Chapter 8: Clause

William Cavendish, preening inwardly, was quite pleased with himself. He was, after all, about to embark on another illicit rendezvous. He had draped himself in a dark brown, woolen blanket - the most luxurious, supple fabric, naturally - and beneath it, he wore only a gentleman's shirt. Well, yes, practically nothing at all. This arrangement showcased his elegantly long legs to their best advantage, like a particularly fine marble statue come to life. He was, if he did say so himself, devastatingly handsome, and keenly aware of the seductive power of his youthful physique. He had, with a flick of his wrist and a generous tip, dismissed the servants for the evening. Alicia sat before her vanity, a cascade of golden hair flowing down her back, and turned her head. Her brow furrowed delicately. "You're early," she declared, her voice laced with mild disapproval. "I've only just begun to brush my hair." Her hair, a glorious mane the color of spun gold, was her crowning glory, and she guarded it jealously. Maintaining such a treasure was, of course, a dreadful chore. Every morning and night, it demanded to be brushed into submission. "Ah." His self-satisfied air deflated somewhat, like a pricked balloon. He picked up the discarded ivory hairbrush and, gathering a handful of her silken tresses, resumed the task. "And is there a specific hour prescribed for these encounters?" he inquired, attempting a jocular tone. Alicia considered this with an earnestness that was rather alarming. "Yes," she finally pronounced. "After eight o'clock." "Oh." William's smile vanished entirely. He felt rather like a sulking child. He seemed to have forgotten, in his eagerness, that he was her husband, not some back-alley lover. He was not required to curry favor, much less adhere to a schedule of stolen moments. The original purpose of the evening momentarily forgotten, William Cavendish, with the submissiveness of a well-trained spaniel, dutifully followed her instructions as he brushed her hair. "You've already done that part." "Not so hard." Alicia rested her chin in her hand, quite bewildered by her cousin's insistence on performing tasks he was so clearly ill-equipped for. As for William, he began to question his own motives. But, oh, how he adored that golden hair. It was truly magnificent. He reveled in the sight of their faces reflected in the mirror, nestled close together. Two peas in a pod, as the saying went, both equally, strikingly beautiful. Alicia was precisely the type of woman he would fall for, someone even more aesthetically pleasing than himself. She shimmered, like a finely cut gemstone. Once her hair was deemed sufficiently tamed, he knelt before her, a devoted supplicant, and began to undo the ribbons of her satin slippers. Ladies of quality often favored these heelless slippers when indoors. Hers were a delicate rose, her arches narrow and pointed, the very picture of refined elegance. Andalusian ankles, they were called. He cradled her foot in his hand. "Must you touch?" Alicia felt a correction was in order. He was not merely fond of touching her legs; he seemed to find an excuse to do so at every opportunity. William Cavendish had been waiting for her to notice. She had once declared her utter loathing for rose-scented cologne. It was all the rage in London these past two years, of course. One could hardly attend a ball without being assaulted by the cloying scent, wafting from every gentleman's handkerchief and cravat. Cavendish's own blend was a unique concoction, with a sharp, spicy undertone that set it apart. But his cousin, it seemed, was remarkably averse to it. He had experimented, tested, and finally deduced that she had a particular fondness for citrus notes, preferably the sharp, invigorating aroma of freshly peeled fruit. Quite unsophisticated, really. But now, he was liberally doused in that very citrus, fig, and musk fragrance. All to ensnare her. She adored the scent. The first time she had encountered it, she had practically buried her nose in his cravat, inhaling deeply. Alicia finally caught the scent. "You smell delightful," she murmured. He merely grunted in response, meticulously undoing the ribbons and slipping off her shoe. The upward curve of his lips, hidden from her view, betrayed his satisfaction. Alicia inhaled the fragrance emanating from his neck. His breath deepened, though he feigned indifference. "It's different from before," she noted, her memory as sharp as a tack. He longed to kiss her, right then and there. Cavendish "Oh"-ed, casually mentioning he'd added a touch of petitgrain. For a more refreshing note, you see. She seemed quite taken with it, leaning in to inhale his scent more deeply. He restrained himself, suppressing a triumphant grin. He kissed her leg, just as he had on their wedding night. Alicia gave a slight start, but his hand held her firmly, yet gently, in place. "Why do you always do that?" Alicia asked, genuinely perplexed. It tickled, and more than that, it evoked a most peculiar sensation within her. He remained silent, merely tilting his head back to gaze at her with an intensity that could melt glaciers, or at the very least, a well-churned pat of butter. He leaned in to kiss her, and that peculiar, musky scent of his intensified, becoming rather alarmingly potent. One might have thought he'd been marinated in it. The blanket, which had been draped around his shoulders with an air of studied nonchalance, slipped to the floor, revealing a tantalizing expanse of ivory-toned skin beneath his shirt. Skin that, it must be said, was in remarkably good health. One could almost see one's reflection in it, should one be inclined to check one's appearance in such an unconventional mirror. The very contours of his physique declared his masculinity with an almost startling clarity. He was, undeniably, a man. Alicia studied him, cataloging the differences. Her cousin, bless his perfectly symmetrical face, had been deemed a "veritable Adonis" by the ton, and at the tender age of sixteen, no less. He was even proclaimed, with much fanfare, to be "the most beautiful man in all of England." A title he wore with the same ease he wore his cravat. It was then that she realized the startling blueness of his eyes, the rather fetching way his dark hair curled. His face, she decided, was remarkably refined, each feature sculpted with an almost alarming precision. One might suspect divine intervention, or at least a very skilled artist with an obsession for chisels. His eyelashes were thick and long enough to sweep the floor, framing those startling blue, almond-shaped eyes that seemed to hold the depths of the ocean within them. Clear, deep, and utterly mesmerizing. His lips, the upper one delicately thin, the lower full and rosy, were a study in contrasts. One could almost taste their redness. His nose was straight, aristocratic, yet somehow managed to convey a certain roguish charm. He was a walking paradox, a blend of opposing forces that somehow coalesced into a being of extraordinary beauty. The contrast between his dark hair and blue eyes was striking. He was, in short, as close to a mortal embodiment of Adonis as one was likely to encounter. Indeed, he seemed to have an almost divine aura about him, like the sun god himself had deigned to walk among mortals. It was no wonder, she mused, that they called him Apollo. He appeared even younger than usual, if such a thing were possible. William Cavendish, with a look of wistful longing and a sigh that could rival a lovesick poet, finally spoke. "I have taken off my clothes, just as you suggested. It is a bit chilly, you know." Despite this declaration, he dramatically tossed the blanket aside, as if to emphasize his state of undress. He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist, where the skin was thinnest, the warmth of his lips easily transmitted. Alicia's fingers curled involuntarily. She was still unaccustomed to his excessive displays of affection. Yet, she found herself studying him, her chin propped on her hand, searching for some imperfection, some flaw in this breathtaking tableau. He was almost too perfect, like a statue begging to be cast in plaster. Her final assessment? His jawline was perhaps a tad too narrow, not quite adhering to the golden ratio. But, she conceded, it did lend him a certain... je ne sais quoi, an added touch of masculine beauty. William Cavendish, however, seemed to have misinterpreted her scrutiny. He had, it appeared, missed her subtle cues entirely. "Would you like to touch?" he inquired, offering himself up for further inspection like a prized specimen at a natural history museum. His physique was, admittedly, quite impressive. William Cavendish was typically known for his haughty demeanor, his elegant reserve, and his general air of aloofness. In other words, he often appeared indifferent and perpetually bored. He seldom found anything, or anyone, worthy of his attention. His smiles, when they did appear, often held a hint of mockery. Yet, paradoxically, everyone seemed to crave his approval. Alicia did not, as one might expect, proceed to remove his shirt. This was perfectly in character, as she treated herself with the same reserve, always preferring to remain as bundled up as possible. Cavendish mentally went through the steps: a gentleman's shirt was quite simple to remove, really. A few tugs here and there, and... Perhaps, he mused, next time he should simply arrive in a state of complete nudity. She lifted a corner of the blanket, peering at him with an inquisitive expression, like a scientist examining a particularly fascinating insect. He leaned in, attempting to steal a kiss, but she adroitly dodged the advance. Why, he wondered with a hint of despair, was she so unmoved? "I've missed you terribly," William Cavendish declared, with the dramatic flair of a stage actor. "But we were only apart for two hours," she pointed out, with the unassailable logic of a seasoned barrister. He placed her hand against his cheek, chiding her gently, "You could, at least, say that you missed me too." Distracted, she allowed him to capture her lips in a kiss. Alicia found herself pinned to the armchair, her senses overwhelmed. He removed his own shirt with practiced ease, then took her hand, guiding it... elsewhere. He moved with a delicate touch, then, drawing close to her ear, he breathed, a soft, warm gust of air. Her hand moved to his neck. He gathered her into his arms, and they kissed, a proper kiss this time. Alicia finally understood. During a brief respite, she inquired, "So, this is a necessary procedure, then?" She referred, of course, to the disrobing that had commenced earlier. He did enjoy his little games, his elaborate rituals of seduction. He paused, his teeth gently grazing her cheek, and asked, "What? It's called foreplay, my dear." He held her waist, lifting her by the bend of her legs. "But it always ends up the same way, doesn't it?" Cavendish was momentarily speechless, unable to formulate a suitable rebuttal. Finally, on the bed, she kissed him back, her hands exploring. But William Cavendish remained uncertain whether his attempts at seduction had been truly successful. As he was painstakingly removing his clothes, longingly undoing the laces and pink ribbons of his shirt, she suddenly remarked that he had two dimples on his lower back. She then proceeded to declare that that particular part was undoubtedly the most unsightly thing she had ever laid eyes upon. No wonder, she mused, that sculptors always chose to omit it. He seized her wrists, arching his back to kiss her with renewed fervor. He was, it seemed, enamored with every inch of her, not just her calves. When he kissed her, he insisted on looking up, to see the way she bit her lip. She was ticklish. She seemed to be falling under his spell. Her fingers traced the curve of his waist, then wrapped around his shoulders. She said it could be done without as well. Because she had unceremoniously banished him back to his own room. She complained that he had only managed to undo half of her shirt, leaving it a wrinkled mess, and revoked his privilege of staying until midnight. William Cavendish stood in the doorway, clutching a bright blue stocking garter he had pilfered, embroidered with her name. He replayed the scene in his mind. This time had been particularly prolonged, filled with an abundance of kisses. The affection that seemed to elude them during the day was always found in the intimacy of the bedroom. ... He was becoming increasingly... wanton. Alicia confirmed this observation the following morning. He had risen even earlier than she, waking her with a kiss. Her skin now carried his scent, a fact that seemed to please him immensely. He was like a child, stubbornly determined to mark something as his own. "Alicia," he murmured, his lips brushing against her cheek, the soft down of his skin a delicate caress. After a few such encounters, she had finally figured out what that was. Alicia shifted her knee, her calf sliding from his grasp. "You must keep your clothes on during the day," she admonished, pulling the blanket over her head to resume her slumber. She seemed to have forgotten something she wanted to say. It was all so exhausting. "Do you like me at all?" he asked, his voice a mixture of hope and anxiety, as he simply held her close. Alicia, buried beneath a mountain of goose-down pillows, still disliked being held so tightly, yet she had willingly submitted to his embrace the previous night. "No, I don't," she mumbled, her voice muffled by the plush fabric. He attempted to kiss her leg, but his advances were thwarted when he tried to venture further. "You are truly vexing, William George." "But you said you liked me yesterday," he protested, leaning over her, propped up on one elbow. And so, Alicia opened her eyes, taking in the sight of his tousled black hair and those sapphire eyes. Yesterday had indeed been quite... enjoyable. She remembered what she had said. She lay nestled among the pillows, her golden hair cascading over her pale shoulders. He kissed away her tears, asking if she liked it. Alicia turned her head, her eyes closed, and finally conceded with a reluctant "Mmm." He became even more impassioned, more fervent, seeking confirmation three more times. She couldn't quite discern, in that moment, whether she had enjoyed the act itself or him, personally. She recalled him saying, midway through their encounter, "I am still quite young, you know, Alicia. I'm not some old man." He was still hung up on that, it seemed. The girl looked at him, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. They lay there for a while, as Alicia simply could not muster the energy to move. Then, she noticed that William Cavendish was nestled beside her, his long lashes lowered, fast asleep. ... The day was utterly wasted. She couldn't even concentrate on her book. A peculiar atmosphere had settled between them. William Cavendish hardly kissed her at all. Because he couldn't possibly give her a chaste kiss. At dinner, Alicia finally broke the silence. "Cavendish..." She had taken to addressing him by his surname, a common practice among those not on intimate terms. As she shared his surname, she rarely used it. William Cavendish, being his father's only son and lacking a title of his own, was customarily addressed as Mr. Cavendish. He looked up, startled. He had been avoiding her gaze all day, his mind filled with vivid recollections of the previous night. Alicia averted her eyes, and declared with utmost fairness, "You have a rather... robust appetite, you know." Cavendish choked, sputtering, "What?" He coughed elegantly, dabbing his lips with a napkin. His expression was one of utter disbelief. He was glad he had swallowed his food before she spoke. "Therefore, I believe we need to have a serious discussion about this... cohabitation arrangement of ours." Alicia finally remembered what she had intended to say. Her expression was stern, though she couldn't help but recall the warmth of his lips on her calf.