She liked to believe herself a thing of mystery to men, but she knew Rhett thought her as transparent as glass.
“Speaking of such matters,” he continued, “have you a protector or chaperon in the house?
The admirable Mrs. Merriwether or Mrs. Meade?
They always look at me as if they knew I was here for no good purpose.”
“Mrs. Meade usually comes over at night,” answered Scarlett, glad to change the subject.
“But she couldn’t tonight.
Phil, her boy, is home.”
“What luck,” he said softly, “to find you alone.”
Something in his voice made her heart beat pleasantly faster and she felt her face flush.
She had heard that note in men’s voices often enough to know that it presaged a declaration of love.
Oh, what fun!
If he would just say he loved her, how she would torment him and get even with him for all the sarcastic remarks he had flung at her these past three years.
She would lead him a chase that would make up for even that awful humiliation of the day he witnessed her slapping Ashley.
And then she’d tell him sweetly she could only be a sister to him and retire with the full honors of war.
She laughed nervously in pleasant anticipation.
“Don’t giggle,” he said, and taking her hand, he turned it over and pressed his lips into the palm.
Something vital, electric, leaped from him to her at the touch of his warm mouth, something that caressed her whole body thrillingly.
His lips traveled to her wrist and she knew he must feel the leap of her pulse as her heart quickened and she tried to draw back her hand.
She had not bargained on this—this treacherous warm tide of feeling that made her want to run her hands through his hair, to feel his lips upon her mouth.
She wasn’t in love with him, she told herself confusedly.
She was in love with Ashley.
But how to explain this feeling that made her hands shake and the pit of her stomach grow cold?
He laughed softly.
“Don’t pull away!
I won’t hurt you!”
“Hurt me?
I’m not afraid of you, Rhett Butler, or of any man in shoe leather!” she cried, furious that her voice shook as well as her hands.
“An admirable sentiment, but do lower your voice.
Mrs. Wilkes might hear you.
And pray compose yourself.”
He sounded as though delighted at her flurry.
“Scarlett, you do like me, don’t you?”
That was more like what she was expecting.
“Well, sometimes,” she answered cautiously.
“When you aren’t acting like a varmint.”
He laughed again and held the palm of her hand against his hard cheek.
“I think you like me because I am a varmint.
You’ve known so few dyed-in-the-wool varmints in your sheltered life that my very difference holds a quaint charm for you.”
This was not the turn she had anticipated and she tried again without success to pull her hand free.
“That’s not true!
I like nice men—men you can depend on to always be gentlemanly.”
“You mean men you can always bully.
It’s merely a matter of definition.
But no matter.”
He kissed her palm again, and again the skin on the back of her neck crawled excitingly.
“But you do like me.
Could you ever love me, Scarlett?”
“Ah!” she thought, triumphantly.
“Now I’ve got him!”
And she answered with studied coolness: