Um, hello, T-rated category! I hadn't exactly planned to visit you, but here I am. When I had this idea while rereading the book, I thought I was going to write a short smutty piece with an unlikely premise and even unlikelier outcome. But then Scarlett and Rhett refused to cooperate and stop talking and so any M-rated stuff will have to wait for the second part of this story.

I borrowed the first paragraph directly from Gone with the Wind, just to locate my starting point in the book. This takes off immediately after the library scene at Twelve Oaks. Needless to say, I own nothing, no plot, no characters, and definitely no stolen paragraphs :)

To Edith W. fans, a grateful nod. And as always, this story is written for T. and for her enormous patience I don't quite deserve.

She went up the stairs so swiftly that when she reached the landing she thought she was going to faint. She stopped, clutching the banisters, her heart hammering so hard from anger, insult and exertion that it seemed about to burst through her basque. She tried to draw deep breaths but Mammy's lacings were too tight. If she should faint and they should find her here on the landing, what would they think? Oh, they'd think everything. Ashley and that vile Butler man and those nasty girls who were so jealous! For once in her life, she wished that she carried smelling salts, like the other girls, but she had never owned a vinaigrette. She had always been so proud of never feeling giddy. She simply could not let herself faint now.

But it was too late. She could feel strength seeping from her legs, her knees so weak they could hardly support her anymore. She clung to the banisters with desperate, clammy fingers as she let herself sink closer to the floor, almost to a crouching position in her voluminous skirts. It would be just for a moment until this sickness passed and then she would gather her energy again and return to her allotted room. No one would ever know something had happened. But when she sagged and rested her forehead against the cold, polished wood, the stays constricted her ribs even harder, so hard that her flesh hurt. The edge of her vision was blurring and spiraling to black. She felt nauseated and weak and she needed air, more air. Mammy's words that morning of how it benefited a lady to swoon passed through her mind for a second, like fleeting, ironical birds. And then darkness swallowed the world and her body spread on the floor with a muffled thump.

***

Before memory came sensation. There was an empty feeling in her stomach, almost too painful to bear, and her first instinct, even before opening her eyes, had been to roll to her side and hug her knees to her chest. But her body was too feeble for that. She felt weak and oddly heavy, and her throat was sore, pulsing as if she'd run a hundred miles. She tried to bring her hand to her neck to somehow ease that aching sensation, but something—someone was keeping it prisoner; she couldn't lift it from her side.

A man was holding her hand, firmly massaging it with warm, soothing fingers. Her lids felt leaden—odd, sharp lights playing almost painfully on their surface—but, even without that, she didn't need to open her eyes and look at him to know who he was. She would recognize the smell anywhere, the smell that meant strength and safety, the comforting mixture of brandy and horses and leather she had loved since childhood. She squeezed his hand, relieved at his presence, for he was the only thing steady and familiar in this world that was foreign, sickening and swaying. She couldn't remember any other time in her life when she had felt so little and powerless. She wanted to go home.

And then, suddenly, it came back to her, remembrance, flooding her mind with the dreadful scenes of before. Disgrace, the red mark her hand had left on Ashley's pale face, the cold impertinence of the Butler rascal and, finally, her collapse on the landing. It came back with its unendurable brand of shame and the whirlwind of hurt feelings, and for a second she fervently wished she never had to open her eyes again. But no, she couldn't think of it now. If she did, she would go insane. She willed herself to think of the present moment instead, of the small miracle him finding her instead of anyone else was. At least, she wouldn't have to face that final humiliation; for him she could find an explanation, and, even if he saw through that, he wouldn't chastise her now. He would take her home; she had to convince him to do that.

"Pa," she started and was shocked to hear her own voice, cracking and barely above a whisper.

"I would certainly hope not," the answer came, drawling, mightily amused and without the slightest trace of an Irish brogue.

She sharply opened her eyes, squinting even at the dim, soft light around her. She was back in the library. Sitting beside her prone form on the edge of the seven-foot sofa, with her hand secured between his large, brown hands, and his eyes dancing in undisguised, devilish mirth, was none other than Rhett Butler. And if the devil himself had left his pit to be at her side, she wouldn't have been so startled.

Before she had time to ponder on what his presence meant, resentment rose in her again and she frowned, struggling to sit up. Instantly, his hand was on her bare shoulder, gently but firmly keeping her in place.

"No," he said. "You've just fainted. It would do you good to rest a while longer."

"Don't dare to touch me, you—you—" Her eloquence was hindered not by decorum, but by lack of words strong enough to describe all the smears of his character. "I won't stay here a minute longer. Let me go," she finally hissed.

He smiled a little at the mutinous light in her eyes and the fierceness of her words, but made no move to withdraw his hand. "My dear Miss O'Hara, you are of course free to go if that is your wish, and I wouldn't dream of stopping you. But I have no smelling salts about me—and by the looks of it, neither have you—so when you swoon again before reaching that door I will be forced to—"

"I don't ever swoon," she interjected hotly, against all evidence and reason.

"You gave an admirable imitation of it then," he said, the corners of his mouth curling up again, in an almost imperceptible jeer. "But in any case, if it happens again, I am afraid I will have to call for help, summon your father and your mammy and put you in their charge. As I should have done the first time, had I been the gentleman we both agreed I am not. Are you willing to take that chance?"

She bit her lip. He had her in a corner there and, judging by his ironic cocked eyebrow, he seemed well aware of that too. If anyone found out about this, she wouldn't be able to show her face in the world ever again. They would have no doubt that she had sneaked out to be with a man, a man that had a bad reputation nonetheless. Oh, what a nasty, disgraceful situation she had put herself into!

He was watching her quandary with a look of great, almost boyish amusement and when her face told him all he needed to know about her gambling inclinations at the moment, he took his hand off her shoulder and started again, in a warmer, friendlier voice, "You can stay here for maybe an hour—two at most—before there is any danger that the other young ladies might notice your absence. And then you can slip into your rightful room, pretend to wake up along with them and no one will be the wiser."

His words were strikingly similar to her initial plan, and Scarlett appraised him through narrowed eyes for a moment, trying to determine his motives. Sudden, uninterested kindness from a man that had taken cruel pleasure in insulting her before seemed so improbable, suspicious even. But then again, this stranger that was still holding her hand in his, loosely, as if he had simply forgotten to release it, was nothing like the Rhett Butler she had encountered earlier. The cool impertinent gaze that had both embarrassed and excited her on the stairs, the cold, heavy-handed mockery he had bestowed on her after the scene with Ashley were gone. She felt some of the tension leaving her body as well.

He had acted like a gentleman. No, not a gentleman, for he was probably right: a gentleman would have called for help. Instead, he had brought her here, away from prying eyes, she mused with a small touch of gratefulness. If Rhett Butler had been a gentleman, she would now be ruined. And while a few minutes ago she would have thought death too good a fate for him, now she found herself forced—no, not forced—inclined to trust him.

"You—you won't tell anyone?" she finally asked.

"No, you have my word as a—as a—" Scarlett lowered her gaze, embarrassed. "Never mind; you have my word."

For whatever the reason, she believed him. Despite the little mocking light that seemed to never leave his pupils, his face was somber and kinder than it had been at any other point earlier. He looked different and for the first time she realized that he was very handsome. Handsome not in the way the young men she knew were, with unfinished lines still reminiscent of boyhood, handsome not even in the mature, defined way Ashley and a handful of other men had about them. She couldn't quite tell what it was that made him different though, and she took the opportunity to curiously peer at him through her lashes, as she pretended to rest for a few minutes, weakened, no doubt, by the conversation.

He was coatless now, and under the fine fabric of his vest and shirt, his shoulders and chest seemed to expand even more powerful than before. Struck again by the impression that he was almost too heavy, too well built for gentility, she suppressed a small shiver. There was something in him that transgressed civilization, that opposed everything that was essentially soft and yielding in Scarlett, and in turn awakened in her the primitive, conflicted instinct of all females—to entice or run, to entice and run. But there was nowhere to run now, and for Gerald's daughter, neither softness, nor yielding inclinations had ever been great qualities. A man was just a man and with a small pang of annoyance at her own silliness, she started to withdraw her hand from the warm shelter of Rhett Butler's hands.

For a brief moment, he looked a little surprised, though one would find it hard to tell if it was at her or simply at himself. Then he promptly stood up, and Scarlett fought against a second, unexpected shiver at the loss of his warmth by her side.

"You can lie here and rest. I am sure Mr. Wilkes' library will provide me with an occupation until the turmoil outside dies down. When you want to go upstairs, I will lace you and—"

"Lace me?" she started and swiftly looked down. She had only now fully realized that the stays weren't constricting her anymore.

She was lying on the sofa, her slippers gone and her feet elevated on a cushion and what looked like Rhett Butler's folded coat. The front of her dress had been thoughtfully arranged so that her bosom was not in the least revealed, but the basque was definitely unhooked at the back, the strings of her stays loosened almost entirely. Merciful Lord, how had she not noticed it before? She should have known that breathing normally again meant this; she should have known that feeling only a dull ache instead of the steely, almost painful pressure from the landing meant this. But she had been too caught up in the shock of finding herself here to think of that.

"Of course, how do you imagine you would have come to otherwise? I had to take the liberty," he simply said.

Mortification rose in her, overwhelming, nauseating. Waves of shame and despair were cresting in her chest, for nothing worse than this could ever happen to a lady. This man—this man had touched her, had undressed her almost. She, the daughter of Ellen, had sunk yet one step lower in shame on this terrible day. She had thrown herself at Ashley like the fastest of girls, like white trash and now this—this. She felt tears rising to her eyes, her cheeks suddenly burning, and she covered her face with her hands.

"Come now, Miss O'Hara, surely you wouldn't have preferred to die an honorable death in your pretty dress to this? Many of the women here would gladly take martyrdom over a breach of propriety, but, after the little scene I unwittingly assisted to earlier, I assumed you were not among them. After all, like your charming prince of Denmark Mr. Wilkes put it, you are—what were his words—wild and elemental, like fire and wind. Quite poetical, I would say. What is propriety compared to that?"

"How dare you?" she spat viciously, stung out of her internal lamentations by his words and the mention of Ashley, like a fresh twist of the knife in her wound. Suddenly, the whole world was into perspective again: Rhett Butler was the one responsible for all of her problems and she wanted nothing more than to claw him.

She struggled to move to a sitting position, her hand safely keeping the front of the dress in place as she glowered up at him. "When everybody knows you have no shame, no decency. When everybody knows a lady's honor is not safe with you. And they are right! Everybody is right! You are no one to talk about propriety! You are not a gentleman. You are nothing but a cad, an ill-bred, lowdown—"

He had listened to her tirade with a look that bordered on sheer delight, which only served to further incense Scarlett till the point her eyes were shining murderously and her nostrils were flaring. "No more, I beg you," he put up one hand, grinning, when she had started to lose her breath. "I will spare you the effort; I wouldn't want you to faint again. If shame and decency mean letting a woman suffocate to death rather than untying her garments, then yes, I am guilty as charged. If morals demand to mindlessly abide by absurd rules and propriety that I marry some dimwitted girl I barely talked to, let alone touch, then I say it's better to be immoral than a fool, and it's better to be improper than married to one. Anything else you want me to illuminate you on?"

Scarlett was staring at him; restriction deep ingrained in her by Mammy and Ellen the only thing that kept her mouth from hanging agape. Her rage had been momentarily shadowed by the shock of hearing a man say such brazen, scandalous words in such a calm tone. Rhett Butler was leaning against the mantelpiece now, the pieces of the small bowl she had smashed earlier lying at his feet.

"My charming lady, don't look so frightened. I won't have to make that choice today for hopefully no one will demand you become my wife. The door is safely locked. I wouldn't have wanted Miss India Wilkes ushering some old man in need of a nap here and finding you, er, succumbed to my charms on the sofa like that. I am afraid they would have mistaken my succor for one of a more… bodily nature."

For a second, her mind couldn't process the meaning of his words. And when it partially did, blood rushed hot to her face. In her sixteen years of life, no one had ever transparently addressed such a vulgar topic in her presence. His teeth gleamed in a quaint, almost savage smile at her expression.

"O, hypocrisy, here is thy blush," he softly drawled. "Miss O'Hara, if you are not too ashamed to think of it, then you shouldn't be ashamed to say—or in this case hear of it— it either."

Her mother's teachings on this matter were clear. If a gentleman insulted her sensibilities, a lady never graced him with a retort. If he accused her of anything, she never tried to defend herself—for after all, qui s'excuse, s'accuse, like Ellen used to say. Instead, she was to icily express her displeasure and firmly but politely end the indelicate conversation. But this would have left his remark unanswered, and in Scarlett the urge to oppose Rhett Butler was stronger than the need to preserve her dignity at the moment.

"Mr. Butler, I fear you judge all people by your own disgraceful character," she replied, with all the coldness she could muster. "It is no wonder you cannot grasp honor and decency, for I see you've lived in the dirt too long to know anything else. But just because of that you shouldn't presume that all of us are coarse and wicked, like yourself."

"Shouldn't I now? Then answer me this and I will be happy to admit that you are right and that my coarseness did obscure my judgment when it came to you all. Miss O'Hara, why am I not allowed to unbutton your dress?"

"What?" She had expected anything other than this—a question whose ridiculousness made even its audacity pale. How was one to even address such an absurdity? "What do you mean why you are not allowed to unbutton my dress?"

"Yes, why am I not allowed to unbutton your dress, without taking it off, of course? Why am I—or any other man, for that matter—not allowed to see your ankle, or your knee?"

The course of this conversation should have made her swoon or at least gasp in horror, for it was more vulgar than anything else she ever remembered hearing. But oddly enough, she didn't think of it once; she only felt a need to retort, to find the right answer and silence the man.

"Because it is not done, that's why. It is improper. It is against the norms. I thought that even a man with no raising would know something so elementary."

"Oh, I agree, it surely is against the norms. But why is it so? There must be some harm in it, for after all the norms are there to prevent us from doing harm, aren't they? So I gather that there must be something wrong and sinful in touching a piece of cloth, otherwise it wouldn't be so strictly forbidden."

He was looking at her with both his eyebrows raised, as if really waiting for her opinion on the matter, and Scarlett felt trapped. There was something decidedly dubious about his reasoning, but she couldn't say what it was. His twisted words were making her feel tired and inadequate, and, suddenly, the aloof rejection she had overlooked before became the more desirable path.

"I don't know, and I am afraid, sir, that this conversation has gone far en—"

His face was suddenly somber. "Don't give me that. I didn't treat you like a fool; I would expect you to return the favor. We were having this discussion because you were admirable enough not to stop it with some polite nonsense when it was becoming to do so. But, dear opponent, you are not stopping it now just because you are out of arguments."

There was some truth in his words. No man had ever talked to her like that, like he really expected her to have a mind. And, truth be said, it would have worried her if anyone did, because that would have meant they were lost as beaux. Men didn't like one having a mind. But since Rhett Butler was not her admirer, and he had already seen her at her very worst, what was the harm in continuing this conversation? It certainly had a forbidden thrill about it, but that only served to make it more intriguing.

"Well then," he smiled at her again, "let me tell why all those things are prohibited. It is because men are beasts. Oh, don't look so appalled. Our raising is a peculiar one. We are told from infancy that we are a gentile, noble race. And yet we are treated and in turn treat ourselves like we are the most savage of animals. Which we might well be; but that is not the point. The reason, my dear Miss O'Hara, why a gentleman can't unbutton your dress is because, while everyone praises his respectability, no one would trust him to stop at that. Let's not call it hypocrisy, but it's quite a beautiful contradiction, don't you find?"

"That is preposterous. Gentlemen are not like that," she blushed again, this time trying not to protest at the mere vulgarity of his words. Actually, she had little idea what stopping at that meant and what was there beyond if one didn't stop, but she was sure it had to be the very land of disgrace if Rhett Butler found it so amusing.

"But I am not saying that only gentlemen are. I am saying that everyone is, that ladies are too, even though the pressure of taming their true nature has always been greater on them. A girl like you—to quote our bard again, a girl that can love and hate with violence—is a remarkably rare occurrence."

"You really do forget yourself, Mr. Butler. Would you please help me now? I think I'd prefer spending my time upstairs."

He made no move to change his position. "Unfortunately, Miss O'Hara, I am afraid you will have endure my company for a while longer, as I was in fact trying to tell you earlier. Either war broke out or Southern barbecues became a tad more animated since the last time I attended one. There's quite an upheaval outside."

In the library, with its massive door and book-covered walls, only the faintest sounds of the commotion were discernible—hurried hooves and loud shouts across the yard. But he was right; this was not the usual atmosphere during the afternoon rest and Scarlett couldn't keep herself from exhaling loudly in dejection. She felt trapped. She had never in her life worried about any problem more complicated than which dress to wear to what party and now this horrible, terrible day had come upon her and it just kept getting worse and worse. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to run home, hide her face in her mother's skirts and cry.

"And so," Rhett Butler grinned, ignoring his companion's obvious dismay, "since going out at the moment would be marching directly in front of a priest and/or the barrel of your father's gun, I think it's wiser to wait, don't you? And besides, we were having such a wonderful conversation. I believe you were trying to demonstrate the feebleness of my claims?"

"No, I was not. You can keep your horrid opinions on me and everyone else, for all I care. It's of no consequence to me, for they do nothing but reflect on your own character. Frankly, I don't even know where one could start, to prove such blatant absurdities wrong."

The words came laced with more resentment than she would have wanted, but she couldn't help it. She was tired and frustrated and she found it increasingly hard to keep her composure to any degree. But, unbeknown to her, something shifted in Rhett Butler's posture at her reply and the signs of her straining temper. In his dark mocking eyes a small flame had ignited predatorily.

"Oh, but it is fairly simple to prove me wrong. Really, Miss O'Hara, it would be the easiest of things to prove your worth—and allow me to prove mine." She arched one eyebrow coldly in wait for his next words. "Allow me to kiss you."

"You must have lost your mind!" The words flew from her lips even before the whole shock of his demand registered.

"No, on the contrary. Think of it, would it not be the very test of rationality? Would we not solve here and now the age-old question of whether mind rules over body and spirit over flesh? For if I kiss you, I shall stop the second you tell me to stop. Which you should have no problem in doing if your claims were indeed right."

"Are you suggesting they were not? That is beyond ridiculous. Why would I have any problem stopping a kiss I do not want in the first place?"

"They say I kiss very well," he lazily replied.

"You are intolerably conceited," she returned fairly cold, though a small shiver of uneasiness went through her at his words and her cheeks were burning again.

"I invite you to prove me wrong on that claim as well, then," he shrugged serenely. "You have nothing to fear or lose. I will stop at your word. No one would ever know about it and besides, would it not be the best guarantee that my lips are sealed about this whole little incident as well?"

"Mr. Butler, are you blackmailing me?"

"Not at all. Merely offering you an additional guarantee, just in case my word as a gentleman was not enough."

She opened her mouth to deliver a stinging rebuke, but something in his gaze seemed to dare and challenge her and she couldn't speak. She lowered her eyes to stare at the folds of her dress instead. Unwanted, unexpected, the idea was slowly shaping itself in her mind. What if she did kiss him?

On one hand, there was the decidedly improper character of his request. She knew she should have been appalled, but fact was, she wasn't, not really. Kisses were something Scarlett O'Hara had long decided her mother and mammy had exaggerated the harm of. She had allowed some of her beaux to take that small liberty before and it had always put her in the position of power, to grant them one brief kiss and then withhold any others. They always lost their head and begged for her favors and love. Maybe she could let Rhett Butler kiss her once too, under her own conditions, and then shower him with cold contempt. It would bring him down a peg or two, just like he deserved.

But however grand her desire to humiliate him was, she still couldn't quite imagine herself doing something so fresh. The same arguments he had brought to support the innocuousness of their situation—how the door was locked, how he wouldn't tell anyone for he had no desire to marry her—were for Scarlett tokens of its shadiness. That she wouldn't be safe with him never crossed her mind, though, for instinct told her he would keep his word, cad as he was, just like common sense whispered that if he'd wanted to take advantage of her, he could have done so earlier when she was weak and still at his mercy.

It was then that Rhett Butler played his trump card.

"Oh, but how thoughtless of me," he said with a small wave of his hand. "Forgive me; of course I understand your hesitation. After all, your heart belongs to Mr. Wilkes for all eternity, despite your little spirited speech earlier. Fidelity is such a nice thing. I am sure he values it dearly."

It was hard to tell whether it was his condescending tone or airy words what stung her more. In any case, Scarlett raised poisonous green eyes at him. "My heart belongs to no one," she hissed.

"And yet your refusal says differently," he shrugged slyly.

"I didn't refuse yet."

The words were out before she could check herself. She had wanted to contradict him, to win over him at all costs. It was an all-consuming need, almost stronger than herself, an antagonism the likes of which she had never felt in regard to any other person before and that made words fly from her lips unthinkingly.

He thrived on her retort and carried on, mercilessly, "Oh, does that mean that you are planning to accept my humble request then, Miss O'Hara? Though it would be a betrayal of the noble love you professed just minutes before?"

At his words something finally snapped and anger rose swiftly in her, the kind on anger that drove Gerald to swear murderously, the kind that'd pushed him to commit real murder once. Gerald would have probably tried to shoot this man by now, and it wasn't lack of inclination what kept his daughter either. In her rage she found herself with only one weapon at hand for vengeance—and she didn't stop to think it was the one Rhett Butler had purposely left her with.

"Yes," she spat the word as if it was poison on her tongue. "Yes, I'll accept your damned request. But don't think for a second you've won anything. I hate you and despise you. And you will help me with the lacings now, so that when I stop you, you can remove yourself from my presence without further delay."

"I'll try to take my comeuppance in good grace," he chuckled softly, and the small flicker of triumph in his eyes suddenly told Scarlett that he had her where he'd wanted. She'd fallen in his trap. It was as if cold water had been thrown on her wrath as she watched him make his way towards the sofa, with the lazy grace of a panther. She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. She couldn't give this rascal the satisfaction of seeing her stammer and back out of a challenge.

And so, after only a brief hesitation, she rose from the sofa and faced away from him, balancing her weight from one stocking-clad foot to another, slightly, in anxious wait. It was such an awkward situation—allowing a man to be so close, to perform that delicate task—and she had to keep herself from thinking of it, lest she cringed and betrayed her sudden shyness. To his honor, Rhett Butler was silent as he approached her and picked up the strings. His proximity made her shiver, careful though he was not to touch her more than it was necessary, and Scarlett could only hope he had not noticed.

She closed her eyes and held her breath, waiting for the jerking his force and inexperience were bound to bring. But oddly enough the pressure he exercised was measured and steady, more efficient than even Mammy's. She had expected him to need her directions, but it was obvious now that he did not. It was as if he'd spent his whole life working as a maid, she thought with a small blush. Under the deft work of his fingers, the corset and dress were swiftly in place and then he turned her in his arms before she had any time to protest.

And she would have had reasons to protest, for this was not what she had bargained for. The vague weakness still lingering in her body, the unexpected firmness of his arms around her, the heat radiating from his body, only inches away from hers now—they melted into a situation as inebriating as it was dangerous, and she wondered now what she had gotten herself into. She didn't feel in control, like she had expected to be, she felt little and overwhelmed and she fought the sudden urge to break away from him and run. But it was far too late for that. Instead she decided to act as if was a matter of habit and supreme indifference to her, this whole kissing business. With her body stiff and her head slightly tilted back, she closed her eyes and waited for what was to come.

And nothing happened. The man above made no move to lower his lips on hers, his breath didn't touch her face, his arms didn't tighten around her—not that she wanted them to, her mind hastily corrected itself; he was already holding her unnervingly close. He just kept her there, immobile, and Scarlett could take no more and finally opened her eyes. He was watching her intensely, perhaps more intensely than any of her beaux ever had, but at the same time with a sort of disturbing, controlled patience that prevented her from attributing the glimmer in his eyes to any kind of ardent feeling.

"What are you doing?" she frowned at his prolonged silence.

"I was just thinking how nice it would be if you opened your eyes." Laughter was thinly disguised in his voice. "Sleeping beauties never held that much of a charm for me."

"Oh, you—" she started in frustration but before she could elaborate any further his mouth swooped down on hers.

It was relentless. His lips, they had allowed her no time to breathe, no time to gather her thoughts and rally her forces against him, to punish him like she'd wanted. They were persistent and slow, maddeningly slow, taking her to the brink of some strange hunger that made her lips quiver as if they wanted to part and be swallowed by his, and then refusing to tip her over, basking in unhurried work. This was not what she had expected, this lazy warmth surging from him into her veins, drugging her, making her feel weak again, weaker than before, when the darkness had swallowed her.

For the brief time before it surrendered, her mind had cried in alarm at her body's compliance. But she had to keep her word and let him kiss her, even if it was nothing like she had expected, nothing like the kisses of her beaux. And then all notions of rejection left her mind, replaced by oblivion and a sweet sense of dizziness. She was hot and she was cold and she was shaky and she could feel his chest pressed hard against her breast now, through her basque. It was wrong, it had to be wrong, but she couldn't find the strength to oppose it.

He stopped and looked at her, his breath still brushing tantalizingly cool against her lips, and she knew there was something she was supposed to do or say now, only that she couldn't remember what it was and so she waited. And when he kissed her again, her lips parted for him, because this time he willed them to, even though her mind had almost recoiled at the gesture. He was—he was tasting her mouth and it was repulsive. Or it should have been repulsive, had it not been so oddly warm and intimate, had he not tasted of coffee and tobacco, so tangible she somehow wanted more of it. But he was merely probing at the shallow confines of her lips, patient and unhurried again, and Scarlett's arms tentatively moved over his back to draw him closer.

It was that feeling what almost broke the spell for her—the feel of another person's body, so close and real, the warmth and firmness of his back under her touch what stilled her hands to shyness again. It made her suddenly, acutely aware of her own body pressed to his, tingling and throbbing along the secret pathways of a map she had never known it possessed. He was a stranger and she had to stop this. But any efforts of clearing her darkened mind were brief and fleeting, because soon Rhett Butler moved his hand to the back of her head and deepened the kiss.

And she found herself not only surrendering to the sweet dizziness, but also responding and letting him take it further and further. He bent her backwards in his arms and she could feel the slight tickle of his moustache as his lips traveled slow and hot against her neck. She was limp as a rag doll under his touch and she never wanted this to end. But then, out of the swirl of dark sensations, sprang his earlier words, crude and unbidden like the morning light. A betrayal of the noble love you professed… Ashley, she thought with a sudden pang of pain; she was losing Ashley forever now. And then her eyes were wide open, her mind was alert again, and she was pushing feebly against Rhett Butler's large form.

"Stop," she rasped with a hint of panic.

She didn't have to ask twice. At the sound of her voice, he froze with his lips one inch from her skin, his breath cooling the warm trail of his kisses. It took him just one moment to collect himself and then he straightened up, though without loosening his hold on her.

"You hate me and despise me and I should remove myself from your presence without further delay?"

His smile was warm, if a little provocative in its self-debasement, but Scarlett was not up to the challenge. She couldn't find one thing to say; none of the poisonous, burning words she had envisioned she would throw at him earlier was at hand. Her mind was empty and tired and all she could manage to whisper was "Please, let me go."

He assessed her glazed eyes and slightly swollen lips for a second and then he nodded, stepping away from her, as gracefully as if he was simply leaving her at her seat after a waltz.

She let herself fall on the sofa for her legs were not supporting her anymore. And there, with her eyes fixed on the floor, she listened to Rhett Butler explaining how he would go out of the library now, discreetly, and she had to wait at least fifteen minutes before doing the same. He asked if she understood him and she just nodded mutely. His voice was kind again—the voice of a man taking care of things—and she even thought he would lean over to touch her at one point, but he didn't. She heard him say his goodbyes and the rustling of his coat as he took it from atop the cushion. He said nothing about what happened between them and she was grateful.

She had not won. It was clear to her that she had not won—she had surrendered. He could have done with her whatever he wanted. For the first time she understood what Ellen and Mammy meant when warning her against this. It wasn't that gentlemen would cease to see you as a lady if you allowed them to take that sort of liberty; it was that to your own eyes, you could never be a lady again. How was she to claim she was a lady when she had acted so indecently, when her own nature had betrayed her like that in front of this man?

And then a new, far more painful thought rose in her, making her heart constrict in shame and agony. She had stopped the kiss because of Ashley; she owed him that, for his luminous presence was the only thing that had saved what was left of her honor. But Ashley despised her. Ashley didn't think she was a lady and that—that was why he was marrying Melanie, she realized with a sudden pang.

But if the only man who mattered didn't think you were a lady, then what was the point of being one anyway? And if Melanie Hamilton embodied all the attributes of gentility, then she, Scarlett, was not a lady and she was proud of it. She would rather be improper than a fool. Without realizing it, she was repeating in her mind, as solace, Rhett Butler's words from earlier.

Hatred was burning high in her throat again. All the conflicted feelings and high emotions of this day were swooping down on her now, unleashed by this final blow, and her chest hurt with them. She hated Melanie, and she hated Ashley. Oh, how she hated him! She hated him with the passion of first love scorned, with all the might of a young heart that thinks both pain and hatred would be eternal. And she wanted nothing more than to make him suffer, to somehow take revenge on him and all the rest of the hypocrites.

For a second, she thought of smashing and ripping and destroying everything in her path. It would make her feel better, for she hated this room with its dark, silent grace and the long rows of books that seemed to glare down at her, disdainful and haughty. She hated the very sofa she was sitting on, for the same reasons she used to love it—it was Ashley's favorite place.

But somehow it wasn't enough. If she acquired the strength of Samson and brought this whole house down, it still wouldn't be enough. And then she raised her chin slowly; her eyes burning with fever as she watched the man that had advocated the benefits of disgrace, the man that had shunned everything she now passionately hated make his way towards the door.

"Stay," she suddenly said. At her word, he halted and turned slowly on his heels and for a second Scarlett could have seen what a long row of adversaries had not seen on Rhett Butler's face—the look of a man whose bluff had been called.

"Qui s'excuse, s'accuse" means "He who excuses himself accuses himself". My assumption was that Ellen knew French and would have quoted that, explaining the meaning to her daughters, so, if we're sticking strictly to her POV, Scarlett could have been familiar with the expression even if she wasn't mastering French (which is exactly my case as well).
Now, for the people who won't be following this story once it moves to the M-category, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. I tried to make the end of this part open enough so your imagination can choose what happened next. I really think it can go either way. For the others, see you next week, with the M-rated scenario I chose to envision as sequel ;)
G.