Clutching the pillow between her hands, Scarlett tried and failed to push the thought from her mind. For what if Rhett really did agree with those awful women? What if he thought she was lacking in some fundamental way?

It was true that since moving into their new home Rhett's nightly attentions had grown more infrequent. Scarlett hadn't given it much thought up until now for marital relations were hardly something she revelled in. During her previous two marriages she'd done her utmost to keep them at a bare minimum. Yet while Charles and Frank had been easy men to put off, Rhett had proven to be anything but. During their time in New Orleans he'd been insatiable, forever touching and kissing her as they lay in bed together and whispering sinful things in her ear until she could not help but give in to his advances.

Part of her inability to refuse him stemmed from the fact she didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. Charles and Frank had both been such awkward, hesitant creatures, stumbling over their words and making their intentions so blatantly obvious that it had been the simplest thing in the world for Scarlett to head them off before they got too far. Rhett gave her no such warnings. There was no jarring action or sudden change in demeanour. Every gesture and honeyed word slipped seamlessly into the next, cocooning her in warmth so that by the time she regained her senses, she was too relaxed to protest and couldn't have raised a hand to stop him even if she'd wanted to. He possessed a unique ability to play with her until she lost all sense of herself, clinging to him desperately as if he were the only solid thing in a world turned suddenly on its head.

Yet, it had almost been a week since he had last touched her in that way. Scarlett had been relieved for his advances brought forth sensations which left her confused and vaguely unsatisfied, as if she were on the cusp of something extraordinary, so close to tipping over, yet unable to quite able to get there. She'd never felt anything close to this with either of her previous husbands and had assumed that this was as good as it could reasonably be expected to get. But what if Mamie Bart was right and there existed a secret world between spouses that she'd never known to ask for? What if she'd been doing it wrong her entire life?

Perhaps that was why Rhett's ardour was waning. Perhaps the reality simply didn't lived up to his daydreaming. He'd told her when he proposed that he was only marrying her because he wanted her more than any woman he'd ever seen and couldn't get her any other way. He'd kissed her that day too, kissed her with so much passion that for a moment she'd wondered if everything would feel better with him, if the things that had once seemed like the most unpleasant of chores could morph into something quite beautiful if only he was the one doing them to her.

To some extent, that had been true. Laying with him wasn't painful like it had been with Charles or mortifying like it was with Frank. She had one very hazy memory of a night where she'd drunk far too much champagne, a night where she'd woken up half of New Orleans by singing at the top of her lungs on the carriage ride back to the hotel. In this memory, she recalled his soft, teasing touches evoking sounds unlike any she'd ever made before, and a look of stunned reverence burning down upon her from eyes so black they put the moonless night's sky to shame. Try as she might, she could not remember anything more than these few dizzying flashes. She resented having forgotten the rest. It was as if something crucial had been snatched away from her before she'd had the chance to reach out and claim it.

Maybe if she could remember the remainder of that encounter she wouldn't feel so vulnerable now, so achingly exposed, as if the women's words had stripped away the hardened shell she'd been building up ever since the day she'd first learnt of Ashley's engagement. Somehow their comments had managed to cut far deeper than any of the old cats' claws, reducing Scarlett back to a scared newlywed, trembling on the bed while she waited for Charles to come to her. She'd felt so young that night, so ill-prepared for what was to follow, and now she feared there was more of that terrified girl lingering inside her breast than she'd let herself admit.

It didn't help that Rhett was a man of the world. He'd never hidden his sordid past from her or denied his involvement with other women. Why, he'd even admitted his connection to Belle Watling, a woman so immoral that she made Mamie Bart look like the patron saint of innocence and virtue. Scarlett shuddered as she considered for the first time how laughable she must seem to Rhett in comparison, how ignorant and silly and green.

These last few nights he'd even taken to heading out straight after supper, barely stopping to kiss her goodbye in his rush to get out the door. Fury now rose up in Scarlett, white-hot and blistering, as she realized that ghastly saloon had probably been his destination all along. To think that she'd even begun missing his presence at night, lying awake in a bed that felt too empty for comfort. She'd been foolish enough to spend these last few days with a persistent gnawing deep in the pit of her stomach, unable to concentrate properly on her businesses for worrying what was wrong with him, when all this time he'd been under that awful woman's roof, gambling and drinking and doing God knows what else.

She wondered if he discussed her with Belle, if they'd ever laughed at her naivety together over a nightcap or spent the small hours of the morning condemning her for her inexperience. If he had, she would never forgive him. To be pitied by the three would-be ladies downstairs was bad enough, but to have a woman like Belle sit in judgement of her? Why, she would rather divorce Rhett right now and board the first train back to Tara than allow that to continue on unchecked.

A knock at the door interrupted her dark thoughts. Panicked, Scarlett flung the pillow aside and flipped over onto her back.

'Come in,' she croaked weakly, remembering just in time to play the part of the invalid.

'How are you feeling?' Rhett asked as he entered the room, a frown marring his face as his eyes darted over her prone form.

'I'm a little better, thank you,' she replied, propping herself up against the disordered pillows and draping a hand weakly across her forehead.

'I brought you some water and a slice of bread,' he said as he drew near. 'I consulted Mammy and she thought it best not to try anything richer until you're recovered.'

Biting back a retort about Rhett's over-reliance on her most obstinate of servants, Scarlett nodded her head and reached to take the glass out of his hand.

'Thank you, Rhett,' she said after she'd taken a sip. 'That was very thoughtful of you.'

'My dear,' he said, clutching his breast and adopting an expression of mock terror. 'I fear the situation is more dire than first assumed. I hardly recognize this docile woman in front of me.'

Scarlett glared up at him over the rim of the glass.

'Ah, now there's the woman I thrill to call my wife. I was worried for a moment,' he said, and though he still teased her as always, Scarlett thought his eyes appeared softer than she had seen them in quite some time.

Staring into them, she tried to work out whether he had heard the women's remarks. On becoming aware of her gaze, Rhett tensed up, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he returned her searching stare with a cool, blank one of his own. He was such a closed book, Scarlett fumed, always keeping his thoughts far from his face. He deliberately shut them up somewhere deep inside, somewhere Scarlett doubted he would ever grant her access to. Yet, despite his efforts to appear unconcerned, there was an underlying tension to his posture now, almost as if he were waiting to see what the next moment would hold. Scarlett had no idea why that should be and cursed him soundly for his ability to hide from her.

Frustrated, she broke his gaze, unnerved by the idea of sharing her life with a man she understood so little. It seemed unnatural, impossible even, that a husband could lie with his wife each night and wake with her each morning and yet reveal nothing of what was truly going on inside his head. She remembered fondly a time before all this deception, back when they used to share secretive buggy rides together, idly whiling away the hours by telling tales of their childhoods and helping each other find resolutions to their business problems.

She didn't know quite when or why they had lost it, but somehow the intimacy they'd so unthinkingly enjoyed had disappeared after they'd said their vows, receding further each dawn until all they seemed to share these days was a bed and a surname.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Rhett reached out and cupped her cheek.

'Where are you wandering off to, my pet?' he asked, stroking along her jawline with the back of his fingers. The unexpected touch made Scarlett shiver. Shutting her eyes, she found herself longing for a return to the time when his every action towards her had been this achingly tender.

Not receiving an answer, Rhett pulled back, and Scarlett had to bite her lip to prevent herself from crying out at the loss.

'What are you doing?' she asked, opening her eyes to find him pulling off his cravat and toeing off his shoes.

'Well, my dear, when a man comes home early with the intention of spending the afternoon with his beautiful and devoted wife, he traditionally prefers for them to be in the same room. Although, if you'd prefer me to sit in the parlour and shout up the stairs to you, then that can easily be arranged.'

Before she could think up a retort, he had rounded the bottom of the bed and was lying himself down beside her, the arm closest to her extending outwards in a silent invitation. This at least was one gesture she could still read just fine, and after a few seconds of stubbornness which only made him smirk, Scarlett relented and moved into his embrace, laying her head upon his chest as his arms came round to encircle her.

Shutting her eyes, she breathed in deeply, enjoying the heady, masculine smell that was uniquely Rhett's while the thoughts that had plagued her this last half an hour mercifully died away and let her have some peace.

'I saw Mrs. Wilkes today.'

'Did you?'

'Yes. She invited us to dinner next month.'

Scarlett frowned. 'Who else is going?'

'Atlanta's finest, more's the pity: the Meade's, your aunt and uncle, and not forgetting dear old India Wilkes, of course.'

'Do we have to go?' grumbled Scarlett, already picturing a night spent pointedly ignoring the glares being sent her way from half of the guest list.

'And risk missing one of the social events of the season?' Rhett cried in horror. 'Why, my dear, how can you suggest such a thing? Of course we shall go! I should hate to miss such a perfectly good opportunity to be looked down upon.'

Unwillingly, Scarlett found herself giggling against his chest, an unfamiliar flush of affection rushing through her at the thought that she no longer had to be alone at such a gathering, that they could stand proudly together as two of the most unscrupulous and disliked citizens this city had ever had the misfortune to welcome into its fold.

Sensing her laughter, Rhett happily joined in, causing Scarlett to bounce lightly upon his chest as it rose and fell beneath her. Opening her eyes to shush him, her gaze fell instead upon his open collar and the short, black hairs that lay beneath. Her earlier thoughts returning with a vengeance, Scarlett itched to reach out and stroke them, to discover whether they felt sharp and prickly like the stubble on his chin when he kissed her first thing in the morning, or soft and silky like the ones on his head that she secretly liked to run her hands through when she was sure he was sleeping.

It struck her how little she truly knew of his body, how much of it she had refused to even glance at, let alone touch. In the months since their wedding she had barely gotten to know him at all in that way, preferring to lie passively under him at night before hurriedly rolling away the moment it was over. She'd never given the matter a thought before, but now she wondered if Rhett wished she would touch him more. For, loath as she was to admit it, few things in life had ever made her feel as good as the sensation of his hands upon her. Often she could not help but arch up into his caresses, loving the molten, tingling feeling his fingertips evoked when they stroked along her skin, raising goose-pimples in their wake.

Did Rhett wish she would touch him like that? He had never mentioned it, but then recently she had begun to suspect that there were many things he wanted but chose not to ask for. Alone, this would not have been enough to spur her into action, for granting Rhett's wishes, unspoken or otherwise, had never been one of her primary concerns. The conversation she'd overheard kept echoing in her mind, however, and Sylvia's words in particular just would not let her be.

She doesn't even know what it is she's missing out on, she'd said.

Missing out on, as if marital relations were a party to which Scarlett had received no invite. She had always been a jealous creature and the idea that other, lesser women had gotten to experience something she hadn't made her mightily cross. Surely after putting up with the foolishness of no less than three husbands she had more right than anyone to enjoy this supposed pleasure? It was positively cruel of Rhett to deny it to her and, if she had her way, she would make it impossible for him to hold out a minute longer.

Fuelled by a righteous anger, Scarlett's usual inhibitions faded away, to be replaced with steely determination. Squaring her shoulders, she reached out for him with an unsteady hand.