, his lips brushing against her chin, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "I know of a method, Alicia," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper, "that is not at all tiresome. Would you care to try it?" He had this peculiar habit of uttering her name whenever he was on the verge of some impropriety. Alicia, her brow furrowed in a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, nodded her assent. She was, after all, a creature of insatiable curiosity. He supported her gently. His nails, she noted, were neatly trimmed, the half-moons a healthy shade of pink. His gaze was unwavering as he kissed her, his lips tracing a path from her eyelashes to the tip of her nose, finally settling on the corner of her mouth. He proceeded with a gentle ascent. Alicia found the entire experience rather perplexing. It was all quite external, not at all unpleasant, and, dare she admit it, perhaps even...? She lowered her gaze, her teeth gently worrying her lower lip. He was fully clothed, while she was in a state of considerable dishabille. This arrangement seemed to please him immensely. With a tenderness that belied his earlier impetuousness, he caressed her with his free hand. His lips found the delicate skin of her exposed shoulder, her nightdress having slipped from its precarious perch. Her breathing grew increasingly erratic. Reaching out for something to steady herself, she grasped his cravat, the once-pristine fabric now hopelessly askew. Cavendish shifted her hand, placing it against his chest. "You may hold on," he offered, his voice thick with emotion. And then, in a manner most unlike his usual reticence, he inquired, "Do you like it?" She nestled against him, seeking refuge in the warmth of his embrace. A single tear, betraying the intensity of the moment, escaped and traced a glistening path down her cheek. He kissed it away, murmuring her name, "Alicia." Her full name, uttered by him, possessed a certain magic, a resonance that no endearment could ever match. He seemed to be even more affected than she was, his emotions threatening to consume him. He pulled her close, his kisses becoming more fervent, more demanding. Finally, Alicia pressed a hand against his chest, a silent plea for respite. A long silence ensued, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing. Alicia, her head still averted, her ears burning crimson, longed to strike him, but her limbs felt heavy, leaden. Cavendish, with a sigh that seemed to emanate from the depths of his being, loosened his own cravat, his breath coming in ragged puffs. "I love you," he declared, his voice hoarse with emotion, his lips brushing against her skin. He had never uttered those words before. "I truly love you." ... "I performed admirably, did I not?" he inquired, having regained a measure of his composure. He gently adjusted her nightdress, his touch lingering on the delicate fabric. A faint blush colored her neck where certain marks were visible. William gently touched them, his expression a mixture of pride and possessiveness. "I...?" Alicia remained silent, turning away from him. He procured a pillow for her comfort. "I did not deceive you, but..." "It was merely...?" He, too, seemed uncertain now. "Shall I assist you in cleaning up?" he asked, his voice laced with contrition. This time, a blanket had been thoughtfully placed beforehand. Alicia closed her eyes, signaling her exhaustion. ... He lowered the emerald green bed curtains, their silver trim glinting faintly in the dim light. "May we share the bed?" "It is rather small." A bed designed for one was hardly suitable for two, especially under such... circumstances. "May I stay with you tonight? Just to sleep?" Her body radiated a gentle warmth, but her feet were cool to the touch as he gathered her into his embrace. Alicia eventually relented, granting him permission to remain until the clock struck twelve. He was to return to his own room then. This was a concession, and Cavendish was suitably grateful. He held her close, content even though she presented him with her back. He adored every strand of her hair, the subtle fragrance that clung to her, a fragrance that now mingled with his own. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent, but he was careful not to disturb her further. She drifted off to sleep quickly, her breathing soon evening out into a gentle rhythm. She was remarkably sensitive, he mused, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the darkness, his mind replaying the events of the evening. Every inch of her had responded to his touch. Her body seemed to speak a language of its own, a language that whispered of a shared affection. This realization sent a thrill of excitement, a tremor of anticipation, through William Cavendish's very being.