Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the estate of Winston Graham, various publishers including but not limited to Pan Macmillan and the BBC. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction.

Author's Note: This fic was inspired by this post ( post/124099346131/au-meme-poldark-college-ross-poldark-comes-from) on Princessofpoldark's Tumblr with the prompt: Ross Poldark comes from an upper class family and is the heir to a vast mining fortune. Between bouts of partying and drinking he attends Cambridge University. While at the library he meets Demelza, a working class, quick witted music student.

Thank you to Nokomis for the second set of eyes on this.

Please do not archive elsewhere without permission.

The first time Ross met her he was bored out of his mind.

And he'd had more than ample opportunities for boredom over the span of his life, but nothing approached sitting in the UL with his cousin Francis and quasi-arch nemeses George Warlaggen.

He missed New York. The year spent studying abroad had given him a new perspective on life. A lot had changed. He had grown up for one. It was so different from anything he'd experienced before after finally being on his own without friends or family around. Naturally his father footed the tab for a nice flat near Columbia University and allowed him a generous stipend each month so he wouldn't starve. Ross was pretty sure that was his mother's doing.

Second, the ethereal Elizabeth Chynoweth had cast him off in favor of Francis, even after all the promises she'd made about waiting forever for him. The daily Skyping had lasted about six weeks before she started getting "busy" and the time dwindled until one day she simply stopped answering. To say he was devastated when he returned home to find an invitation to her engagement party laying on the marble table in the foyer was an understatement.

It wasn't like her parents were ever going to approve of him despite his father's mercurial climb to the very top of the Cornish mining industry. The second son had out done the first. Nothing was going to change the fact that Ross was the eldest son of the black sheep of the Poldark dynasty. Both father and son had a reputation for being indifferent to the niceties of polite society.

His mother gave him a much needed kick in the arse and sent him back to school to finish his course in economics so he could help run the Carnmore Copper Company. His father wasn't getting any younger and Claude Anthony was still too young to be of help. She was always good for that, his mam.

She also tried her hardest to make him realize that if Elizabeth was so fickle then he would do well to be done with her. It was easier said than done though.

Which is exactly how he found himself in the library on a rainy Monday spring afternoon with two people he did not care much for at all.

"I just don't understand how an esteemed university such as this one can admit such riff-raff into its hallowed halls," bemoaned George.

"I couldn't agree more," Francis chimed in immediately, always the parrot to anything George had to say. Originality had never been his strong suit.

"What say you, Ross?"

He was pulled from his ruminations of where to hide the bodies once he'd murdered the lot of them to see a young woman with unruly bright red hair, neatly but shabby dressed trundling past with a heavy cart of books towards the stacks at the far end of the building.

"I say she's every right to be here as anyone else who earned their way in," Ross countered. He did so enjoy being contrary to George especially since it was common knowledge that his father had to buy his admission with a more than generous donation.

"I think," George said, ignoring him and steepling his fingers, "it would be amusing to have a dog fight. It's been a while."

That got Francis's interest immediately. "A dog fight you say? What are the stakes?"

"To the winner, a bottle of my father's finest Scotch whisky. The thirty year old stuff. The losers must streak the next rugby match."

"And the terms?"

"Bring the poorest, homeliest chav you can find to a card party at my house on tomorrow night."

"That's a very short turnabout."

"All the more fun. I'll text John and a few of the others."

Francis's eyes lingered in the direction the chit had gone a few minutes before.

"I call dibs on her," George said immediately to put the fair Poldark off the scent of easy prey. "Are you in, Ross?"

There were no words to describe how disgusted he was feeling at that moment with his cousin. "I believe I'm late for rowing practice," he answered tightly, pushing back from the table to stalk off.

He didn't know what made him do it, to search the girl out, but he circled around the long way to look for her amongst the long rows of book stacks. He'd participated in more than his fair share of dog fights in the past and won more often than not, but he was growing tired of all the drinking and partying and nothingness.

She was there, shelving books in the Greek classics section with earbuds in, listening classical music on a cheap MP3 player. He could see just a peek of pale skin on her lower back when she stretched up to place a book on the top shelf.

"Oh!" the girl gasped when she discovered him standing there, immediately pulling one earbud out. "Do you need help finding a book?"

"No," he responded with a shake of his head. "I came to warn you that a wanker named George is going to ask you to a party on Saturday night. Don't go."

She narrowed blue eyes at him. "What?"

"Just don't do it if you have any self-respect."

"Okay."

It was obvious from look on her face she didn't know what to make of him. "Alright."

He walked away feeling decent for a change. He'd done all that he could do. The rest was up to her.