The morning of the crush dawned bright and sun-filled, not a cloud marring the dusty red sky. From the comfort of his bed, Rhett watched the pale rays creep under the curtains and stalk across the carpet. He could not help but think that, on a day such as this, thunder and lightning would have been more fitting.
Rolling over, he turned to face the smooth sweep of Scarlett's back, wondering what the next twenty-four hours would bring. He clutched her close for what he feared might be the last time. Despite the many precautions he had taken to ensure she would not be able to trace what was coming back to him, Rhett still worried that his machinations would be exposed. And he was under no illusion as to how dearly he would be made to pay if they were.
It had been easy enough to persuade Atlanta's retailers to ignore every order his wife placed and follow Rhett's alternative instructions instead. They were practical people, motivated by money instead of morals, and it had not taken much persuasion to convince them to mislead his unsuspecting wife.
If Rhett felt a twinge of remorse when he thought about how much time and effort she had needlessly poured into her crush this last month, then he repressed it, reasoning that the end would more than justify the means. Scarlett wanted this crush to be a success, so it was imperative that her gaudy instincts be supplanted by his own, more conservative layout. Unlike his wife, Rhett understood exactly what the residents of this city would tolerate, and red velvet canvases and full-piece orchestras did not feature on that list.
Were he to let Scarlett furnish the party as she pleased, the Old Guard would never forgive her. They would see the very opulence she prized as a criticism of their own reduced circumstances. A blatant boast from two low-down scallywags who not only had the gall to flourish when good people were barely scraping by but were badly bred enough to rub their ill-gotten fortune in their neighbours' faces.
Rather than being elevated to the status of a great lady, Scarlett would fall so far and so frighteningly fast that her reputation would never recover. No amount of money or charm would be enough to save her, and, by God, how Rhett yearned to be the one to save her.
It was to this end that he had begun his campaign to claw their way back into society, reintegrating himself and his family into the bosom of the Old Guard one step at a time. It had taken some doing, for the formidable battle-axes and wizened menfolk of this town loved nothing more than holding a grudge, but he was beginning to see the first few cracks appearing in their previously impenetrable armour.
A few days ago, Mrs. Merriweather had deigned to give him some tips on how to help Ella sleep through the night. The fact that his stepdaughter had never suffered from insomnia did not trouble Rhett. Nor did he feel guilty for cornering Mrs. Elsing—the victim of one of his crueller barbs back in the day—in Scarlett's store yesterday and asking her if she knew of any remedies for Wade's imaginary dry skin.
The children were the only pure thing left about Rhett and Scarlett, and he had no qualms about using them to gain an advantage. They, along with his wife, stood to benefit most from a thawing of relations, so it was only fair that they played their part in establishing a detente.
Still, Rhett had been surprised to discover just how much he disliked having to curry favour from the very people who had shunned him for the best part of a decade. Only a short time into his campaign, he had realised that any subversive pleasure he'd taken in masquerading as a perfect Southern gentleman during the war had long since disappeared. He no longer felt any satisfaction in tricking his neighbours into reluctant friendship and often had to violently suppress the scathing comments that sat up on his tongue and begged to be let loose.
He'd only persevered for the same reason he did most things these days: her. Not that Scarlett appreciated the gesture. Never the most intuitive of women, she had no understanding of why sucking up to these people would work better than showing off in front of them.
Instead, she only grew more suspicious and sullen each time she caught him conversing with his former critics, correctly assuming that he must be up to something whilst never imagining that he might be acting with her own best interests at heart.
Rhett wished that he could enlighten her, but he had come too far now to risk falling on the home stretch. There was only one hurdle left to navigate before he could relax. Unfortunately, it was the largest. As such, Rhett had planned each minute of the day with a level of precision that even military leaders would have envied.
All of the supplies for the crush were set to arrive at ten thirty on the dot. However, Rhett had told Scarlett they would be here by ten. He estimated that by ten past the hour, with no deliveries in sight, his wife would be so enraged that she would happily march all the way into town if it meant she'd be able to scream her displeasure at the offending tradespeople quicker.
Of course, he did not intend for her to walk. He had already ordered Pork to prepare the carriage and meant to send her off in the direction of the dressmakers—from whom she had ordered a bright red, hideously ostentatious dress that, unbeknownst to her, Rhett had paid good money to ensure would never arrive.
As well as tipping the dressmaker handsomely for having to endure the indignity of Scarlett yelling at them for half an hour, it was here that Rhett had arranged for Melanie Wilkes to bump into his wife.
Told to act as if she had encountered Scarlett by chance, Melanie was under strict instructions to beg Scarlett to ride out with her to Ashley's mill, declaring—and this was the one facet of the plan where no lies were necessary—that the business was suffering without the presence of Scarlett's guiding hand.
Though this was the part of the plan that Rhett had the most confidence in, it was also the bit he liked least. All month he had been using the crush as a means of keeping Scarlett from her beloved. It had worked even better than he'd hoped. Scarlett had not spoken to Ashley since the Wilkes' supper party, and Rhett was confident that the esteemed gentleman's hold over her was finally on the wane. She had not mentioned his name in days and was becoming ever more responsive to Rhett's touch at night.
Their marital relations, once as fraught and hazardous as a battlefield, had become a celebration on a scale even Scarlett's beloved crush could not match. Despite a lifetime of debauched depravity, Rhett could not remember having enjoyed more satisfying encounters between the sheets. Scarlett may not have been the most experienced woman he'd ever shared a bed with, but Rhett was savouring each and every moment of educating her.
His wife wasn't the only one who'd learnt a thing or two, either. Every night, Rhett discovered new ways to reveal his feelings, using his body to express emotions that his pride barred him from speaking aloud. With touches and kisses, he bared himself to her as best he could, offering up his heart in the hope that one day she might hand over hers in return.
Contemplating this, Rhett felt the familiar, burning itch of desire steal over him. Leaning back, he reached for his pocket watch, flipping it open and frowning when he saw the time.
A quarter to nine.
It was a foolish risk to take at such a delicate stage in the game, but Rhett had always liked a gamble, especially when Scarlett was the prize.
Setting the watch down, he rolled back over to face his wife. Placing his hand on the wing of her hipbone, Rhett kissed her neck and whispered, 'It's time to wake up, honey.'
'Just a little longer, Rhett,' Scarlett moaned, still half asleep.
Rhett slid his hand along her stomach to cup her breast, massaging it lazily. 'I can't give you that, Scarlett. If you don't wake up now, we won't have enough time.'
'Time for what?' she grumbled, burrowing deeper under the covers.
'For this,' he said, pushing himself against her as he rolled her nipple between his fingers.
'Oh, Lord,' Scarlett gasped, pushing her hips back against him even as she offered up a token protest.
With a grunt, Rhett wrapped his hand around Scarlett's leg and pulled it over his. Sinking into the warm space between her thighs, Rhett rocked himself against her.
'Rhett!' Scarlett cried, growing taut against him.
'Shh,' he whispered soothingly, wrapping his arm around her middle to steady her. 'It's alright. I've got you.'
He trailed his fingers around her navel until she settled.
'That's it, honey,' he murmured. 'Just relax back into me. There you go. I know exactly what you need, and I'm going to give it to you. Good, just like that. You're doing so well.'
'Oh,' she moaned roughly as he began to thrust, dragging himself through her wetness until she cried out in surrender and collapsed back against him.
Taking advantage of Scarlett's temporary stupor, Rhett rolled her half onto her stomach and pressed inside. The heat and feel of her assaulted him like a body blow, and he mouthed helplessly at her nape, nipping at her skin.
Rhett wanted nothing more than to remain lying there forever, so close to his wife that they almost ceased to be two people. Pulling out felt like a tragedy, every cell in his body screaming at him to stay. The way her body clung to him was nothing short of spiritual; the closest thing to heaven a scoundrel like him was ever likely to experience.
As he moved back inside, Rhett's hips fell into a primal, age-old rhythm. Pinned to Scarlett's back, he felt rather than heard her breathing pick up, her hand grasping wildly for his and clutching it against her stomach.
'Scarlett,' he groaned hoarsely, lifting their entwined hands to her chin and pushing against it until she turned her head enough to allow their lips to meet in a messy kiss.
Rhett devoured her mouth and moved against her with renewed urgency. Dipping his fingers as low as he dared, Rhett pressed down firmly, ratcheting up the pressure for her.
The touch made Scarlett cry out and writhe between Rhett and the mattress, unable to escape the barrage of sensation that attacked her from every angle and refused to let her come up for air. Feeling her walls contract, Rhett plundered her mouth with his tongue, her choked gasp all the warning he received before she clamped down hard around him, her spasms setting off Rhett's own.
Rhett's head dropped down to rest amongst Scarlett's curls. He breathed in the sweet, rich smell of her sated body. It was a scent that was fast becoming the most demanding of all his many addictions.
If he could have, he would have loved nothing more than to remain tangled up with her, hidden away from the world with its crushes and looming spectres of blond-haired men, in a place that only the two of them would ever know. Even as the thought crossed his mind, though, Rhett felt himself begin to soften, an aching emptiness settling in his chest as he turned reluctantly away to lie out on his back.
Remembering the time, he reached out again for his watch, cursing when he saw that it was already well past nine. Tilting his head to look back at Scarlett, Rhett allowed himself one more precious minute of peace before he kicked off the covers and dragged himself out of bed.
If all went well, there would be ample opportunity to be with her like this again tonight. If it didn't...
In truth, Rhett could not bear to contemplate what would happen if things didn't go to plan, although he was fairly certain—given Scarlett's colourful history—that it was bound to consist of a large amount of shouting and a truly monumental pile of broken crockery.
No matter how the day was set to unfold, though, Rhett knew he could put it off no longer. The crush was bearing down upon them, and there was no going back now.