A/N: I tweaked my style for a more Jane Austen-esque feel. Hope it sits well.

1819, March

Mr Kurt Hummel, a proper English man and struggling performance artist, having just graduated from Oxford was brilliant in all aspects a gentleman should be in. He was fluent in French, could recite almost any Shakespearean sonnet, and knew all of Dobereiner's Law of Triads by heart. He was not a rich man, but he was well enough off; tailoring was his trade. He was also quite handsome: an 'odd' sort of handsome, as the ladies deemed it, but certainly desirable. Despite his apparent eligibility, he had not a wife nor fiancée to speak of, had not one courtship in his life. He was, of course, close with women - as close as propriety would allow - but a courting was never engaged. There was no understanding made between any women in his life dealing with marriage, except perhaps that there would not be an understanding at all. In fact, Kurt did not seem to be interested in women in the least, except for perhaps the splendid outfits they wore.

He was different from other men, with his singularity and secret affinity for romance novels. Hints had been dropped about him, gossip darkly insinuated, something his father had taken acute notice of. Therefore, by some warped logic, Kurt's moderately wealthy father arranged for him join a gentlemen's club in London, where he had his own flat.

Perhaps his reasoning was that if Kurt spent more time with normal men, drinking and smoking and talking of politics, he would realise his need for a wife and find a pretty lass to court. Not only that, but his father had promised him a position at a clothing and fabric store with one of his contacts. The Hummels had been carriage menders for a long time, a family trade, so his father recognising Kurt's calling was not a gesture lost on him. Despite the pushy nature of it all, Kurt was so fond of London and so excited for his new employment, he did not protest his father's absurd choice. His land lady Ms Pilsbury seemed aware of his queer disposition, and did not seem to mind as long as the rent was sent in on time.

As his carriage stopped before the building, Kurt struggled to stifle a yawn. He had been traveling for days from his hometown Bath, and having just finished Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey was already feeling a little homesick for the place; but he did not waste time, stepping down from his carriage and nodding amiably to a passing female Londoner. She blushed, grasped her skirts to free her legs, and quickened her pace. However, the coy and flirtatious gesture was lost on the gentleman, who rather than admiring the curves of her stockinged ankles, was dazzled by the exquisite make and lace of her dress and bonnet.

Kurt took a deep breath of the sooty, London air. The day was growing dark, and he could smell the burning coal-gas as the lamps in the streets were lit.

Ah London!

Kurt took supper with Ms Pilsbury, bid her goodnight, then tucked away to bed, his nerves in a frenzy in anticipation for the morrow's first day at McKinley's Fine Tailors and his first meeting with the Dalton Gentlmen's Club.

'McKinley's?' grumbled Kurt, squinting up at the hanging sign over his place of employment. 'They'll think us Irish.'

'Scottish, actually,' corrected a voice beside him, breaking Kurt's reverie. Coincidentally, his accent was Scottish.

Startled, gathering his wits, Kurt turned to the man standing beside him. He was stocky, not tall - being inches shorter than Kurt, a man of long limbs but below six feet himself - but dashing, nonetheless. His skin lacked the pallor that went hand-in-hand with living in England. It was not a distinct brown, but had a darker glow about it, a tinge of exoticism. Or was it a natural tone? If it wasn't, then the flesh itself was more a hint of the man's wealth (that he had the means to travel) rather than an attractive quality - though the colour did suit him. Thoughts on the man's skin or how it differed to his own ivory paleness were not such that burdened Kurt, however, as he simply marveled at the stranger's handsome, if not slightly tinted, face. Almost-black curls over the top of his head were visibly soft, and Kurt found himself, most improperly, desiring nothing more than to run his fingers through the velvety-looking hair. And such eyes! Oh the Scotsman's eyes! Thick, dark lashes a young lady would do unspeakable things to call her own surrounded the hazel eyes that Kurt thought (quite daftly) could and would swallow him up if he lingered too long.

Despite that, he couldn't help but stare, those eyes locking him in place.

Kurt tried to speak, but found he could not. The man saved him the trouble. 'No, I understand your meaning. For reasons unbeknownst to both parties, or, more accurately, unsaid, the English are not too fond of the Irish. But do not worry; we have our faithful and regular customers.'

'We?' managed Kurt.

'Oh how rude of me!' he exclaimed amicably, extending a hand, for which Kurt shook, tucking his sewing kit beneath an arm. Thusly, the man introduced himself: 'My name is Blaine Anderson.'

'Kurt Hummel,' he said by way of introduction. 'Anderson? My father mentioned that name...You are the proprietor of McKinley's, correct?'

Mr Anderson smiled with just a corner of his mouth, as if shrugging. 'My father is.' There was a hint of disdain in his tone, implying Kurt should ask no more. There was a pause where no one spoke a word. 'Anyway,' he began, a confident smile flashing once more. However, it seemed he had opened his mouth before he had anything to say, so, floundering for a moment, he closed his mouth and cleared his throat; the previous smile slowly faded. 'I…' he tried again.

Bothered by the rising and inexplicable tension, Kurt proffered his hand to shake again. 'I look forward to working with you, Mr Anderson, sir.'

'Yes, well, you shall be an excellent addition to the team. You have exquisite taste,' he complimented, indicating Kurt's attire with a small gesticulation. But then, as if realising this was not an appropriate thing for one man to say to another, he blushed as if he had said too much. His grip on Kurt's hand went slack, before he quickly, but politely, released him.

Before Kurt could even utter a single syllable of his flummoxed 'thank you,' Mr Anderson mumbled an awkward, 'Welcome to our humble establishment' and strode off.

Flustered, Kurt stiffly walked to the door of his new workplace, his own cheeks enflamed.