Chapter 7: Acclimation

William Cavendish, ever punctual, arrived at her door precisely as the clock struck the appointed hour. "Good morning, my dear... cousin," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe with a faint smile playing upon his lips. He was, she noted, attired in a tweed jacket of a rather fetching shade of tea. Alicia, in the midst of fastening her stockings and adjusting her chemise, offered a curt nod in response. He crossed the room in a few easy strides, his gaze lingering on her lips. "A morning kiss, perhaps?" "Good morning, cousin," she replied, not bothering to look up. However, when he bent down, she obligingly pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. With practiced ease, Cavendish picked up her petticoat and held it out for her. The memory of their wedding night remained a hazy blur in Alicia's mind, but the events of the previous evening were beginning to crystallize with alarming clarity. His actions now were a deliberate attempt to further imprint himself upon her senses, to accustom her to his presence, his touch. As William fastened the laces of her petticoat, he engaged her in conversation, inquiring about her plans for the day. Alicia, meanwhile, mused that he seemed determined to attach himself to her like a particularly persistent burr. Next came the corset. The fashionable silhouette had shifted in recent years, resulting in longer corsets that promoted a more natural, classical figure. Consequently, it did not bind her too tightly. Cavendish, ever the attentive husband, ran his hands along the lines of the corset, already contemplating the styles of the gowns he would commission for the next season, though her existing wardrobe was more than sufficient to ensure she wore a different ensemble every day for three months. Her waist gave a slight tremor. She was, it seemed, ticklish. A low chuckle escaped William's lips. Before Alicia could turn to question him, he had already selected an outer gown and was helping her into it. A delightful confection of white cotton, adorned with delicate purple lace—a particular favorite of hers. White gowns were a luxury, as they were notoriously difficult to clean, often yellowing after a few washes and requiring replacement. A pristine white muslin dress was a rare sight, especially in London, where the very air seemed to conspire against cleanliness. White suited her. He found an inordinate amount of pleasure in dressing her, just as he did in undressing her. Layer upon layer of delicate fabric. She was his. He fancied the notion of becoming her personal valet. Married ladies of their station often employed a footman, and Cavendish, with his discerning eye, always selected servants of exceptional pulchritude. He was, after all, a man of refined tastes. Yet, the thought of another man attending to Alicia so intimately filled him with a most peculiar sense of unease. While his mind was thus occupied, Alicia was silently lamenting her cousin's rather clumsy attempts at dressing her. He tugged and pulled at her clothes without properly smoothing the fabric, creating a most uncomfortable sensation. He was, she decided, still rather hopeless. One remained lost in thought, the other meticulously, almost obsessively, seeking every opportunity for contact. And so, this newly-wedded pair, arm in arm, made their way to the breakfast table. During their subsequent activities, Alicia permitted him to keep his arm around her waist. She found herself developing a certain physical reliance on him, a fact that both intrigued and unsettled her. William rested his chin upon her shoulder, finally able to touch that delicate expanse of skin behind her ear, a spot as soft and yielding as he had imagined. "I should like to know if there is anything I am doing amiss," he murmured suddenly. Alicia, who was in the process of slitting open the pages of a new book, turned to him with a puzzled expression. Cavendish elaborated, "So that I might rectify it in the future. I fear I neglected to inquire last night." He took the paper knife from her and began to assist her with the task. He prided himself on his skill in this area, as well as in sharpening quills, tasks that Alicia was more than happy to delegate to him. Her long, feather-like lashes fluttered downwards as their fingers brushed. He promptly covered her hand with his, gently stroking her palm. He had done the same last night, a soothing gesture that had calmed her anxieties. When Alicia's grandmother had passed away, she was but eleven years of age. The entirety of London had seemingly gathered outside Devonshire House on Piccadilly to pay their respects to the legendary Duchess. William, having hastily concluded his diplomatic tour of Europe, had arrived shortly before. He found Alicia standing by the window, her small frame having grown a little taller, her hair styled in the half-up fashion favored by young girls. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and she was biting her lower lip. "You are still but a child, Ally," he had said, ruffling her hair and presenting her with the promised Turkish saber, its hilt intricately carved. Alicia had clutched at his traveling coat and finally given way to quiet sobs. The previous year, he had once again stood by her side during a funeral. Alicia's existence had served as a tenuous link between her grandparents. Despite their less-than-harmonious relationship, the old Duke of Devonshire had often lamented that she was not a boy, for their line would have no heir. Still, she had lost a beloved relative who had helped raise her. Alicia considered his words for a moment before leaning into his embrace. "It was... tolerable," she conceded. William couldn't help but touch her forehead, bemused by her sudden change in demeanor. He was determined to be near her, so wherever she went, he followed. When Alicia decided to paint by the lake, he dutifully set up her easel, carried her supplies, and even tied on her apron. It was then that William discovered a singular advantage to having a limited number of servants. He sat beside her, ostensibly fishing. A small round table stood nearby, laden with refreshments and tea. A wide-brimmed hat adorned her head, its ribbons dancing in the gentle breeze. He took it upon himself to feed her various delicacies, as her hands were occupied. A single glance from her was all it took for him to understand that she desired a sip of tea. "I am not entirely disagreeable, am I?" he asked, seizing the opportunity to steal a kiss while she was unable to escape. When she frowned, he pressed another kiss to the corner of her eye. From time to time, he would peer at her painting, a landscape of verdant trees, fluffy clouds, and their shimmering reflections on the lake's surface. He admired it greatly, suddenly wishing that they could remain here, secluded from the world, for the rest of their days. He noticed a smudge of paint on her cheek and burst into laughter. Then, with utmost care, he produced a handkerchief and wiped it away. Cavendish cared not a whit that he was behaving in a manner most unbecoming of a man of his stature. He was, quite simply, happy. He cradled her face in his hands, drawing her into a tender embrace. "I am so very fond of you, cousin," he whispered. He expected Alicia to retort with something along the lines of, "Your antics are scaring away the fish." Instead, she simply accepted the embrace, her chin resting on his shoulder, her eyes downcast, lost in thought. "Do let go," she finally said, "I grow weary of standing on tiptoe." The afternoon wore on. On their return journey, he impulsively swept her off her feet and spun her around. Alicia, her feet dangling above the ground, instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. Her expression, for once, betrayed a hint of alarm. "William George! Put me down this instant!" He relished the rare occasions when she addressed him by his full name, a privilege she had not yet granted him even in the throes of passion, despite his repeated use of "Alicia." "Not until you address me by my proper diminutive. Everyone calls me Will." She pounded on his back in protest, but he merely laughed, a deep, hearty sound. He did not force her to comply, however. After completing three dizzying rotations, he gently set her down. Alicia promptly turned and marched off in the wrong direction. "You are going the wrong way!" he called after her. She changed course. "...Actually, the first way was correct." She shot him a withering glare. See, this was precisely why he enjoyed provoking her. However, when she maintained a frosty silence for the remainder of their journey, pointedly keeping her distance, William felt compelled to pursue her. "Good heavens, forgive me, my dearest, dearest Alicia," he pleaded. ... Before retiring for the night, he shamelessly begged for a goodnight kiss, which she eventually granted. It had been a perfect day, marred only by the knowledge that there were still such things as "even-numbered days" and "odd-numbered days." William escorted his new bride back to her room and watched as the door closed behind her. Then, with a satisfied smile, he made his way back to his own chambers. ... Alicia, with a furrowed brow, penned a letter to her mother: "Dearest Mama, William seems to be inordinately fond of me. This is quite different from what I had anticipated..." "Mama, fret not. I am exceedingly fond of Alicia, and Alicia (perhaps?) is also fond of me. I could not be happier." ... He arrived even earlier the next morning, thus earning the privilege of helping her with her stockings. After pulling them up, he fastened her garters. "You have a penchant for touching my legs," she observed. The normally simple process was drawn out, each movement languid and deliberate. The previous evening, after dinner, he had sat at her feet, leaning against her legs as she read aloud to him. She had cast him a sidelong glance, and only then did his hand, which had been inching its way up her calf, retreat with feigned nonchalance. She could not fathom why he was so fascinated with her legs when he possessed a perfectly good pair of his own. Alicia had expected her cousin to offer some sort of rebuttal, but to her surprise, he simply admitted, "Indeed, I do." He knelt before her, gazing up at her with an expression of utmost innocence. His blue eyes were so clear and pure, like a cloudless summer sky. Alicia recalled how he had positioned her leg against his waist, how he had leaned in close to her ear, his lips brushing against her lobe as he murmured her name. She turned her head away. His good morning kiss that day was particularly lingering, his hands gently cradling her waist as he kissed her with an ardor that bordered on desperation. He opened his eyes from time to time, hoping to see a similar passion reflected in her own. Her mother had warned her that young men often became quite enthusiastic and demanding after the wedding night, and that she should learn to refuse him tactfully when necessary. She had consulted with other married ladies of her acquaintance, who informed her that the customary frequency of marital relations was no more than ten times a month. This would, of course, decrease over time. Among the aristocracy, genuine affection between spouses was rare. Those few who married for love might enjoy a few years of happiness, but even they would eventually grow weary of one another. It was generally accepted that women possessed little to no desire, nor should they. They were expected to be chaste and docile. Intimacy was solely for the purpose of procreation, to ensure the continuation of the family line. The Duchess had informed Alicia that it was perfectly normal for women to experience pleasure during intimacy, thus sparing her from complete ignorance. However, Alicia still harbored a certain aversion to the act, finding little enjoyment in it. If not for the peculiar custom of "even-numbered days" and "odd-numbered days," Alicia suspected that her cousin would attempt to visit her chamber every night. However, they had only been intimate twice, on their wedding night and the night before last. They had only been married for five days. Alicia resolved to have a conversation with her cousin. Perhaps they could reach an agreement, such as limiting their encounters to once a month? She decided to wait until tonight to broach the subject. Besides, she rather looked forward to witnessing William's inevitable look of astonishment. He was currently inquiring about her plans for the day. Alicia replied that she was amenable to anything, as long as he refrained from constantly encircling her waist with his arm. ... Yesterday's joy was fleeting, for Alicia had forbidden him from being overly affectionate. Cavendish gathered himself. After dinner, he asked, "May I visit your room tonight?" They were polite, familiar, yet also strangers. "You may," Alicia granted her permission. William rested his chin on his hand, gazing at her with a bewildered expression. Was this normal? He resolved to write to his cousin on his mother's side, the Marquis of Tavistock, Francis Russell, for advice. Among all their acquaintances, Francis was considered to be one of the few who was truly in love with his wife. His wife was four years his senior, and he had sought her hand in marriage as soon as he turned twenty-one. (Marriages under the age of majority required parental consent.) Their union, three years prior, had been met with opposition from both families. But in the end, they had succeeded in tying the knot. William intended to proceed as he had two nights before. He sensed that Alicia did not derive much pleasure from the experience. He would endeavor to please her, to help her gradually acclimate. He recalled something she had said earlier that day. "If you come to my room tonight, you must remove your clothes," she had declared, her eyes steady and unwavering. She was reproaching him for remaining fully dressed that night, like some sort of priggish dandy more concerned with his cravat than his wife. "It was not particularly comfortable," she added. "Very well," William agreed, a subtle curve gracing his lips. He could scarcely contain his anticipation. Tonight, he would seduce her.