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: "Indeed, no. That is -- not unless you mended your manners considerably."
"And I have no intention of mending them. So you could not love me? That is as I hoped. For while I like you immensely, I do not love you and it would be tragic indeed for you to suffer twice from unrequited love, wouldn't it, dear? May I call you 'dear,' Mrs. Hamilton? I shall call you 'dear' whether you like it or not, so no matter, but the proprieties must be observed."
"You don't love me?"
"No, indeed. Did you hope that I did?"
"Don't be so presumptuous!"
"You hoped! Alas, to blight your hopes! I should love you, for you are charming and talented at many useless accomplishments. But many ladies have charm and accomplishments and are just as useless as you are. No, I don't love you. But I do like you tremendously -- for the elasticity of your conscience, for the selfishness which you seldom trouble to hide, and for the shrewd practicality in you which, I fear, you get from some not too remote Irish-peasant ancestor."
Peasant! Why, he was insulting her! She began to splutter wordlessly.
"Don't interrupt," he begged, squeezing her hand. "I like you because I have those same qualities in me and like begets liking. I realize you still cherish the memory of the godlike and wooden-headed Mr. Wilkes, who's probably been in his grave these six months. But there must be room in your heart for me too. Scarlett, do stop wriggling! I am making you a declaration. I have wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you, in the hall of Twelve Oaks, when you were bewitching poor Charlie Hamilton. I want you more than I have ever wanted any woman -- and I've waited longer for you than I've ever waited for any woman."
She was breathless with surprise at his last words. In spite of all his insults, he did love her and he was just so contrary he didn't want to come out frankly and put it into words, for fear she'd laugh. Well, she'd show him and right quickly.
"Are you asking me to marry you?"
He dropped her hand and laughed so loudly she shrank back in her chair.
"Good Lord, no! Didn't I tell you I wasn't a marrying man?"
"But -- but -- what --"
He rose to his feet and, hand on heart, made her a burlesque bow.
"Dear," he said quietly, "I am complimenting your intelligence by asking you to be my mistress without having first seduced you."
Mistress!