"Sorry, but I intend to go see Hugh Beauman and Mister Beauman and get this straightened out right now, while I have shore leave," he replied heatedly, setting down his glass and tugging his waist-coat straight.
"And do you also intend to continue refusing me?" she asked.
"I don't see how it would be possible," he told her. "And yes, I did consider your kind offer. I'm really flattered and grateful you find me that attractive, Mrs. Hillwood, but I must decline. I must be my own man, d'ye see."
"I am sorry you feel that way, Alan, and so shall you be. Very sorry, indeed." She frowned, setting down her cup. "I shall give you one chance to reconsider, after I have told you something else to help you make up your mind."
"And what, pray, could that be?" he snapped, eager to be away, and a trifle afraid of what she might come up with. "You cannot force people to shower their affections."
"As you said, we are probably an item of gossip, Alan, but as long as we maintain a certain decorum, there's no problem. Everyone knows about my marriage, and what two estranged people do, two people with money and high position, is their own business."
"So?" he sneered, getting impatient to leave.
"But, if a ceitain upstart young naval officer, who has already caused a storm of comment by his brash lust," she narrated with relish, "was to write a note to a lady of breeding and position, another lady at the same time, expressing how much he would like to couple with that lady, in graphic detail and language even uncultured men would flinch from, then how much more trouble do you think he could get into?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Last year, before you sailed away to glory, you left me a note, Alan. Do you remember it?" She smiled in victory.
"Oh, Christ." Yes, he did remember it. She had finally gone off into gin-induced slumber, and he had left her a letter on her pillow, thanking her for bedding him, and hoping to repeat the experience the next time he was in port. And, to match her own lusty vocabulary, he had phrased the contents in pure bosun's mate Billingsgate, of good, well-known English words of mostly four letters in reference to her body, his body, what was done with them, and certain favorite variations in technique or novelty he would like to perform again.
"Let me get this straight. If I walk out of here without giving you what amounts to permanent possession of my prick, you'll hold that note over my head?"
"Exactly."
"You silly bitch, what would people say about you if it got to be common knowledge? You'd be cutting your own throat! Go ahead!"
"I might remind you it's undated, Alan. If I say I received it just yesterday, then it has nothing to say about my reputation, but everything to say about yours."
"You wouldn't!"
"And while my poor husband couldn't care less if I open myself to every man and boy in Kingston, he could not ignore such an insult to the honor of his wife," she went on remorselessly with a pleased smile at her cleverness. "Discreet fucking is no fucking at all, but importunate addresses from a scandal-ridden Corinthian such as you would be more than he could stand. It would be a killing offense. While I may play the shocked matron. It may even appear that I spurned you, and you wrote that note in desperate want of me, to convince me to bed you. In that instance, my repute could work for me. While I have been known to succumb to charming gentlemen, I most certainly do not have to entertain foul-mouthed gutter-snipes."
"You really don't care what I say, do you?" Alan muttered, in shaky awe of just how low she could go. "If I give in, you force me to stay with you, and destroy my chances with Lucy Beauman. If I refuse, I still am denied Lucy, and you get your revenge. Either way, it's not that you want me so much, as you don't want me to dismiss you before you're ready. I see your game. You don't want to be jilted for somebody younger and prettier. My God, do you really think you'd make me perform like a trained terrier? Roll over, boy. Good boy, here's a treat. Cock-stand, boy, big 'un!"
"So what is your answer, sir? Stay and survive this contretemps?" she demanded evenly. "Or go and be destroyed utterly. Either way, you may forget any arrangement with Lucy Beauman. I do not mean to ruin you. And as you may remember, I can be forgiving and sweet to you. Face facts and stay, Alan dear. And I shall treat this as just a little domestic argument that occurs between lovers."
"Either way, as you put it, I'm looking at a duel. Hugh Beauman or your sodomite of a husband." Alan sighed. "All to assure yourself of some energetic sex? To salve your pride?"
"Would you deny me my pride?" She laughed, thinking her victory complete as she watched him vacillate, almost deflate with resignation. "Stay with me and answer my desires, and you'll be safe from further scandal. And I shall reward you with all the fondness of a satisfied lover. I shall dote on your every whim. And spare you the necessity of a duel, if you fear such."
He was indeed halfway to giving in to her will, of taking the most logical and safest course, reminding himself that she was an impressive and pleasurable ride; it wasn't as if he would have to get re-enthused about mounting her, even with a gun to his head. He had blown away any hopes of marrying Lucy Beauman now or in the future, so what was the difference. Yet in his weakest moment, she struck sparks on the flinty core of his stubborness with her comment that questioned his courage. By God, no one did that and lived to tell of it!
"Damn you to Hell for that!" he spat. "You can't buy me like a joint of beef, and you can't threaten me. Bring your husband on and I'll chop him to flinders! If he wants to blaze, I'll put a pistol ball right through him! If that makes you a deliriously happy widow into the bargain, then be damned to you!"
"You shall regret this," she rasped, her face paling. "I thought you were a young man of my own tastes, grown beyond the petty strictures of our hypocritical society. But I now see you're just another common sort. A secret hymn-singer with no courage to live his own life."
"Better that than a draggled whore who has to hire men to top her." He grinned, finished his wine and flung the glass across the room to shatter on the stuccoed wall. "Damme, have I ruined the set? A pity, ain't it. Bye, love."
On his way to Hugh Beauman's town house, he bought a light gutta-percha cane, little thicker than his index finger. When the servant announced him, Anne came running out into the front hall.
"Hugh is not here, Alan. And you should not be," she warned.
"Where is he, then?" Alan asked. "I have things to discuss with him."
"He went to father Beauman's. Oh, surely, you won't fight him! He's ready to kill you! Do anything but fight him."
"When he asks, tell him this. You took the risk to your repute to warn me off Betty Hillwood, do you understand?" Alan told her. "You knew, you would have sent me a letter, but you saw me in town and took the risk. There is nothing between us and you touched my hand once."
"He would not believe me," she almost wailed, sure that blood would be spilled before the day was out.
"Blame it all on Betty Hillwood, remember that. She started the rumor, her or her friends, to get even with me."
"He will not speak to me, so how may I tell him anything?"
"Because of Captain Mclntyre?" Alan asked.
"How… Oh God."
"I'll not see you hurt any more, Anne," he promised. "I've most like lost any chance with Lucy, but I'll get you out of this. Remember what I said."
"Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, sirs," the butler announced, and Alan stalked past him to confront Hugh Beauman and his father, both of whom looked shocked that he would even dare show his face to them. But after they got over their shock, their angry expressions prophecied a hanging.