Toni giggles, a soft sound as she leans against Richard’s shoulder. If it’s flirtatious, she would never let on, though she does touch his chest, warm - a handsy person if there ever was one. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. There’s never a wrong time to be kind, is there? End the year on a positive note for everyone.
He’s flushed and that makes her grin, looking up at him as she bites her full lower lip. “I’m sure we could get away with it. I would so love to be in front of the camera.” She leans back against the wall. “We could make quite a pair. Bring back a little old school charm. Something like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.” She beams. “Do you think your fiancee would allow it? I don’t mean to be rude, but - she does seem like she might be the jealous type.”
Bobby would certainly bemoan one of his favorite married women, being so open with Richard; who reveled in the attention. Infidelity was always alluring in her presence. “Aha, so it is charity work. What misdeeds are you hoping to wash away by flattering my ego?” Richard can’t fathom Toni doing anything egregiously wrong; his words are all fun, playful teasing. If anyone were to atone, it’d certainly be him.
Surely she’s at least mildly flirting with him - the casual lip bite would have sent him into a tizzy, if he wasn’t working so hard to remain his cool. His cheeks remain flushed, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Resting beside her on the wall, Richard’s full gaze is fixated on Toni’s face; such handsome features were always bestowed on those, already blessed with riches and wit. “Are you planning on our marrying and divorcing, before wedding again? If so, I’d love if our Cleopatra and Antony to be directed by an American Titan. Do you enjoy Coppola?” At mention of Emma and her jealousy, he can only give way to a laugh - and sheepish smile, that serves to make redness a permanent fixture on his face. “I’m afraid you aren’t wrong on the assessment...it’d be a challenge to convince my bride to be to allow me to share a screen with you. But come! Your husband and children will surely have my head for stealing you away.”
The word fiancée sounds so right coming off his lips. Nothing she loved more in the world than hearing him introduce her as his fiancée. On her tiptoes she stands to press a delicate kiss on his cheek at the mention of the word. She turns facing him, arms lazily draped around his neck, and smiles happily. “She may be, but again just a suggestion,” she adds giggling.
This is what happiness feels like, love. It’s been the same since the first day she met him. Her chest always full, there was never a dull moment between them. Even his slightest touch was electric to her. “Oh I can not song— especially if a little tipsy, but I adore the karaoke bar,” again she stands on her toes, the difference in height making things only slightly more challenging. “Especially if it means we can be alone,” she whispers for him only.
As always he smiled at her affections, which she layered on as thick as honey. He could never accuse Emma of lacing devotion or sweetness - both served to baste him in guilt and shame, when Lottie’s body lay next to him. Richard warmed beneath the kisses and light words she offered him, nuzzling the top of her head, which came to the middle of his chest. “I’ll be forced to alert the presses that the saintly Emma Miller dared to enter a two star establishment.” Any attempt to sabotage her image would invariably fail; she’d probably be regarding an angel for fraternizing with the commoners. Her bullet-proof persona was intoxicating, as it was damning to Richard’s reality, as being far less beloved.
“Come, I’ve heard you muddle your way through Angel of the Morning in the shower a dozen times, and I believe only three or so mirrors cracked.” He’s playful, the tip of his tongue engaging in a cheeky appearance, by sticking out between his front teeth. Richard doesn’t have a charming response to match her offer, besides the finger tips that slip beneath he straps of her dress, to muse the skin that lays there. “Do I get that alone time before or after I sing purple rain?”
She was in his bed again, one of her most frequent sins. The best way to beat a New Year’s Day hangover was a two hour technique class at the theatre, a too hot shower, several bumps, and mid afternoon sex. Richard was promised to someone else, had slide that heirloom diamond on the finger of some title-less blonde. And that was perhaps Charlotte’s favorite thing about him, his seemingly inability to become attached to her. No strings, no emotions, except perhaps pity for Richard and Emma and the disaster marriage they were headed for. Not her problem, still sometimes she wondered if he’d call off this little arraignment once actually wedded. And then she remembered she didn’t actually care.
Lottie stretched then rolled back over to smirk at Dickie playfully, “Come up any terrible resolutions you’ve already broken?”
@riccavendish
It felt particularly dastardly, to have another woman in the bed he shared with his intended; but much of the appeal of an illicit affair, was the inherent sin that came with it. Richard had rung in the New Year with Emma by his side - and christened the first day in a sea of warmth and sheets with Lottie. She demanded nothing of him but occasional company, along with tempting him of a night lost on some substance she declared a casual habit. Lottie was as familiar to him as the gardens he played in as a child - he cherished the familiarity and ease found in her company, amongst other things having her in his bed provided.
He had been admiring the expanse of her back; a lithe frame, fit for a muse of the stage. Somehow Lottie retained a summer tan, even in the dead of an English winter. She stirred suddenly, rolling her shoulders in a fluid motion, before rolling over to face him. Perhaps her slumber was disturbed by his incessant gaze - but knowing Lottie, she had conjured up a plan of mischief, and the time had come to put it into motion. Richard can’t help but give way to a frisky smile of his own - his visage wholly warmed, by gazing upon hers. “Well, you’ve certainly robbed me of my pledge to celibacy and purity. Oh, and my decree that I won’t lay in bed past two.” Stolen hours between her vibrant career and his Emma was their modus operandi; they were blessed to have an entire afternoon to themselves, where Richard’s prattling was their only worry. “And you, my little Lottie? Though a saint such as yourself could never improve, fly any closer to our heavenly father, I’m curious to know what resolutions you’ve set for the year.”
it was to no one’s surprise that marianne was a keen student of seduction; over the years she had picked up hints and tricks, spinning every trick at the same time. and so she couldn’t help herself as HE approached; a man with broadened shoulders, a blonde halo and a kind stature! she even peeked up at him through curled lashes, painted with black mascara and shadows that enlarged the shape of her natural eye. no, there was no stopping her once a notion entered her head - all dressed up pretty in satin, tweed and perfumed with roses. and so there was little he could do to escape her eye, how she bathed him in her attention and made the motion to step closer - stepping out of the shadow of a bird that was known for such immense beauty.
she laughed, head tossed from one side to the other before she looked back towards the lunar glow; allowing the white-light to highlight her skin and how it lay against the bone of her skull. he was a sweet gentleman who didn’t mind using the title that had been stripped once her husband had passed; it was one of the few things she had grown to regret - she should’ve used her title properly, boasting it around london… alas, it was too late for that - and so she only acts with modesty, head bowing with the outlined grin of her mouth from the sheen of red lipstick. “you speak as if you are a poet, sir! tell me, do you indulge yourself in such prose?” she meets his eye in a whip of her head, raven locks framing her face as she studies the famous brother - how she studies the skin around his eyes, and the lines that appear around one’s mouth if you had too much fun. he seemed like the type to have fun; or so she hoped - why else would he waste time on a hollywood star when he had nobility waiting for him? “i once courted the idea of harvesting the power of the moon… ah, yes. it’s a truly romantic notion, i fear i must leave it behind so others can bathe in it’s glow… but still, i will admire it,” her grin softens to a softer expression, eyes wide yet heavy as she flickers her eyelashes and turns back to the midnight sky. “soon it will be a new year, do you have any exciting plans, sir?”
He would join the countless men who felt their heart beats quicken as they experienced the full weight of Marianne’s gaze. Richard couldn’t help himself, in feeling special, interesting - for surely she beckoned him closer because he offered a crumb of intrigue or fascinating conversation. Kindness and polite duty was why Richard’s babbling was indulged, but he would recall the night where her lithe fingers called him to her side, with rose-colored glasses. Richard prayed his features did not betray the electric energy that was now charged with operating his limbs and and moving his lips. This New Years Eve would sit comfortably within the canon, of Richard’s favorite nights ever.
Instead of the customary eye roll or distinguished sigh of weariness, she greets his Shakespeare espousing with a merry laugh, and warmth in her hazel eyes. Was hazel the correct term? Richard had spent an inordinate amount of time wondering their exact hue; flecks of green and brown, (and though his brother regularly mocked those who pondered the following statement) that altered, depending on the light. “As often as possible” he confessed, sheepish in his mannerisms “but many have sworn to have my head mounted on a stick, if I blabber on. I lack your eloquence in monologues; or your knack for saying much, while having to vocalize little.” Gushing over her acting abilities was a tired subject, certainly. And Richard very much hoped to offer conversation worth her time - but he couldn’t help himself, in showering compliments. “Here I am, prophesying my own poetic-ism, when so easily you have my beat! But ah, you are an enchantress then? A benevolent one however, sparing the moon for us mortals.” He felt akin to Rochester, in that moment; decrying a bewitching woman as an other wordly being, whose mercy he was forced to depend upon. “I am afraid my life will continued to be dominated by Cavendish Bureaucracy and Duty - but surely your year will not be half as dull. Are you off to adapt another literary masterpiece for the screen? I do hope you will indulge me, and remain in London for a spell.”
If Philip could be a forgiving man, or even a bigger man, he would generously allow his brother to call his Philip, no need for formalities, call me Lip, we’re still family after all. But the Duke isn’t a forgiving man. He is immature at best, at worst bitter to the core. He liked the distinction, he likes being above the rest; especially after that quip about his cricket ability. Although that was shamefully true. “Forgiveness,” he rolls around his mouth like he is leaning a new word but then, perhaps he is. The Cavendishes are a sad sort of people, prone to melancholy moments although they keep up the pretence well, Phlip learned that quickly from being with Caroline. Her sad moods could move to bad moods if provoked. It was a family trait, he has discovered, the same could be said for her siblings. He would have offered some words of support if it wasn’t for the fact Richard reminded him so much of his late wife, and that was the last thing he wanted to think about tonight. “Maybe that could be my goal for the 2000′s; a while off yet.”
“But how is our dear Emma? Apart from… feeling the pain of your late night wanderings, of course.” Names and faces were not his strong suit but he knew who had had to know. Plus, Emma was pretty, a little wicked too if he has the right idea of her and he personally thought not suited to the people-pleasing Richard at all. But maybe that was jealousy speaking. Richard was a sore spot for Philip; a model son by all accounts. How his mother wished him to be more like Dicky. Philip like to think himself as having rather more depth than his ex-brother-in-law.
“Let us toast then, to your good health - that you shall see the new millennium.” It isn’t a threat; Richard is too stiff and proper to enact revenge in some bloody and grand manner. Bobby would beat someone to a pulp, perhaps - but he would resort to vehement hatred and wishes of death. Does he truly wish Philip dead? If it would bring Caroline back, certainly. Yet if he were forced to show his hand, he would be forced to confess Philip’s death would not afford him a great deal of gratification. Little was better to assuage the Cavendish’s feelings, then making their Caroline’s widow as uncomfortable as possible, in public forums. “I must commend you on a splendid party. Were you dreadfully excited for the New Year to arrive?”
Richard already stands tall in a crowded room, but the quip straightens his spine further - forcing his upper lip to curl slightly, before he soothes himself into a stern smile. Implications of infidelity were common blows against a taken man - but the sting cuts deeper, when the baseless accusation rings true. No one knew of his dealings, and Richard would do whatever necessary to keep it that way. If anyone were to delight in his exposure, it would be Philip. “My dear Emma is well; I’ll inform her you inquired into her being. But infidelity is your role, dear. I would never seek to steal it from you.” Their conversations always fell into venomous slights, though Richard would readily claim the title of instigator that night. To prattle about nothingness with ease and thrill was a skill both had been forced to cultivate at earlier ages. Her Majesty the Queen, and The Cavendish Matriarch, could not instill any discipline, that would prepare them for the strain of a relationship - where the bond between them, had been ripped from this Earth. “Tell me, Royal Highness, what occupies the second son as of late?”
“Has anyone ever told you you should be in movies?” As it’s nearing midnight, Toni is a little drunk, and when she’s drunk, she turns quite pensive and chatty. Whoever happens to be standing nearby is the one to receive her attention, and right now it’s Richard, who she is craning her neck to look up at. She’s known him for some time, though he’s never felt entirely approachable to her - at least not so much as Robert did, to her mind.
“You’re very handsome,” she continues. “A movie star face for the screen.” Tapping her chin, she tips her head again. “You would look very dashing, maybe in one of those costume dramas.”
“Aside from some off-color remarks by Bobby regarding my future career in the explicit genre - well, maybe I have.” Richard nearly gives into his ego (better to impress a lady with ones accomplishments, his father used to remark) but he shies away slightly, preferring to only strongly hint at the matter. Toni’s cheeks are flushed, and it is clear she’s as tispy as he; but always, she retains the grace and charm that endears her to the press. “Viscountess Chilston, I dare say you’ll be entering into the New Year a master flatterer. Or are you working under orders to send me into an early grave? ”
His chest is nearly as swelled as his had, under such a flurry of compliments - Richard’s usually porcelain cheeks were already pink due to champagne, but Toni invokes darker hues. “I’ll take up the screen, only if you shall join me - you would make a beautiful Sissy. But will your husband allow me to steal you away to Hollywood? I dare say your signature pearls and smile would give the actresses’ here a run for their money.”
1989. A new year, a fresh start. The last year of a decade, though for the most part she’d be happy without the change. She was content with her life, and could only look towards the future with hope. As they stood on the balcony overlooking the city and the fireworks above it, she’s never felt so right. Head pressed against his chest, “Happy new year, mon cher,” she says accompanied by a happily drunk smile.
She lifts her wrist and glances at the time, “I think we’ve done our due diligence, I think we’re safe to go and enjoy the rest of our night,” she says eyes focused on his bowtie as she adjusts it.
To look down on those cursed with commonness and middle-class wages was the most ideal way for one to spend New Years Eve. Accompanied by a beautiful bride worth more then three of London’s largest districts, was beyond perfection. Richard’s affections were conflicted and muddled, but no mistake could be made - he was smitten that night, holding Emma swathe with his chest, drinking champagne and boasting of his wit that night. She indulged his braggadocio for a time, before sweetly wishing him a blessed New Year. “And the same to you, my dear fiancée.” French was far more suited for her lips, then his.
“Is my proper English bride suggesting we spend the rest of the night gallivanting?” He’s been dying to flee into the dark expanse for hours, but Richard still delights in teasing Emma - flicking the tip of her nose as he turns from the balcony, eyeing the mass of party-goers (the majority of which, had succumbed to drunken stupors). “What would you say to a tiny karaoke bar I know - in a slightly dodgy bit of town.” It was two steps away from being a dive bar, but the pair would be safe from the prying eyes of the public; who would inevitably tip off the press to photograph such an escapade. Richard loved his photo being taken - but some nights, he desired purely for his own pleasure.
the eighties had been a period of change; after the death of her first husband, she had desired to bounce back with a velocity of an olympic athlete. she had changed ranks, swapping from the second land to the first to become a duchess instead - even if the title had only worn on her shoulders for little more than a year. to stand amongst the hedgerows of buckingham palace was just one sign of her influence and grandeur, posed between two sculpted birds as held her cigarette holder in place - her hip popped as her eyes widened and narrowed towards the full moon that shined above, daring to hide behind clouds due to marianne’s insistent stare. she wondered, was it all worth it? she thought of her mother, then her father. then to the husbands she had lost along the way. finally, her thoughts went to her children; wondering if her youngest ( aged fourteen and a half ) was in bed. with one more puff from her cigarette marianne was warned by her assistant of another’s arrival, of how the crowds moved without notice around the palace - she would’ve hated to be the queen, to allow so many strangers into one’s home seemed preposterous to an actress who had always given herself to the press.
she turns slowly, as if to soak it all in, her skirts brushing against gravel before she shines her trademark smile. “good evening, it is a beautiful night - a full moon! do you think it’s a curse or a sign of goodwill for nineteen-eighty-nine?”
It was Richard’s habit to care little for celebrities; any person of royal stock, was unnerved any person with neither rank nor connection, could eclipse their fame and infamy. Public dissent and a crumbling world order demanded the monarchy to change - but it was the actresses, singers, poets, photographers, who embodied the successors to their reign. Yet for all this distaste and inherent dislike, Richard’s heart was sent into an overactive state - when his gaze fell upon Marianne Bloom-Babenberg. His stiff constitution and notions of hierarchy were susceptible to a pair of pretty eyes and a dark brow; he was a mere man, after all. Oxford degrees could not seal your heart away from infatuations with silver screen sirens, no matter your principled dislike of the profession. The entire congregation was packed full of figures who either wished to share Marianne’s company as fervently as he, or were too important for him to shun, in favor of her hand. At last Richard was free to indulge a boyish whim to seek her out; she lingered beneath two fowls, whether by design (a poetic pose, if it were intentional) or an attempt to avoid parasites, like himself.
She greeted him with ease, no matter the sentiments in her heart; all earnest and smiles, Richard was a palpable source of joyful energy was she addressed him. “Good evening, Duchess - the honor to make your acquaintance, is unmatched. As for the moon, I’m inclined to consult Shakespeare on the matter. To avoid too much snobbery, I won’t quote directly - but he warned to distrust the moon on principle, for it has too many faces.” His younger brother would chide him for the Shakespeare remark nonetheless, but he demonstrated restraint in not boring Marianne with an abridged performance, of the stanza from Romeo and Juliet. “Do you believe the moon to be a good omen, then? I an inclined to think you admire the moon - as you’ve stolen away from your legions of fans, to consult it in private.”
The Duke of York was in his element. Not because he was a fan of large parties, though he was, and not because he’d spent the better half of the evening being chased in dark corners by pretty young things, though that was pleasant, but because his family all seemed completely miserable. A public relations stunt gone wrong in his view; let in the riff raff so they might see that we’re not that different from you. What bollocks. Philip had been raised in this house, knew each corridor and stairwell like the back of his hand, was no longer impressed by the glittering chandeliers and hundred-year-old paintings but even he knew this was not how normal people lived. He wondered if mummy counted the silverware herself before she opened her doors and welcomed them all inside. He had some plans to disappear before midnight; it had been some time since he last entered the New Year without a kiss and, for once, he didn’t have it in him to stir up gossip by picking a girl out of the crowd and running with it. Dare he even think it; he missed Caroline. No, perhaps not. The last party they had gone to together had ended with them sleeping in separate wings of the house for a week but he missed his wife.
Not the woman but the companion. The sure thing. The safety of having partner, someone to be relied upon. For a moment he loses himself in thought, half planning an escape. He could say he wanted to ring in the bells with his sons, but perhaps he wouldn’t be taken seriously. A movement beside him stirs him from his thought and, whether they were intending to approach him or not, he lifts his head with a smile. “A resolution,” he begins, “I was thinking of what my resolution could be. Do me a favour and tell me yours, I could do with some inspiration.”
“Forgiveness, your highness.” It is not his nature to great another in conversation, with his features devoid of a smile or warm feeling; anger nor bitterness cloud Richard’s visage as he regards Philip. No, he’s rather torn between pity and despair in the company of his brother in law - or would he no longer sport the mantle? Love was little lost between Philip and the Cavendish clan now; Caroline’s existence had barely strung them together, and in death, only bitterness remained. “I resolve to be forgiving - well, and to stop sneaking cigarettes in the middle of the night. It’s a foul vice, and pains my Emma.” They stood in the midst of a splendid assembly, England’s most divine and elite gathered to adorn the grand hall.
Richard is tempted to retract his opening statement - it feels out of place in an atmosphere of exalting joy and giggling ladies, clutching glasses of champagne for stability. Little was gained in honesty; it brought forth unpleasant sentiments, leaving the two conversing to confront emotions better ignored. Stiff British upper-lip, and unbroken civility - he and Philip were raised to live by this creed. Fashioning a smile (which was far more agreeable then the grim expression he previously sported) Richard adopted his normal air of cheer. “I’d say you’d do with a resolution to improve your hand at cricket, your highness. I do believe I’ve bested you twenty times to oh, five perhaps? If I am feeling generous.”
Richard Cavendish, brother to the Duke of Devonshire and Head of the European Branch of the Cavendish Group, arrives with his fiancé Emma Miller. The pair are arm in arm, smiling from ear the ear. As always, Richard favors a tuxedo - opting for a deep blue instead of the usual black, in attempt to be slightly more interesting in his fashion choices.
Richard Cavendish, Earl of Burlington - That’s Big Dicky, to you
introduction below the cut !!!
FULL NAME: Richard Maxime Cavendish
TITLES AND/OR OCCUPATION: Earl of Burlington , Head of the Cavendish European Branch
AGE/DOB: 32, March 18th 1957
HOROSCOPE: Pisces
BIRTHPLACE: London, England
BIRTH ORDER: second born son
PARENTS:
FACECLAIM: Armie Hammer
HEIGHT: 6′5
RECOGNISABLE FEATURES: too damn tall, blue eyes
PERSONALITY TYPE: amiable, easy-going, happy and energetic - golden retriever; in private, brooding and troubled
VIRTUES: warmth, kindness, optimism, joy
VICES: deception, jealousy, infidelity, pride
NATIONALITY: English
RELATIONSHIP STATUS: engaged to Emma Miller
CHILDREN: none
VIEWS TOWARD MONARCHY:
Richard both admires the monarchy and wishes for their favor, whilst harboring a discontent for the family that rules in place of his own. He loved the institution itself and firmly believes England would be grieved if the monarchy was to be permanently wiped out. The richest and most talented are destined to rule the masses, who in turn need a higher class to aspire towards and fawn over. He believes the royal family is slipping, thus losing the favor of the public - who better than his own family, to supplement the charm and grace the royals seem to be lacking at the present?
REPUTATION IN THE PRESS: Richard is regarded by the press as a model aristocrat, boasting both looks with mass appeal, and a personality that is both engaging and endearing. He is considered well-liked and popular, akin to a golden retriever. The connection between him and a loyal companion carry into the perception of him as rather vapid and comprising of surface level qualities. Richard looks marvelous in photos and can quote our greatest literary minds, but seems to lack a personal motivation and deeper intelligence beyond spouting what has come before him. He is deep a trivial member of the aristocracy at times, but he has faced no major scandals - this is derided for lacking depth, but not hated due to a grave misstep. His coupling with the Britain's darling humanitarian has heightened his public presence as of late.
biography:
The second eldest Cavendish was born to fight middle-child syndrome. He is the first of two spare heirs, and thus never faced the daunting task of taking the mantle of Duke - leaving him to be raised to cultivate an image of Cavendish wealth and excellence, sans full responsibility of maintaining the family. Charming and eager, Dick was a benevolent, happy go lucky child; the name Dick has not outgrown him in adulthood, with his peppy demeanor and easy going ways. Richard got along well with his brothers, both of whom found him an easy (and willing) target or pranks or schemes. He was never forgotten by his parents, but in his goodness - and middle child status - he did not shine as the heir to be, or the devilish younger brother to be tamed. Richard was dependable to be good, to be kind; offering guests a sweet smile and a kind word. To be remembered for his goodness, and for none else. Their father became the Duke of Devonshire when Dick was entering his teen years, altering the immediate status of his life. Though their grandfather had been Duke and their family benefited from the title, their father assuming the mantle was an entirely different animal. They grew even closer in proximity to the royal family, and Richard ’s concept of his own wealth and greatness grew tenfold. He began to view himself as a member of an elite, whose status elevated them to a status, on which through their goodness, it was maintained. Richard retained his good-natured and easygoing way, but began to refine himself as the model gentlemen - this meant cultivating a personality to rival his brothers, and to set him apart.
He decided to attend Oxford to study English Literature and Philosophy, continuing his academic journey all the way to a PhD. A man of his status was not expected to take up post teaching the next generation the ways of Austen and Hemingway; but on paper, Richard could be defined as a well-read, educated man. He is both, able to hold valliant conversations defending the honor of Robespierre as a misunderstood hero, or talking about the finer points of Crime and Punishment. The edge Richard chose was bland academia, to be deployed at social events or attending a book launch - Richard had no passion to do anything but be a Cavendish, yet could not be satisfied without a barrage of titles and elites names to pad his ‘about’ section in any newspaper article. He oversees the European Branch of his family’s international diversified property group; with his eldest brother taking charge of Britain and Ireland (Their most immediate and important pieces of portfolio) and his younger, delegated Asia. Having no military career or application for his array of degrees (he would not teach, nor write) Richard applies himself to his position, or more so - toutes it as his occupation, and prized calling, one where his degree is used in his ability to craft a proposal, or to schmooze with European elite.
Richard s’ personality is deemed by many to be one-dimensional - happy, kind, charming and sweet. To most of his family, and to the public, this holds true. Dick is engaged to the beloved Emma Miller, the daughter of a wealthy businessman who has funneled her fortune, energy, and equally blonde good looks in building a massive charity empire. She is beloved for mingling with the poor and needy, without need for guards or distance -setting up funds and schools, seeking to stop hunger in the UK. The two met at one of her charity events, claiming to have been smitten at first eye contact. A whirlwind romance ensued, culminating in a beloved family heirloom being placed upon her finger, to announce the pending nuptials. She declares Richard the most darling man on Earth, and the love of her life. For the most part, he plays the part of the perfect fiance to a T.Richard has no sordid hidden life or devilish personality masked by blonde hair and a chuckle that sounds like Goofy’s British counterpart; but he is brooding, resentful, and grows more desperate for attention as the days pass. He had begun to fade into the woodwork, uneventful in his goodness - which he so carefully crafted, to appeal to his public. Desperate, Richard found the solution in Emma; he has been thrust into the spotlight, adored by the public for loving a woman so good, so well. He isn’t heartless, and cares for Emma - but it isn’t love, not on his end. Instead, he carries on affair in secret, liaisons with a woman he doesn’t quite love either - but indulges his need to undercut a false relationship, with one entirely born a passion he claims cannot be contained.
Richard knows the death of his reputation would be the revelation of the affair, and he had taken the utmost caution to avoid detection. But as the date of the wedding looms, he becomes more reckless; perhaps as a mode of self-protection, he seeks to destroy himself before the marriage can take place. An divorce would be an inconceivable shame for both parties
quick stats +
The brother most likely to aid in covering up another’s transgressions or making excuses to a girlfriend while the brother jumps out the window and makes a run for it
Despite cheating, is a polite man who will order the perfect cup of tea for you and always has dog facts on hand
Enjoys every aspect of the lazy, aristocrat life -playing cricket, going to the club with the lads, an afternoon lie-in, bridge with mother dear, sweaters, biscuits and tea
The current turmoil surrounding the royal family unnerves him, but he believes change is possible - with the Cavendish name front and center, of course
Envies his brothers, and seeks to be as memorable as they are - but loves them, truly.
