Miss Annabelle Howard of Charleston, South Carolina, was in essence a pretty young lady. Her face was round and pretty, her eyes round and blue, her mouth soft and kissable. Her looped-up gown of sky blue showed pretty ankles clad in pale yellow silk hose. Such hose was held in place above the knees by tied silk garters. She wore buckled blue shoes and a white tulle cap from which a tiny silk scarf hung over the back of her fair hair. She looked younger than her age. She was almost twenty-one. Vivacious light shone in her eyes, which were apt to sparkle at the slightest arousal of excitement or merriment. Her complexion was delicately creamy, her bosom plump. Her waist could not have been higher. It was a mere fraction below her bosom.
She had wanted to come to London as soon as the family heard Caroline was not returning to Charleston after the death of Lord Clarence Percival, for that told Annabelle of her sister’s acquired preference for London and her country estate in Sussex. But there was the problem of Martin Appleby, to whom she had been engaged since she was eighteen. Martin was an undemanding young gentleman of old Colonial stock; he was also handsome and God-fearing. But when pressed to name the wedding date, Annabelle demurred and procrastinated, having gradually come to feel that, while Martin was a good man, he was not much fun. She felt she preferred him as a friend, not as a prospective husband, and so the engagement lingered on.
Her parents worried a little. Caroline, her sister, had married in haste at eighteen and repented almost before the ink was dry on the certificate. She herself at twenty was neither married nor repenting of marriage. With so many beautiful girls in Charleston, all fluttering their eyes at prospective beaux, Mr and Mrs Howard felt Annabelle would soon be too old to be taken to the altar, even by good-natured Martin Appleby. In the climate of the Deep South, girls bloomed far in advance of New England’s young ladies, and by sixteen they were sweet peaches ripe and ready for wedlock.
Six months before her twenty-first birthday, Annabelle broke the engagement, protesting she did not truly love Martin. Her mother was shocked, but her sympathetic father let her weep tears on his shoulder and agreed with her suggestion that she quit Charleston for a while and visit Caroline in England.
London, its colourful society, and the brilliance of its grand ballrooms, dazzled her, the more so when the bucks, the young and the mature, gave her so much attention. She was introduced to scions of the nobility, and she even met the Prince of Wales, lately growing portly. She was a trifle confused by his close scrutiny of her bosom and the florid nature of his compliments. She also met one of his brothers, the Duke of Cumberland, who was a different proposition altogether. He took her breath with his physical magnificence, with the spectacular width of his powerful shoulders, the defined muscularity of his thighs, the sheer strength of every line of his face and his aura of indestructible majesty. His right eye was blind, palely blind, but his left was dark, glinting and malicious. He was neither suave of manner nor endearing of appearance. The cast of his features was devilish, and his looks were not improved by a facial scar, the legacy of a wound bravely borne at the battle of Tournai a few years ago. A German duchess of Mecklenburg was destined to become his wife. Various other women who found him strangely exciting had hopes, but none had advanced beyond the role of mistress.
He dressed impeccably. His coats paid tribute to his massive shoulders, and his skin-tight breeches boldly shaped his strong thighs, causing a lady’s eyes to linger and her breath to quicken. To some women he was, with his superb physique and dark wickedness, wholly a man, and his reputed kinship with the devil, written all over him, fascinated them and induced shivers.
He had nothing in common with his oldest brother, the effete Prince of Wales, called ‘Prinny’ by his intimates. Indeed, Cumberland had a great and regal disdain for the effete and all other lesser beings. Under the sensual, peering eyes of the Prince of Wales, Annabelle with her feminine prettiness had experienced a desire to retreat and hide. Under the bold, speculative eye of the Duke of Cumberland, she quickened with sweet excitement. She felt he should have been the heir to the throne, for he was surely made for kingship. Cumberland positively thought so himself.
Annabelle was a monarchist before she was a republican. A royal palace and the brilliance of a royal court had far more magic for her than the businesslike mansion of a president.
At her first meeting with Cumberland, he eyed her, examined her, reflected on her nervous, fluttering curtsey and the unarguable appeal of her décolleté. Then he took her hand, caressed it and said, ‘So, you’re from the Americas, are ye?’ His German accent was deep and guttural. ‘Damned if ye ain’t the prettiest package that ever came out of them. Are ye acquainted with those radical upstarts, Washington and Jefferson?’
‘Sir – Your Highness – I declare!’ she breathed in nervous protest. ‘I vow myself unacquainted with either. Nor do I wish to be, for of all things I cannot show a polite face to men who were so unmannerly in their resentment of the King and his brave Redcoats.’
Cumberland laughed. ‘Ye gods, ye’ll not have witnessed their unmannerliness, sweet wench? Or will ye say ye did?’
‘Mercy, no! I was not yet born when it all began, and only a small child when the Redcoats departed. Sir, you do not see in me one so old as to have stood and watched that coarse Yankee, Sam Adams, at his brutal business of tarring and feathering the Loyalists, do you? Sir, I do declare myself not yet come of age.’
‘But ye’ve still come of sweet, plump prettiness,’ said Cumberland, and Annabelle blushed to her roots.
‘Plump, Your Highness?’ she gasped in dismay.
The sound eye gleamed, the strong teeth gleamed, and the smile was devious. Cumberland knew her for the sister of Caroline, Lady Clarence Percival, an established and unrivalled American beauty who had resisted his every advance, and he would not have been what he was if he had not seen the chance to win the elder by becoming a menace to the younger.
‘Plump?’ he said. ‘Aye, so ye are, my sweet, but only where ye should be. I vow it a delicious plumpness.’
Her blush deepened. Cumberland laughed again, richly, and there began for Annabelle a royal attentiveness and pursuit that swept her off her feet, and had her enamoured all too soon of the man who some said coveted the throne, had no respect for his peers, little reverence for God and kept company with the devil. Certainly, he was intimidating in his towering majesty. Annabelle found him mesmerizing, and he found her a full-grown bloom of the American South who, remarkably, still owned the freshness of virginity. Because he seemed disposed to suggest assignments of a compromising nature, she declared her virginity to him, and begged him not to regard her lightly or carelessly.
His sound eye took on its wicked light. ‘By God, a virgin? Say ye so, sweet girl?’
‘Sir, I beg, do not embarrass me so. It is said and it is true.’
‘Damn me, ye must be the only one in London,’ he said, and laughed at her blushes. But there she was, a sweetness to be savoured at leisure, not bruised in haste. If her sister regarded the dalliance with angry frowns and worried glances, so much the better. Let her, Caroline, come into his arms and he would cease his pursuit of virginity. Meanwhile, he enjoyed the teasing manner of his pursuit, and Annabelle was forever suffering quivers of excitement in his presence. In the compulsiveness of infatuation, she acquired and exhibited gowns that were as revealingly arch as they were dangerously provocative. She could not help herself in her desire to catch the eye of a man whose royal arrogance and uncompromising masculinity made him such an excitement to her. Cumberland, studying the increasingly arch contours, remarked that if all the roses of the American South bloomed so fulsomely, then it was a lusher nursery than he had supposed.
Annabelle had all the demure mannerisms and fresh looks of a girl no more than eighteen, despite being within reach of the age when she could be her own mistress. If at that age she yielded to a clandestine affair with Cumberland, she would be no less responsible than he. She would be unable to make any claim on him in law unless she had his written promise to marry her. Marry her? The thought of being the wife of a son of King George turned her dizzy.
In the library of her sister’s London house, her blue gown seemed to swim and float as she advanced towards Captain Burnside. She did not look at Caroline, for there were secrets in her eyes, secrets she could not wholly hide, and she knew Caroline could be discomfitingly observant. She smiled at the debonair visitor, who bowed.
‘Sir?’ she murmured, extending her hand.
‘Captain Burnside,’ said Caroline, ‘this is my sister, Annabelle Howard.’
The captain lifted Annabelle’s hand to his lips and returned her smile. ‘Faith, I’m enchanted,’ he said.
‘Oh, I surely do think the manners of English gentlemen the last word in gallantry,’ said Annabelle.
‘A pretty coating over our many imperfections,’ said the captain. In his slender length he was as tall as Cumberland, but without the duke’s bruising weight.
‘But, sir, a man without imperfections must be very dull,’ said Annabelle, electing still to avoid her sister’s eye.
‘What am I to make of myself, then?’ smiled the captain. ‘I’m not only sadly imperfect but also miserably dull.’
Annabelle laughed. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘by that you have just shown you are not dull at all. Might I ask if you are lunching with us?’
‘Alas, I’ve an appointment with my tailor, as your sister will confirm. I should have been on my way ten minutes ago. You’ll pardon me?’ He kissed her hand again, lightly, bringing another smile to her face. Her lively eyes took in the suppleness of his physique, his close-fitting pantaloons shaping sinewy legs. How well English gentlemen dressed, she thought, how finely their tailored garments clasped their bodies.
‘You all must go before we’ve scarcely met?’ she said, needing the kind of company that would help her avoid Caroline’s suspicious eyes and difficult questions.
‘Oh, you will meet him again quite soon, I dare say,’ said Caroline, ‘for he is to be our guest in a few days.’
Annabelle’s eyes danced. A handsome man in the house would surely constitute an entertainment. ‘I declare myself delighted, sister,’ she said.
Captain Burnside made his bow to Caroline.
She said pointedly, ‘Yes, your tailor, of course, and do not forget you are expected here on Friday, in the afternoon.’
‘To be sure,’ he said, smiling in the fashion of an old friend, ‘and the prospect is all of pleasurable, as much so as the enjoyment of our reunion.’
He departed with a commendable ease of manner, leaving Annabelle a little disappointed that his tailor had prior claim on him at this moment, while Caroline wondered if his sudden going was related to the fact that he had fifty golden guineas tucked away on his dubious person.
‘I do declare, such a pleasant gentleman,’ said Annabelle, and turned to leave.
‘He’s an old friend who has been serving overseas,’ said Caroline. ‘I am pleased, however, that you met him before he left. A moment before you go, Annabelle.’
‘Tra-la-la,’ said Annabelle with simulated raillery, ‘you are going to confide in me concerning your old friend? The reunion was sweet?’
‘He is a friend,’ said Caroline stiffly, ‘nothing more.’
‘Oh? He is married, I dare say?’
‘No. He has been too active with his regiment to find time for marriage.’
‘Such a waste,’ sighed Annabelle, ‘when he’s so engaging and appealingly handsome.’
‘Do you think so?’ Caroline was aloof. ‘His looks are passable, perhaps, but one wishes for more than looks in a man. Now, what did you buy in the shops?’
‘Oh, I saw nothing that took my eye,’ said Annabelle airily.
‘Nothing? I thought you set on a new hat at least.’
‘I met Elvira.’
‘Lady Mornington?’ Caroline’s eyes held their searching look. Lady Mornington was a confidante of the Duke of Cumberland. ‘She took your mind off hats?’
‘We had coffee at Beaufort House.’
Beaufort House was the London residence of Lady Mornington.
‘Just the two of you, pray?’
Annabelle made a gesture. ‘Oh, you surely do plague me, sister, with your questions,’ she said, ‘and in a way not even our pa would.’
‘Pa would be as concerned as I am about your indiscretions,’ said Caroline.
‘Oh, hop, skip and fiddle,’ said Annabelle, ‘I vow myself a model of good behaviour.’
‘When do you intend to return home?’
‘Caroline, I declare! You are the unkindest sister to so rattle me, and you know I don’t intend to return home. I am set on adopting England, as you have, for it is so cool and green, and Charleston is so hot and sticky. But there, dear Caroline, I do not mean to sound vexed with you, only to wish you more indulgent and less critical.’
Caroline stifled a sigh and said no more. Her concerned attempts repeatedly to examine her sister had reached the stage where they were more likely to drive Annabelle into Cumberland’s bed than keep her out of it. She was frankly fearful that her lushly healthy sibling needed only to find herself in the right environment and the right atmosphere for her to allow Cumberland to take her. Intuitively, Caroline was certain it had not happened yet, but just as intuitively she was certain it was not far off. In Cumberland’s presence at functions, receptions and the like, Annabelle took on the flushed look of an excited and tempted virgin. She had her feminine gifts, yes, her arts and her archness, but within the sophisticated circles of London she was a simple, vulnerable innocent. Women smiled and whispered behind their fans to see her in such susceptibility to the intimidating qualities of Cumberland.
The sons of King George were all voracious ladykillers, and prodigious in the ease with which they brought their mistresses or their fancy pieces to pregnancy. Caroline shuddered at the thought of Annabelle, inherently quite a sweet wench, finding herself with child by Cumberland. She must be saved from that. Dear heaven, Captain Burnside must effect her salvation. She had seemed quite taken with him, and Caroline could not think why he had not stayed to capitalize immediately on that. Had the fifty guineas taken him off, never to return? If so, she would seek him out with the assistance of Bow Street Runners and ensure he spent a miserable term in gaol regretting his sin of betrayal.
In truth, Captain Burnside had departed as a matter of psychology, leaving Annabelle miffed that he had not lingered to savour her prettiness, as so many men did. The attentiveness of the Corinthians quickened her, making her feel that her desirability was such as seriously to affect the emotions of Cumberland. Also, she had felt the captain’s departure left her exposed to Caroline’s suspicions. She was sensitive with the guilt of shameless moments. It was true she had met Lady Mornington, but not while shopping. It had been by appointment, at Beaufort House. There, after some gushing words, Lady Mornington had conducted her from the drawing room to the music room, where Cumberland sat at the harpsichord, his long, strong fingers depressing keys to bring forth the lightest and airiest of musical potpourri, although to look at him one would have thought his forte was to conjure thunder and lightning from the instrument.
Lady Mornington withdrew after a few moments, leaving Annabelle quite unchaperoned, and Annabelle became bereft of speech as Cumberland, on his feet, took her hands, caressed them, kissed them, smiled at her and then bent his head to place his strong lips on hers. It was the first kiss she had received from him on her mouth, and it robbed her of her breath. It lingered, a kiss of exploration, his lips so audacious and compelling that the dew on hers was gathered like honey.
Weakness enveloped her as his bold mouth repeatedly robbed the freshness of hers, and she could scarcely believe his audacity when, with quick deftness, he released her breasts from the low, revealing bodice and surveyed their shy, quivering plumpness, not with the gleaming smile of an unrepentant satyr, but with the intrigued and deliberate interest of a man discovering delectability hitherto unknown. Annabelle crimsoned, and her uncovered bosom itself took on a rosy flush. Mute, mesmerized and dizzy, her virginal blushes were a sweet delight to the royal roué, her unadorned breasts surely showing the shyness of the untouched. A man who took what he wanted and did what he wanted, though in ways variously subtle whenever subtlety brought more enjoyment than forceful arrogance, Cumberland had no qualms concerning how he might use the virgin sister to achieve conquest of the widowed one. If Caroline thought him intent on bedding Annabelle, she underrated his deviousness. His bedding of Annabelle was only a threat at the moment. If Caroline herself would yield, then Annabelle could go her way still virginal. However, there was the play and the teasing promise of seduction that would, inevitably perhaps, so arouse the sweet innocent that she would recklessly declare to her sister her intent to become his light of love.
Cumberland smiled. A master of the calculated approach to all objectives, he knew Miss Annabelle Howard was unlikely to go home and protest that he had laid unwanted hands on her bosom. Indeed, she stood there in blushing acceptance of his survey, making no attempt to veil herself. Annabelle, further crimsoning under his regard, might have swooned or fled or cried out as his hands reached. But she was too giddy to fly, too enamoured to cry out, and too excited to swoon. Faintly and throatily, she begged his mercy, then experienced burning and palpitations as, in his mercy, he began to caress her breasts as lightly and gently as he had been caressing the keys of the harpsichord. It brought the most alarming, yet the most exquisite sensations to her bosom, and it brought shaking weakness to her limbs. She experienced a wild willingness to be all things to him.
But Cumberland had no intention of ravishing her, and certainly not in Lady Mornington’s music room. He merely wished so to condition her for what might be that her emotional state would arouse unbearable alarm in her sister. It was natural and inevitable for him to be in devious seduction of her pretty breasts, for they had been pouting invitingly at him for many weeks.
He seated himself on a chair. He drew the blushing, unresisting Annabelle on to his lap, and there she burned and palpitated and begged him to desist, although her mouth responded to his and her sweetly used breasts swelled and stiffened. His touch was subtly sweet indeed, gentling the virgin bosom, and she had neither the sophistication to discountenance him nor the will to deny him. Unlearned in the arts of physical intimacy, she did not know whether her bosom was being seduced or truly loved. She only knew that there was such excitement and pleasure that innocence and ignorance were irrelevant. She drew warm breath, she expelled warm sighs, and burned again to see how shamelessly naked her breasts were.
She felt perplexed and confused only when Cumberland, satisfied that she could be taken at a time of his own choosing, eventually restored her bosom to its covering. He did so with such finality that she suspected, in dismay, he had found them wanting.
‘Oh, sir, did you not like them?’ she breathed.
He laughed, his sound eye mocking. ‘Faith, my cuddle-some beauty, d’ye think they lack sweet prettiness? On my heart, no. Ye’ve a fine pair, by God ye have, and I’ll swear they showed the soft blush of the undiscovered.’
‘Your Highness, you surely are the first man to put them in such confusion,’ sighed Annabelle.
His dark brows arched, and his expression was plainly wicked. ‘Is their confusion a reproach to me?’ he murmured. ‘Ye’ll not ask me to be in contrition, for you own a bosom worthy of tender unveiling and loving caresses.’
‘But to do so, sir,’ breathed Annabelle, escaping from his lap and standing to reproach him as she felt she should, ‘to uncover them and render them so very confused, oh, it was a boldness I did not expect. Also, I vow, it was unfair, for how might I in my weakness defend myself against your royal high and mightiness, and your manly strength?’
‘Damn me, did I use strength?’ Cumberland’s smile was amused. ‘I thought I gave you only gentleness, and I swear I left no bruises on your pretty pair.’
‘Oh, sir, I declare this conversation too immodest,’ she protested, ‘and cannot continue with same, only entreat you to remember that my parents cherish me. Accordingly, I would prefer noble intentions to further gentleness of that kind.’
‘Noble intentions?’ The dark eye mocked her again. ‘Ye gods, what have we here, a blushing rose with a pricking thorn?’ He came to his feet, but before he could mesmerize anew, Annabelle found strength enough and sense enough to fly.
And she did not, after all, as Cumberland thought she might, reveal to her sister, by way of agitated emotions, that she was closer than ever to yielding to him.
But she did not have to. Caroline knew that her susceptible sister was a mere step from his bed. She knew because she recognized an infatuation that more than matched that which she had suffered herself. During their courtship, she had almost given herself more than once to Lord Clarence Percival, and had consequently listened to his proposal with heady relief and all the physical excitement commensurate with virginity.
Captain Burnside’s talents were an absolute necessity.
For her part, Annabelle could not help wishing that her sister’s old friend would so engage Caroline’s fancy as to divert her attention from all affairs except her own. She could perhaps contrive to encourage the handsome captain to set his cap at Caroline. No one could say that Caroline, with her inherited wealth and sumptuous beauty, was not among the best catches in London.
She wondered how much of a catch she was herself. She thought of Cumberland, and she sweetly burned.