She wondered how she had resisted Rhett for so long.

While she obstinately denied any deeper feeling for him, she knew enough that there was some thrill to be had consorting with a man of his reputation. Insult after insult, mockery after mockery, he kept returning and she had allowed him, for he had a charm that attracted her more than she cared to admit. In the foggy memory of Aunt Pitty's parlor, she recalled his words distinctly, the Parisian green bonnet tied securely beneath her chin, his dark eyes teasing.

"You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how."

In his arms, she went limp, her limbs moving at their own languid accord under the heady influence of his tender kisses. Her hands, buried in his hair, ushered him closer, the silverware softly clattering against porcelain as she fell back unto the mattress. A whimper escaped her mouth as he focused his attention away from her plush lips, his warmth searing through the soft pile of rippling skirts, his hands caressing the stiff boning of her corset (and like her, seemed to turn pliant with his touch).

"Sweet," he whispered against her neck, "so sweet."

Before, he had seemed so renegade, debonair, and unreachable–not at all a man who loved a woman any more than he loved her body.

Now, she was not so certain.

"Rhett," she muttered, nudging him away. The soft illumination of the hall pricked at her vision. His warm breath fanned across her cheek. "The door."

His head dipped back down, peppering gentle kisses against her eyes and grazing the tip of her nose.

"Rhett!" She weakly turned her head.

"Damn," he mumbled and walked briskly to the door, throwing the lock. In the darkness, she could barely discern his silhouette, the blur of white and navy garments approaching her cautiously, the slim fractures of hazy moonlight caught delicately upon the food tray and drifting along the room, softly whispering as he placed it upon the armchair. He lifted one knee on the bed, though the other hesitated to follow. Propping herself up on her elbows, she looked towards him expectantly. Uncertainty was a world she seldom associated with Rhett Butler.

"Sit up for a moment," he murmured. When she did, his hands fell upon her shoulders, towering over her with an indiscernible expression, saying nothing. She frowned, the lust-filled haze dampened by an initially faint, but growing irritation.

After several seconds of silence, she shrugged his hands away and the man had the gall to laugh.

"Well, what is it?"

He smiled cryptically. "Do you love me, Scarlett?"

So abrupt was the question, she barely had the time (nor the guile) to respond. But, and this made him grin, the answer was already written on her face–transparent as a pane of glass.

"What a question!" she huffed, comically bewildered, adjusting her bodice that suddenly seemed far too disheveled for her liking.

"That's not a no."

"I—"

"No longer swooning over Ashley Wilkes?"

Her spine straightened, her body repulsed by the very idea. "God's nightgown, no! Don't even joke about it. I realized that I didn't love Ashley a while ago after I returned from Charleston."

"Why the change in heart, I wonder?" He thought aloud, taking her hand and tracing each finger with the mindless brush of his thumb. Each caress lured the confession out of her, tempting it to pounce from her lips. But, she remained steadfast in her evasiveness. She was made a fool once, dragged on tirelessly with half-hearted, convoluted sentiment. She would only need to hear it once from him to believe it.

"Oh, you seem to know the answer already, you brute. Why must you torture it out of me?"

As her cheeks flushed, he laughed lightly and drew closer. Warm lips brushed against her cheek, lingering before departing then lingering again, over and over, skimming over excruciatingly slow, before taking her lips in the process. Before she could reciprocate, inebriated by him as she was, he pulled away and cradled her face in his hands.

"Because I love you, Scarlett. It's only natural for me to wonder if you do too."

At once, she sat up on her knees and clutched his shoulders.

"Say it again," she demanded.

"I love you." He chuckled at her awestruck expression. "My dear, you know how to leave a man hanging. Shouldn't a proper response to the expression of my tender-hearted affections be more along the lines of, I don't know, 'I love you too, Rhett?' Unless you don't share my sentiments, then let's save us both some time–"

Before he could finish, she threw her arms around him, nearly knocking the both of them over in the collision.

She should have expected his confession to forego all expectation, all convention of the love she conjured in her mind. Ashley taught her little except for dreams, nothing of the real world, and with him, she nearly followed. A life resigned to chasing a man who did not love her–it was horrifying to think she could befall to such fate. She squeezed tighter, pressing her cheek against his own and ridding the unpleasant thought from her mind.

"I do, Rhett," she whispered into his ear. "Much more than you know."

Alone and guilt-ridden, Eleanor expected the worst. She imagined the many forms of Scarlett's face, scrunched in dismay and tinged with accusation, her green eyes evasive, dull, and murky. Everything was conjured within her head except the reality of that morning.

The girl waltzed down the stairs, wide-smiled, her enthusiasm palpable, as if the events of yesterday were a bygone memory, greeting her without any displeasure or strain. Strangely, she was brighter than she had ever been and she wondered at the reason for her sudden amicability until the cause itself walked through the door and transformed the dazed look before her eyes.

Living in that house, she thought she had seen it all. But, he managed to surprise her for after a long, dismal interlude, he seemed well and truly happy.

Under the shade of the trickling willow tree, two heads huddled together with nothing to amuse themselves but one another. Their voices hushed in a gentle, tender ensemble. Every now and then, he laughed heartily at one of her fleeting, off-hand remarks which she returned with an indulgent smile. A sly hand brushed intimately against the girl's arm in a manner so familiar that had Eleanor gotten the inclination to ponder beyond his happiness, she would question the extent to which they dared. But, none of the respectable drabble littered her mind, content as she was with the scene before her, a welcome sight amongst the usual infighting.

There was none of the artifice, the faux smiles, the baleful, cynical eyes–the defenses crumbled when met with an adoring gaze, and he basked in the glow, allowing a transparency in expression that left Eleanor in complete awe. For months, she believed she was losing her boy, that the contrived illusion of familial peace would shatter, that they would reach the point where even coexistence was no longer an option.

Against all odds, she allowed herself this bit of hope.

It seemed the same mood touched the world, convincing it to keep the peace for one day, for however long it could hold out. It rendered her silent, unmoving until Rosemary joined her and took her attention away, though only for a moment.

Clearing her throat, the two heads turned swiftly, colored with embarrassment at their frivolity being observed. He bore such an easy grin, it fooled her into believing the misery was a thing of the past.

"There is a bazaar this week-end. Will you come with us?"

The boy turned to his companion, with unprecedented attentiveness, and after a brief exchange of whispers, he smiled.

"I think so, Scarlett hasn't danced one bit since she arrived and we must remedy that."

At the mention of her name, Rosemary, with wide eyes, looked up to her mother, tugging on her sleeve.

"Oh, if she goes, I go too."

Eleanor paused, looking at the willful child.

"What did she say, Mother?" Rhett called out. He approached closer to hear the answer.

"She wants to come with us."

Scarlett sighed, following right behind him. If propriety allowed it, she suspected the girl would have her arm around his own, preventing him from ever leaving her side.

"It's hardly a place for a child," she remarked off-handedly.

The girl stuck out her tongue and chirped, "But you said I was a lady!"

Rhett snickered. The two ladies did not find him very funny.

"You may come with us when you are older, darling."

It was not at all the response she wished to hear. The girl's mouth twisted into a scowl and she slid off of her mother's lap, dusting her skirts in a manner far too grown. After a petulant stomp of her foot (a more pleasant reminder of her age) she marched back into the home, grumbling and muttering utterances of defiance.

Why did her children share the strange notion of growing up so quickly?

"I'll talk some sense into her," Scarlett muttered before disappearing into the house.

His eyes followed her and in his longing gaze, Eleanor quickly forgot about the hiccup.

"Someone is in a good mood today," she teased. "I only wonder why."

He chuckled. "I'm not exactly hiding it well, aren't I?"

"Neither of you are, my dear," she said simply and beckoned for him to join her sitting down. She eyed his feet as his weight slowed the sway of the porch swing, once again reminded of how grown he was. No longer was he that little boy she always thought him to be, that sometimes she wished he would be. But, looking up, en profile he looked so much like his father, a man so misguided by self-endorsed principle, so opposed to admitting mistake.

Patting his hand, she must have surprised him with the sudden affection. "You love her, yes?"

"I do," he relented, cautious of her intention.

"Will you marry her?"

Just like his father…

He grimaced. "If she wants it."

…backing up into himself at the thought of it.

"You're not sure."

"There is no rush. Why should we marry right away if it is not necessary?"

Looking at him, she realized how despite all his fronts of maturity, he was still his father's son. Pivoting between two worlds, he remained untethered to both, free to do as he pleased, take as he pleased. Marriage to Scarlett was a union to the Old Guard, to polite societies, to his father's people. And despite all her impulsivities, she was lady, a Robillard, and she resided in that realm he grew to freshly despise.

"Rhett, there's only so much time until people start talking."

The bitterness returned, stealing the cherished happiness from his face. And she had done it again–ruining the peace, the idyll life.

He stood abruptly, the swing lulling to a stop. "Let them talk! It is Scarlett and I's business anyway!"

She did not reply for a while, only saw the tension in his shoulders, imagined the cynicism return, the artifice resurface.

Her voice reduced to a whisper. "I only want the best for you, is all."

He turned, softening (was it pity?), and kneeled down.

"I know. It isn't you that frustrates me," he murmured, kissing her hand. "Thank you for looking out for me, Mother, but I'm capable now."

Something urgent surged within her and she clutched his hand tightly, remembering her son's face, lest she forget it. He smiled warmly, patting her hand as if she were the child, and slipped away inside the house, his voice booming and her laughter gurgling and the gaiety revived.

The two did little to quell the gossip at the bazaar. It was hardly one round around the vendor booths before it became a certain belief that Scarlett O'Hara was to marry into the Butler family by the end of the season. The scheming duo barreled out of the dance floor in a fit of giggles, ignoring the scandalized eyes behind flailing fans and the sounds of incredulity masked into clutched handkerchiefs. She cared little and she presumed nothing could spoil her mood, not even the glowering face of Stephen Butler from across the room.

Now, with her newly-found insight, she knew the meaning of the prolonged looks that Captain Butler had given her in Atlanta, even when she was dressed sorely in widow weeds. It was a look of expectancy, of yearning, reaching for every suggestion that she felt any remnant of love for him, however, eclipsed by the love of Ashley Wilkes. He called on her, took her out, drew out of mourning, and most importantly, waited. Waited for her to return his gaze and see him as he saw her.

She understood now.

"Don't look at me that way Scarlett, I am tempted to finish what we started last night."

Her cheeks were infused with a flattering shade of pink. "How could you say that? Someone may hear you."

"Is that what–"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, it bothers me."

"At least you admit it now," he chuckled.

Before she could retort, she spotted one of the family darkies enter the venue, and while his demeanor appeared calm (yet always carrying that degree of sadness often seen in his kind), his eyes searched frantically before landing on the man in front of her.

"Mister Rhett," he addressed solemnly, putting his mouth by his ear.

As soon as the older man relayed the news, his wide smile faded. He jerked upright. They exchanged a hush of hurried words. Fear–it was a novel emotion to witness on Rhett Butler's face. His fear was so plain to see. It frightened her.

"I'll meet you outside," Rhett replied, sternly, and the man nodded, slipping back out as swiftly and unnoticed as he entered.

And the festivities carried on.

"What is it?"

"It's Rosemary," he supplied gravely. "They can't find her."

She winced. It was her hand that nurtured thoughts of ladies and balls and dances.

"Do you think she tried to follow us here?" she asked.

"I don't know. I'll go help look for her, but I don't want to worry Mother just yet. If she asks, simply tell her I had an errand to run."

Just as he turned to leave, she pulled on his sleeve. "Rhett."

"Yes?"

"Rosemary wouldn't go too far. You will find her."

He kissed her hand tenderly in return. A few seconds later, he was across the room.

It was the last she saw of him that night.

While waiting, Scarlett flitted from stall to stall to pass the time, her hand brushing aimlessly upon piles of lace and frippery, in a poor effort to ignore the prickling sense of dread as his absence dragged on. It did not help that Eleanor continued to look at her peculiarly, suspicious ever since his unannounced disappearance, her eyes following the mindless wandering around the bustling room.

She paid little attention to the overzealous vendors, keeping a practiced, placid smile upon her face, until a pillowcase was jerked from her fingertips, a frigid voice following quickly behind.

"Miss O'Hara."

She flinched at the wooden eyes that stared back at her. The girl was not dressed in black, though eerily reminded Scarlett of that downtrodden widow at the Atlanta bazaar, surrounded in gaiety yet barred from participating–the strain of matronhood weighing down on the young girl–for she was certainly no older than twenty. Upon further inspection, the dress was dyed a muted blue, trimmed with simple, austere lace, commanding only brief glances, certainly so different from the attentive, devoted gazes of her southern belle days.

After her silence, she smiled bitterly. "You don't remember me."

"No, I apologize. May you remind me where we have met?"

"Never formally. It was at the Butler barbeque."

Scarlett stared a few seconds longer before recognition fell upon her.

"You're the girl from the buggy ride!"

"Yes," she clipped, irritated to be referred to in such a way. "I'm that fool. You must be relieved, if you hadn't interrupted, it would be Rhett and I, and you wouldn't have put on such a show today."

Scarlett smiled falsely as a couple passed by, their eyes discreetly passing between them and the products, equally on display. Her hand waved around an embroidered handkerchief, seeming to any observer to be absolutely fascinated, while under her breath she muttered:

"Even if Rhett went with you, he would not have married you, then you'd be ruined and unmarried."

"And yet here I am, a married woman to avoid just that, so it seems I'd be miserable either way."

Scarlett said nothing. Her hand fell and the handkerchief with it.

"Where is your husband?" she asked, mustering some bit of kindness. "Should he not make himself useful by dancing with you? It's no wonder you feel miserable."

The girl turned away, fiddling with her gloves. It was not often that Scarlett pitied others, but it was difficult not to—the girl was clearly miserable (which only drove her poor opinion of the honorable route further into the ground).

"He's not fond of dancing," she murmured. "Or much else."

"Do you not get out much?"

"No. People only stare."

She pressed on. "Visitors?"

"No," she whispered. "They still blame me for it."

Scarlett shrugged carelessly. "Alright then. I plan on going shopping next week, you can join if you wish."

It took a second for the girl to reply, shocked as she was by the offer. Scarlett wasn't certain where it came from either, the words just spilled out, caution to the wind.

The girl smiled slightly, shaking her head. "I appreciate your kindness, but I will have to refuse. I can't rely on hiding behind your skirts–you won't be in Charleston forever. Besides, I might not be able to be outside for long."

She said nothing as the girl rubbed her stomach absently. None of the glee, the adoration. Only sheer and utter defeat. Resigned, the girl gave way to fate.

One thing puzzled her though.

"You say I won't be here long, but you never know–"

"Has he proposed to you yet like everyone says?"

"Not yet," she replied levelly, soberness hitting her like a physical impact. In the daze of it all, the thought had not once crossed her mind. She was right, how sweet and willing she had been, and he hadn't even asked!

The girl frowned. "Well, he may or may not. I only hope for your sake he does."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It wasn't an insult. It's clear as day that the man loves you, so you're not the issue here. It's always been him. But I admit, he hasn't looked so happy since we were children, and I can't help but be envious. Maybe it suits only some of us. Or maybe it skipped over me for some reason. If only I–"

Before she could continue, a man approached, his dress austere and face unsmiling, kissing the girl mechanically on the cheek. Eyeing the two women, he must have misread the tenseness in Scarlett's face for his expression towards his wife was nothing short of accusatory. No longer that lovesick, naive boy, he shed the softness that once reminded her of Charles Hamilton for a demeanor that matched the likes of men such as Stephen Butler. Briefly, she wondered if Charlie would see her the same way if he had lived and really gotten to know her.

"If you excuse us, Miss O'Hara. I would like to have a word with my wife."

The girl sighed, relinquishing a small, genuine smile. "Goodbye, Scarlett."

The two took to a little corner of the booth before she could ever respond.

"Goodbye," she trailed off, baffled.

She hadn't even remembered the girl's name.

Rhett found his sister after an hour or so of scouring the Butler grounds, turning the entire house upside down, tracking every corner and crevice from yard to interior, only to stumble upon her by way of his lingering sentiment, drawn as he was to Scarlett's door. As soon as he entered, the search was over, and there she was, asleep in the closet of their guest room, fashioning a mattress out of Scarlett's many gowns and petticoats. A slipper, many sizes too big, engulfed her tiny foot. The rush of garments, stemming from the tampered valise, were strewn haphazardly across the floor and woven between her outstretched limbs. Amidst the disorder, her small, serene face was pressed flush against a flurry of wrinkled skirts (that would surely leave the owner horrified) and cradled by a luscious velvet bonnet, tied sloppily below her chin.

"Tired of dress-up now, are you?" He chuckled to himself and lifted her from the makeshift throne of adolescence, the skirts rustling as they spilled from her lap. "Not quite yet, my dear sister."

Tucking Rosemary back into her bedroom was a swift task, though, despite his excitement, he made a leisurely return to the venue as if the bazaar was placed on hold, paused in his honor, and waited eagerly to resume until his eventual return. In the peaceful stroll, a far cry from the past tumultuous months (and a welcome intervention to the sudden gravity of his requited love), he reveled in the precarious, timid hope that was smothered under the watchful eye of his father. The expulsion cast such an uncertain shadow on his future and up until last night he felt truly trapped, and without any safe bets, he was ready to gamble.

But, she returned with just as much impetuosity as she entered his life, and halted his dilemma, like a cork to a bottle. With her, the grimness of Charleston wilted away and he wondered if it was possible to hold on just a little longer to the city, its people. For a moment, his mother's words of matrimony echoed in his mind and he considered the possibility. Briefly.

A few minutes later, he could hear the distant music, blending into the stillness of night, the lively chatter causing him to increase his pace. He could imagine her waiting petulantly, her striking face imbued with annoyance at his delay. His feet hurried. The music grew louder. Approaching the venue, embellished only with an austere banner, his pace stalled as he spotted a slight figure cowering by a dank, unassuming alleyway. Fiddles played gaily into the night. Elsewhere, the sound of unrestrained laughter.

Closer, under the meager light of a street lamp, even her faint shadow presented a stronger image, unreflecting on how she curled into herself, fading uneventfully against the shrill music. Uneasy, he went on, ignoring the impulse to inquire. People should never be too curious about things that did not involve them, he told himself. Besides, Scarlett was waiting for him.

But then, in that brief passing, he heard the faint whimper. A mere cry meant to go unnoticed. Just before the stairs of the portico, some sort of strange chivalry flared up within him and he turned back. The girl quickly averted her gaze, but he caught a slight glimpse and it was too late.

"Jesus, Myrtle, is that you?"

The girl retreated further into the shadows, avoiding his eye. He had not seen her since the scandal. There was not a time he could recall where she looked more forlorn, far much so for someone so young. Her face, pinched with bitter regret, told Rhett all he needed to know and he approached her quietly, watching as she turned her head away.

She sniffed, her hands pressing her skirt folds futilely. "Go on inside, Rhett, you have enough trouble already."

Ignoring her, he stepped closer and saw (in greater detail) the remnant of tears upon her cheek. He frowned, handing her a clean handkerchief. She accepted it, reluctantly.

"And what will you do out here? Freeze to death?"

"Maybe I should," she muttered.

He remained silent for a moment, noticing the tremble of her hand as she pressed the cloth to her eyes.

Unable to curb his biting mockery, the venom fell from his lips. "I take it that the scandal isn't treating you well. Is the marriage not as fortuitous as you'd hope?"

At his words, the brutal recognition of her plight, her pent-up grief unfurled, and the girl swayed tenuously as if she were to tip over at any second. His hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her, and he shook her lightly, watching her frantic eyes.

"Hey," he softened. "Are you okay?"

Looking at him with wide eyes, his touch offering a sliver of kindness long foreign to her, she fell apart swiftly before him and began weeping.

"I've made a huge mess of my life, haven't I?" she whispered against his coat. "I was so frightened then. It was late when the wheel came off the buggy and it took an eternity to come back. When we did, we swore nothing happened, but no one believed us. They demanded we get married, and for a moment, I thought he was about to say no. Now, I bet he wishes he did."

Rhett stiffened at the confession, unable to suppress the swell of guilt, to ignore his hand in the entire ordeal. If it were him, he would have said no without shame or reluctance. He would have ruined her, ruined her more than his father ever could, and the thought made him violently sick, doing all in his willpower to stay put, to do the girl at least this one small favor.

Across the street, the lights from the bazaar fluttered against the pavement, the gaiety trickling out from the seams, and an overwhelming bitterness took over him, purging any thought of guilt from his mind. It was the city that did this to them–the vindictive people, stuck in the old world, unheeding to the wants of their own. Rules that made little sense, attitudes that smothered any sense of reason, he unearthed his collection of shelved grievances, letting it spoil the mood that had made him forget it all in the first place.

Never once did he glance back down at her.

"Charleston made you their spectacle for a night," he spat. "Eager to condemn, eager to gossip."

She stood straighter, his venom contagious.

"No one could bear to look at me. Handled me like some sort of bad woman!"

He did not really hear her. "The whole lot of them sickens me. It takes little to fall out of their favor."

"I did nothing wrong!"

"None of us did. Yet, here they are, acting all high and mighty."

She held her head up from his chest, her eyes misty, her hands gripping just barely to his sleeves. "Oh, Rhett. I wish I could go back and undo all that's been done."

In the outpour of music and laughter, drowned out by the girl's misery, he did not hear the rush of footsteps, the murmured chatter. It was not until a scandalized gasp sounded that he regained control of his senses, the anger swept from himself completely. There they were, those proud people, hiding their shock behind ugly lace fans and gloved hands. Behind the crowd stood the girl's husband, teetering between fury and shame, before marching towards Rhett like a general off to war.

Slowly, he backed away from the girl, challenging them to think him guilty.

A/N: I was planning on this having 10 chapters but seeing as we are on chapter 8, I feel that if I stay on that track, the ending would be quite abrupt and insufficient. So, I think I may go beyond where I originally intended to end.

Anyways, sorry for a long time between updates, but hopefully the length makes up for it. In anticipation of the time it will take to post the next chapter, I'll give a little spoiler: we're headed back to Atlanta soon.