Disclaimer: I own nothing of GWTW (and I have nicked a few things from Mitchell in all of the chapters).

"Can you possibly love me?"

Scarlett said nothing but looked down into her lap, hoping Charles hadn't seen her lip quiver in disgust. His fingers crushed her rings into her flesh and she distractedly folded the pleats in her dress to stop from pinching him for his tortuous clasp. Impatiently she waited for him to say something else. But the voice she heard next was not the soft, panting baritone of Charles Hamilton.

"Pray Miss O'Hara, are you going to leave the boy on tenterhooks or will you answer his question?"

The flat Charlestonian drawl boomed as a thunderclap in Scarlett's ears. She jumped, yanking her hand away from Charles' clumsy grip, and flipped her head to the right. Rhett Butler leaned against the thick oak's trunk, his brown face checkered with sunlight and the shadows of the overarching leaves. The shifting colors from above made the toothy leer, spreading casually over his full lips, gleam ominously.

For the second time in an hour the appearance of this vile man stopped her tongue and doused her skin with clammy perspiration, starting in her armpits and trickling down her spine. She could barely breathe, the heavy clamp of humiliation pinching her chest and cinching shut her lungs. So wrapped up in her own mortification, Scarlett nearly forgot Charles, until he stood up; planting his slender figure and floppy curls between Butler and she, and spoke in a low, trembling voice.

"Sir, I don't know what you are about, but your interruption is unwelcome to the lady, and to, to myself."

"I'm sorry if my presence seems obtrusive, Mr. Hamilton," Butler blandly said, drifting his dark eyes toward Charles. "I quite forgot my manners. It's been so long since I heard a heartfelt declaration my excitement overcame me."

"Yes, well, I think you ought to apologize to Miss O'Hara."

Butler muttered a perfectly polite and insincere apology to Scarlett and the mixture of amusement and interest spinning in his swift, black gaze sent a shiver through her core. A sudden panic spiked in her breast. This man was not a gentleman. Who knew what he might do or how he might act. Clearly he wasn't above eavesdropping. What would stop him from calling her out as a liar and shouting her secret shame to every soul, black and white, within earshot?

Butler bowed then, his burlesque grace all the more elegant up close, all the more stinging. His eyes teemed with mischief when he raised his pagan head again. The look was not lost on Charles. His hands balled into fists and the geranium hue of his skin warmed into puce.

"Mr. Butler, I think it best—"

But Scarlett couldn't permit Charles to finish, for fear he wouldn't be the only one made to look like a fool. A surge of vain self-preservation rerouted her designs and she cut off the would-be fiancé.

"Mr. Hamilton, I'm afraid the news of the war finally starting has made me a little giddy." She batted her bright eyes downward and swirled her sweaty fingers across the cool bench seat. "Perhaps it's best if we take some time to think things over."

"Miss O'Hara, I never meant to presume—or hurry you in to anything," Charles faltered. "I of course will respect your wishes."

Never again would any man look upon her with such tender regret. But she was too preoccupied to recognize the beauty of the expression in the pretty, boyish face. Peeking through her lashes, she only saw how pathetic it all was, and the annoying smirk on the face of the man beside him, whose irksome presence she could no longer shut out from noticing. Butler was as wretched as this wretched day had become. If only it would all end. If only the war cannons had already begun to rain down upon the south, obliterating everyone and everything that had made her feel like a silly, desperate child today. She wanted to stomp her foot and scream.

Her vengeful thoughts played animatedly over her features and Charles asked her if she was alright. Again she saw Butler smile at her like a cat with a mouse between his lips, and so summoning a gentleness she did not feel, Scarlett screwed on a doleful simper and answered Charles.

"Yes, yes I'm fine, just overcome with all this talk of war. Oh, please, Mr. Hamilton, you will write to me and let me know which regiment you'll be fighting in. I'll hardly sleep if I don't find out where you end up. It would be like not knowing where my own brother was. I can't say why, but I feel such sisterly concern for your welfare."

Charles flushed, the crimson not entirely banishing the concern and disappointment creasing his face, but for better or for worse, he did not have the opportunity to respond. At that moment a fresh melee of hollers and hoots erupted over the grounds. The clatter of voices drew the attention of all three persons under the oak tree.

Waking women, preening and pawing, flooded out the large front doors, greeted by the energetic men who still bounced around the yard and porch. Scarlett instantly spotted Melanie amid the chaos of frills and bonnets, hats and cravats. And within only an instant more, Melanie had spotted her brother, and Scarlett. Her heart-shaped face glowed with a grin when she glimpsed Charles with Scarlett. She waved and broke away from the agitated mass.

Charles smiled, half-heartedly, in return. Suddenly he seemed to want to get away. He hesitated, giving Scarlett a quick bow and favoring Butler with a stony stare, before excusing himself and hurrying off to meet his sister.

Scarlett watched him scurry away, a wild fire in her eyes. The sight of Melanie had brought back all the spite and hatred that had spurned her to manipulate Charles into proposing to her in the first place. Her escape from his fawning was little recompense for her foiled plans. Her reputation and pride were still hanging on a thread, a thread which was threatening to snap at any moment. And it was all Butler's fault. She glared up at him. If she could have killed him, she would have.

One of his eyebrows went up at her burning gaze and half of his mouth turned down.

"La donna è mobile," he muttered. His thoughtful expression sparked into one of interest. "Tell me, Miss O'Hara, how far would you go to take your revenge?"

Scarlett didn't understand his foreign-sounding phrase but she understood enough to catch the baiting quality of his silky tone. She forced calmness into her voice.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?" he softly replied, and then continued on, as though her icy stare meant nothing.

"I used to wonder why Cleopatra loved Marc Antony more than Caesar himself, but after meeting you I find myself empathizing with the luckless, last lover. I was under the impression that people of the same breed are happiest when paired together—stripes with stripes, spots with spots, or in our southern wilderness, nice, sheltered young belles want to marry nice, sheltered young beaux. Of course, the sweet ingénue is a mere act for you, so what is the attraction of a lamb to a lioness? Could it be nothing more than the love of an easy kill? I must confess there is something unmistakably feline about you, Miss O'Hara." His eyes danced up and down her body, disrobing her once more with his gaze. "Are you hiding a tail and claws underneath that dress?"

His lurid insult was spoken with so much banality that it took Scarlett a moment for the sting of his words to sink in. She sputtered and flushed, and catching her breath at last, spat, "You are the most ill-bred, nastiest man I have or will ever meet. And I hope you die in the war before we are able to finish off the Yankees."

To her utter dismay he didn't appear the least bit offended by her vitriol. He only grinned more widely and loomed over her with more exaggeration.

"And tell me, would you be unable to sleep if you didn't know of my whereabouts also? Answer me truthfully. Your reply might persuade me to consider joining up with the doomed hotheads."

"Oh, you…"

She began to huff, before he leaned closer and whispered into her ear.

"Or better yet, to take the place of the doomed boy whom I just graciously saved from your clutches, my pretty, little Bastet."

Again, Scarlett had no idea what he had just called her, but the look he gave her, brimming with insinuation and lust, brought her up in modest outrage.

"I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Mr. Butler. Just because you spied on me, now twice, when I was most vulnerable does not mean I will endure that sort of low-down, common insult. Good day, sir. May we never cross paths again!"

Fuming she moved to run away but as she spun on her heel, her gaze immediately fell on a sight that drained her of blood and rage.

Tucked away from the bustling guests stood Ashley, his fair hair a murky gold in the shadows of the blooming side garden. His arms were wrapped around Melanie's tiny waist, his mouth pressed against her mouth. But for the swaying of the blossoms and Melanie's skirts, their stolen embrace would have been hidden from Scarlett's view. Scarlett's young heart stilled and tears hovered on the rims of her eyes. Whatever that was not vanity or illusion out of her feelings for Ashley suffered a devastating injury. Not even from this distance could she miss the profound, searching ache of their kiss, the need sought for and received in their shared touch. Forgetting everything she stumbled back, her ankle rolling on a sprawling root. Iron-like arms broke her fall and she looked up, barely aware of the pain in her ankle as she stared into the blackest eyes she had ever seen.

With more gentleness than she thought possible, Rhett Butler placed her back on the bench. His large, warm hands lingered just a moment too long before he slid them off her waist. His swarthy face was swiped clean of that sardonic smile, and his voice was kind when he spoke.

"He may care for you, in his way, Miss O'Hara, but any fool can see he's in love with her."

Part of Scarlett wanted to shout at him—who was this piratical stranger to presume so much? But that streak of self-honesty, which had always forced her to admit truths she might otherwise choose to ignore, compelled her to remain silent and think. She must think. She could not deny what she had seen, or what she now felt. Although shocked, instinct, stronger than reason, told her that this blow would ultimately leave her unscathed. The hurt in her heart was sharp, not deep. A strange detachment from everyone and everything around her stole through her veins.

Scarlett hardly noticed Butler as her gaze hovered over his heavy shoulder toward the side garden, to where Melanie and Ashley were emerging from the secrets of the shadows. With a blank look on her face she watched them push their way through the dispersing crowd, her glassy eyes following them until they had rejoined Charles and Honey on the emptied porch. Something about the gentility of their four faces, the washed out tones of the clothes and complexions of the Hamiltons and Wilkes annoyed Scarlett. From head to heel, they were pastel, muted and pale. In a quick blink, her chagrin and heartache twisted into scorn.

What had her pa called the Wilkes yesterday? What had Mrs. Tarleton said about them only this morning? Scarlett couldn't remember the exact words but she recalled the contempt, the disdain. They were soft and weak, preferring books to life and fancy speeches to hard reality. And Ashley was the softest of them all; lost in a drowsy world she had never been able to fathom, and abruptly realized, she never wanted to know.

Scarlett's ankle throbbed and she looked down. If only she had sprained her ankle earlier in the day and been trapped on a bench, unable to go ahead with her stubborn plan. What a fool, a stupid, unseeing fool she had been to throw herself at such a useless coward! Anger started peppering her mood again, a blush her skin. The wrath was directed at herself and at the entire Wilkes family. She wanted nothing more than to go home to her mother and forget this day had ever happened. Her nails clawed the seat and she turned to the man sitting beside her. She could not read his quiet expression and did not really care to try, either. A few minutes of compassion shown by him could not excuse him for hours of rudeness.

"Mr. Butler, if you do not mind I would be much obliged if you kept your mouth shut about me, but as you are no gentleman, I know it may be too great a favor to ask."

For a second she considered demanding him to go and fetch her father, but decided against it as his sneer returned. Bracing herself for the onslaught of pain, she rose, with her chin held high, but the sprain was worse than she had anticipated and she cried out, her legs buckling out from under her. Once again strong arms stopped her from collapsing onto the mossy dirt. Butler's sultry chuckle hummed in her ear as he settled her back onto the bench.

"Determined, aren't you?" he laughed, crouching in front of her. "Are you trying to put yourself into a compromising situation with me or are you really that bullheaded? Call me arrogant, but I would wager my entire bank account—which is of considerable worth—that you have already heard the story of the last young woman who attempted to ensnare me into matrimony. Granted she wasn't half as cunning as you are, but she was most certainly more sophisticated, and even with all her refinement, took the fall from grace rather hard."

A slicing heat was racing up Scarlett's calf and so all she could manage was a heartfelt glower, the vituperative words bubbling as acid on her tongue.

"Despite what some maidens of the evangelic bent believe," he continued, "I am not a lost sheep waiting to be found, sheered of my black fleece and put out to pasture. Now you are no Saint Agnes and I am no saint at all, but I do not think you would willingly trade your, er, purity, for anything less than a wedding band. It's a shame I'm not a marrying man, Miss O'Hara but it's a bigger shame that you are a marrying woman."

His bold eyes waited for her reaction, and as the full impact of his words came crashing down on top of her, she let out a strangled, ugly gasp. A thousand curses flew through her mind and her tongue couldn't latch on to a single one of them. She rapidly scanned the clusters of guests bunched here and there all over the front lawn but in her fury only saw patches of blurry shapes. No one was around to save her from this varmint? No one cared where she was?

Butler was laughing at her, and said in between subdued chortles, "Now that you are as offended as you will ever be, permit me to check that ankle of yours before you go and try to break it again, or worse break your neck."

Before she had the chance to object, his hand slithered under her billowing petticoats and she felt a gentle pressure on her swelling joint. But that was all the caress she would allow from him. At last her wrath gave way for speech and she seethed, bending over and slapping his arm away from her dress.

"Don't you dare touch me! I'm going to tell my father and he'll kill you for putting your filthy fingers all over me. How dare you speak to me like that! How dare you insinuate—you—you nasty, stinking—"

Swiftly he clutched her shaking hands into one of his massive fists and placed his other palm over her mouth.

"Please, Miss O'Hara, hush! I do not believe you want to draw attention…"

Butler's voice faded as another man's shadow streaked across her lap, darkening the bright white of the dress to a dull grey. Scarlett knew that outline, almost as well as she knew the shape of her own heart. All the vibrant glow bled from her face and her skin went cool with the pallor of humiliation. Butler's hand dropped from her wide-open mouth and, her blood freezing, Scarlett shot her eyes up.

But Ashley wasn't looking at her.

"Mr. Butler, in deference to Mr. Kennedy and my other guests, I will give you precisely three minutes to collect your things and leave my property, before I inform Mr. O'Hara of your handling of his daughter."

Scarlett had never heard Ashley sound so angry. Dumfounded, she swiveled her gaze back to Butler, too disgraced to speak. Butler stared at her, his eyes crackling and his hands, still folded over her own, warm and strong. A spark snapped between them, silent and electric. Suddenly Butler stood. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and casting her a brief, probing glance, said, "As generous as your offer is, Mr. Wilkes, I'm afraid I must decline."

"I think you misunderstood my tone if you believe it was a request."

"Not at all, but I think you misunderstood my intentions. Miss O'Hara wasn't being handled, and as for informing Mr. O'Hara, well, it is customary for the gentleman who has proposed and been accepted to petition the father of the bride for his consent and blessing."

Ashley started at this, and so he missed Scarlett's own seizure of shock. Butler grinned, adding in a brutally light voice, "It's all rather sudden, I know, but such is the way for those of us with a passion for life."

Ashley's skin somehow grew paler, the venom and significance of Butler's words as apparent to him as it was to Scarlett. She watched, half in wonder and half in shame, as Ashley bit his jaw, licking his colorless lips, and sliding a well-worn mask over his face, turned towards her.

"Is this true? Are you engaged to Mr. Butler?"

Some natural affection, whatever was left, ached inside of her at the coldness in his voice. But the echo of compassion was hollow, feeling too much like pity. She only had a moment to decide. Her gaze darted from Ashley to Butler, from gold to stone, from grey to black. She thought she saw something shimmer, intense and infinitesimal in Butler's eyes, the same electricity from moments ago, as familiar as it was foreign. Something about it provoked her, challenged her. Blood pounded in her ears and she sucked in her breath.

"Yes, I have agreed to marry Mr. Butler."

The only sign Ashley made of his disappointment was a slow twisting of his wrist, his eyes directed toward the ground. After what seemed like a lifetime to Scarlett, he muttered a terse congratulation and strode away. Scarlett trailed his retreating figure until his rigid back disappeared into the depths of the house. The fleeting recklessness seeped out of her.

A passing pang of regret beat in her heart. It was a dull, dwindling sort of throb. Everything pulsed within her in the same numb echo. Nothing made sense to her anymore. This morning she had planned on eloping with Ashley. This afternoon she had almost become engaged to his cousin. And now, she flicked her eyes up to the dark stranger standing before her, she was going to marry the wretch who ruined girls for fun and had, only a couple hours ago, told her she wasn't a lady, this rascal who wasn't received in a decent home in all of the south, probably not even at Tara.

Butler smiled, and though it was soft, and for once, devoid of mockery, her face crumpled and she shriveled into weeping. What a mess! What a horrible, horrible mess she had made of her life! Her mother would die of shame with her as a daughter! Her father would throw her out from disgrace! Everyone would look at her with the same guarded disdain as Ashley just had. Why had she said yes? If it had been anybody but Ashley, she would have said no! But that flurry of anger against Ashley—whom she really blamed it all on—flailed meaninglessly against the overwhelming sense of loss bearing down upon her.

Just as she was on the verge of abandoning herself wholly to her doomed existence, Butler's drawl, slow and clear, pulled her back from the brink. He was sitting back down beside her, and from her lowered gaze and the angles of the deepening sunlight, she could tell his sprawling bulk was shielding her from possible passersby.

"There, there. Here take my handkerchief." He flapped a clean, white square under her nose and she took it without glancing up, or even mumbling her gratitude. "It's as much a surprise to me as it is to you. Believe me, I never dreamed of marrying any woman, let alone one who was hardly more than a girl."

"I'm sixteen," she grumbled. "I'm older than my mother was when she married, and I imagine you're even younger than my pa was when he proposed."

"Well, then cheer up, he won't object. It's much more acceptable to be debauched than decrepit."

Butler's warm breath rushed across her wet skin, but he did not touch her. She would have thought that a rake like him would have pressed his privileges by now, even with a few distracted onlookers. Curious Scarlett raised her head. His black eyes were so full of incredulity and teasing, the gaze of an adventurer who has just agreed to an impossible expedition, that she laughed, in spite of herself. He laughed too and so loudly that he startled a few birds from the eaves of the branches. Their eyes met, and they laughed some more. But the easy moment could not last.

The smile wilted from Scarlett's lips and she dabbed the lingering tears from her face. Her ankle wasn't hurting so much anymore, or it could be that she was incapable of feeling much anymore. She toyed with the handkerchief, knotting it tightly around her knuckles. The laughter had created just enough release to free her mind to wander, to lay her down with worry. Heedless and harried, her worst fear bubbled out of her mouth.

"I don't love you, Mr. Butler."

"That should be no drawback. You didn't love Charles Hamilton."

"No, I don't love anyone." Her young chin jutted out. "I shall never love again."

"All the better. Loveless marriages are the backbone of society."

"That's a dreadful thing to say."

"The truth is usually dreadful, my dear."

She scowled.

"You're teasing me, Mr. Butler."

"Call me Rhett."

'I don't think I can."

"Why? I plan on calling you Scarlett. Or are your parents really so archaic?"

Scarlett frowned. She didn't want to admit that her parents never referred to each other with affection. It wasn't something she liked thinking about. A terrifying thought burst upon her mind for the first time—had her parents marriage began as forced as hers? Before the thistle of wonder could take root, she yanked her thoughts in a different direction.

"I don't want to talk about my parents. And I don't want to call you Rhett because, well, I don't think I even like you."

"Ah, I see," he said, scooting back and throwing his long leg across his knee. "Loving your spouse is dispensable but liking them is another matter. Well if it's any comfort to you, you won't be seeing much of me once we're married."

"Whether you are around or not, I will still be married to you," she said, her words eloquent with blunt indifference. "No one will come and see me, or invite me to parties and balls, or care what I do, because they all hate you so."

"Tainted by association?"

She nodded grimly, missing the sleek danger in his voice.

"That is a high price to pay. Have you ever thought about doing without a reputation?"

"Ha! No one can do without a reputation."

"My girl, anyone with real spirit can do without a reputation. Perhaps I misjudged you. Maybe you aren't who I thought you were. Good thing I didn't follow the proverbial route and have my eyes opened after the marriage. But never mind, Scarlett, it isn't too late. I have no honor, and will not hold you to your word, especially given the fact that our engagement is a complete sham, and wouldn't have happened if not for my insatiable curiosity about what I mistook for your deliciously untapped potential for destruction."

"Oh," she gasped. "Oh."

Callously he raked his eyes down her bare shoulders and onto her heaving bosom.

"Of course, you possess other sources of untapped potential, which only a blind man would fail to appreciate."

Scarlett clutched her neck and shirked away. For some reason he seemed to want to insult her, though why that should be she had no idea. Her wonder flared into irritation. A fiery indignation started licking her insides, ready to explode as a hot, barbed diatribe, but she determinedly stamped on it, not wanting to be goaded by him. Butler watched her, in cynical amusement, his mouth twisting into a smirk that she was already beginning to recognize, and loathe.

"Come on Scarlett, tell me what you're really thinking and restore my faith in you," he rasped into her ear. "Tell me what a rogue I am. Tell me all your little secrets."

His scorching breath was blasting over her skin, and finally she could take no more.

"Fine! I will tell you what I think of you, Mr. Butler. You are a soulless, heartless scoundrel and I wish I could pull down the skies and bury every last man and woman who is here today—especially you, and as for Ashley," she couldn't stop now that she had begun, it felt too good to unload her rage on this selfish cad, "I wish he had to watch his precious friends and family be flattened into dust at my command. I hate everyone and everything. The whole world is full of hateful, repulsive people. But I won't take back my word. I won't let Ashley think he matters to me anymore. And I won't be branded as a ruined woman because you had the audacity to stick your hands up my dress, and put me in an impossible situation by claiming I had accepted your proposal. You'll marry me, or mark my words; I will make you regret it for the rest of your pitiful life."

She finished, gulping in air and slumping against the bench. Angry splotches speckled her fair skin, but the wild fury in her eyes had already dimmed. Butler barked out a merry chortle and abruptly stood up. He was shaking his head, adjusting his impeccable suit, and wearing an indecent grin. Scarlett was too exhausted to be bothered by his odious reaction, she had a suspicion he was usually odious.

"Now, don't you feel better?" he asked, the smile fading from his lips, but not his eyes. "It must be refreshing for you to be entirely honest for a change."

"Are you always so rude Mr. Butler?"

"Are you always so charmingly infuriated? It's really quite becoming."

She deigned not to reply.

"Don't worry Scarlett, I won't rush you into an elopement, but as I wasn't lying about going away, I would prefer not to have a long engagement."

"What do I care about your preferences, Mr. Butler?"

For the first time he showed a flicker of frustration. "Clearly nothing in regards to my preferred name."

"Pardon me, Mr. Butler."

"You'll call me every name under heaven, except my given name. Why is that? It's not lack of frankness."

She dimpled smugly, relishing in his annoyance. It helped to distract her from her own misery. She knew it was childish and common, but right now she didn't care. He had tricked her into this mess and she would make him pay.

"I told you, Mr. Butler. I don't like you."

"And I thought I told you that I don't give a damn—or was I unclear? I wasn't lying when I said I'll be away most of the time. I'm planning on making my fortune in blockade running once the war begins. And despite what your county boys have boasted, this war's going to last longer than one watershed battle. Call me Rhett or call me a soulless, heartless scoundrel, but don't call me Mr. Butler."

"Why?"

"Because Mr. Butler is how a prostitute would address me if I were her client, and so unless you want to amend our arrangement, I suggest you call me by a different name."

Scarlett shrank back in horror as Butler brushed invisible dust off his cuffs. Her mind and heart were reeling, flying into a dark and isolated winter. Only now did the realization hit her that she knew nothing of this man, and that he might be the worst person to marry for spite. The image of her mother's warm eyes chilled with icy censure, the thought of the cold shoulders she would receive as the news of her engagement kicked up a storm of gossip, and the certainty of long years ahead, panning out as days and days of stark loneliness, sent a very real shudder through her body. The tremor ended in her feet, making her ankle swell with a fresh wave of pain.

Butler called her name twice before she noticed. Warily she squinted up at him and he inched to the left, shading her eyes from the low, glaring sun.

"You will forgive me for my behavior just now, Scarlett. Nothing's so impetuous or fragile as new love, no matter the age or experience of the afflicted. Love is a sickness full of woes, after all. A more pat phrase I couldn't come up with on my own or not at the moment anyway."

She nodded, wondering at his strange, sad face. An almost painful glimmer shone out from his black eyes, the bleak gravity of his expression touching even her muddled mind, warping her terror into confusion. But in a breath, it was gone, swept from his face as easily as the wind rushes though the pines.

"No more tears," he said. "I promise to be on my best behavior for your parents. Speaking of, I suppose I ought to go find your father, I believe he'll be more inclined to give me his blessing when he's a few sheets in the wind. Wouldn't you agree?"

Still lost, she shrugged and looked out over the lawn. The sun had slipped behind the mansion, drenching the scene in a meringue yellow and bathing their side of the oak tree in light. Squinting at the brightness, she surveyed the nearly-deserted yard. Most of the guests had escaped to cooler corners of the plantation, or were climbing into the parade of carriages trundling to a halt along the winding drive. She wasn't surprised that her pa was no where to be seen. Most likely Gerald was celebrating the good news, rip-roaringly drunk and bellowing some Irish song that was inappropriate for young ears. At the thought, she could almost make out his off-key tenor clashing with the gentle murmur of the afternoon. She looked back at Butler, and frowned. Maybe her father wouldn't give his consent, and she could be rid of him. The idea made her dimple and she flashed a brilliant smile up at Butler.

"I do believe you are right. My pa is probably still in the house. You should find him right away, Rhett."

She caressed his name like it was a song and he laughed outright, sending the few lingering birds out of the tree. To her chagrin, he bent down, swept up her hand, and brushed his lips across her wrist. That sweet electricity shot up her arm and his eyes met hers.

"Don't tempt me, Miss O'Hara, if I'm marrying you, I might as well compromise you first."

And without another backward glance, he walked away, leaving Scarlett, confused, stranded, and more than a little breathless.

Note: Complete silliness. I wrote this some time ago and just found it. I hope you enjoyed.