She stood there before him, trembling with what looked like a healthy mix of anticipation and fear. But his heart was not in this. He tried to convince himself that he longer was in possession of his heart, that his heart had been buried in Atlanta with Bonnie. But if he were going to be truthful, his heart was still with Scarlett. He did not want Scarlett to be in possession of it. He was still angry with himself for the manner in which he had behaved on that beach, in those wild moments of victory over death and the sea and he had succumbed to a passion that he was powerless to contain.

And yet here he was now, with another woman, calling another woman his wife. Anne was now Mrs. Rhett Butler. He moved across the room slowly, lacking his usual grace and predatory nature. But he felt very much like a predatory animal in the moment. He was taking something from someone who was sweet and benign, and undeserving of the misery that was sure to come. She was gentle and much more like Melanie Wilkes than Scarlett. But that was the problem, even married to another woman, it was Scarlett that he wished was in his arms. It was Scarlett that his mouth longed to taste of. Her sweet lips still were etched in his memory.

"Rhett." Anne whispered her name softly, still clutching her virginal white nightgown around her slim body.

"Mrs. Butler." he replied smoothly, hiding his treacherous emotions. He could utter that title, for it was Scarlett's, and he could imagine that it was still Scarlett that was sharing this night with him. It wouldn't be the first night that he lay in the arms of one woman with his mind still on Scarlett. Wasn't that what Scarlett had done to him for the whole of their married life.

But this wasn't fair to Anne. She didn't deserve this. Why had he been such a fool to think that his heart would ever belong to him again?

It was difficult for him to look her in the eyes. But she deserved to have a special night, she deserved much more than he had to give her. But finally he closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. He tried to focus on the woman that he was holding instead of the woman that had a hold on him. He lowered his lips to hers and closed his eyes. Her responses were shy and and sweet and timid, and her embraces with him were lacking something vital. But he knew what they were lacking, Anne was not Scarlett. She did not stir in him the passions and emotions that Scarlett did so effortlessly and unknowingly.

But Anne was giving her all to him, not even understanding that there was a ghost in the room with them, haunting him beyond reason and time. And this ghost was so all consuming that he could only even act the part of the excited bridegroom to a small degree. His lifetime of card playing was at least useful Anne was not the woman he wanted. She never would be that woman. The woman he wanted was stronger, and yet in stature smaller and more fragile than Anne. How was it that she was both larger than life and yet no more than a wisp? He pulled away for a moment to stare into Anne's dark eyes soulful eyes. He had to remember that these were dark eyes and not pale green ones. It was a pair of jade green ones that he could never forget. But he pushed those thoughts aside. It wasn't that difficult to pretend, to hide within an illusion for her image was forever ingrained upon his soul.

His wife trembled in his arms, and he was reminded of all of the times that he had held a trembling Scarlett. The day at the jail came to the front of his mind, and then in equal clarity he saw her the night that they had fled Atlanta. Of course that avenue of thought brought him to their kiss. That first hot kiss that smoldered and ignited within him a hunger that had yet to be quenched. And so he kissed Anne, trying to dispel Scarlett's ghost and the memories of her from the room. He kissed his wife as if he were kissing Scarlett. And Anne tentatively responded, with a shyness and a meekness that was a rarely seen aspect in Scarlett, yet had been revealed to him in elusive moments that he had taken for granted.

. This was driving him wild. How was it that he couldn't even make love, couldn't even kiss the woman that was his wife without thinking of someone else, someone else whose memory was too engraved upon his heart.

He tried to lose himself in Anne's kisses, tried to drown out the memory of the past fifteen or so odd years of his life. In his distracted state tried to show Anne a tender, compassionate side that Scarlett would not recognize. He kissed her softly, knowing that in her innocence that she might be unaware of his preoccupation with his memories.

He led her to the bed, kissing her softly, all the while imagining how Scarlett might have reacted to him differently if he had been a more tender lover with her, if he hadn't hidden his heart, treating her with malice and cruelty. He wished that their life together had been different. He wished that his heart had not been filleted. He wish that he still possessed a heart to give to Anne. But a part of his heart had died with bonnie, and the other part was missing. His heart was still with Scarlett, where ever it was that she had disappeared to. Even now taking his wife's virtue from her, he remembered Scarlett. She could haunt him no more than if she were dead. She was ever present in this room, ever present in his mind and heart.

He could not identify when his heart had begun to beat again. He was unsure when he had realized that he could still feel love. But those feelings were again flaming in his heart, although he had tried desperately to push them away. The moment that he held the divorce papers in his hand, he knew that they were a mistake of epic proportions. But Scarlett had disappeared completely like vapor vanishes in the sun.

He still saw her. It seemed that she was everywhere. He had chased her down several times, only to realize that it was only a trick of the light. No. He had rid his life of her, only when hours before realizing that he would never be done with her.

Even as he moved over Anne, even as he consummated their marriage bed, he could not drive out Scarlett's ghost. It would always be about her. He could no longer hide the fact from himself. Scarlett was still the poison in his veins. He would never escape her. He just prayed that Anne would be none the wiser to it.

He tried to focus on Anne, who was timidly running her hands in his hair. He climbed onto her and took what she willingly gave him – crying out in pain as that one moment came that he had never had with Scarlett. He had lost that moment out to Charles Hamilton who didn't even understand how sacred that moment was. As he reached the pinnacle of sensations, he had to hold himself back from calling for her. And he finally slumped against her, wishing that it was Scarlett whose body was lying beneath him. For moments he could delude himself, allowing his mind to dwell on memories of other nights. He restrained himself tonight with Anne, just as much as he had restrained his emotions while making love to Scarlett. There was no going back now. And he eventually rolled over and pretended to sleep, trying to drive Scarlett away. But she would never be gone. Never would he make love again with anyone without the image of Scarlett before him.

And yet there had been a strange familiarity in way that Anne responded to his affections, a similar naiveté. For although Scarlett had already born two children by two different men by the time of their wedding night, she was still very lacking in knowledge of more than just the very basic details of the act of making love. And it was obvious as he held Anne that she was quite the innocent. He was stealing this from her, when he didn't love her. He liked her the ways in which she reminded him of Melanie, but that too was a paradox for he had never been attracted to Melanie Hamilton in that way. No, it had always been Scarlett. It would always be Scarlett. Everything in his life had been about her since the first day that he had seen her. And now he had married another woman to spite her. He was worse than she. But still it came back to her and the ghost of her memory. Always.