Viscount Vladimir Masters was in desperate need of a wife. He was wealthy, he was handsome, and he had one of the highest titles within the peerage of the locality; one would think that mothers all over Amity would be begging him to take their daughter's hand in marriage.
The problem was that they were, but the Viscount was a horribly picky man. A man with eyes on only one woman; the formerly Honorable Madeline Spinnet, daughter to the respectable Baron Spinnet. Unfortunately she was now known simply as Mrs. Fenton. She had married down to a buffoon and it irked him to no end to be reminded of it, yet it was still the scandal of the season.
So, Viscount Vladimir Masters was in desperate need of a wife.
It was at a Gala he was hosting, something he hated with a passion but saw as a necessary evil, that the most unexpected answer to his problem arrived. He'd also tried to reject it vehemently, it was most certainly not a solution and he despised the mere thought that it could even be one.
His ultimate solution came in form of the arrival of the Marquis Charles von Work. A handsome man with a title higher than his own and a reputation as an absolute rake (though none of the rumors that followed him like a miasma seemed to have any sort of real foundation).
Whispers had swept through the hall, buzzing over the music still being played in the corner of the ballroom of the Viscount's grand Manor. No one in these parts had ever seen the man in these parts before. The Ladies and Mothers tittered behind their hands and were practically drooling over the fine cut of his clothes, signifying a very wealthy man, and without a woman on his arm he must be single. But the scar on his face, a pale thing over his left eye, quickly notified everyone in the vicinity just who he was, causing a collective sigh to pass through the hall. No one had a scar like that aside from the roving scoundrel Marquis Charles von Work
The damnable man had set eyes on him, a moody Viscount stewing in the corner of his own Gala when he should be socializing to find a wife, and that had been the end of it. The Viscount had been done for from the very start, even if he hadn't known it.
It had started with an offer to dance and Vladimir had nearly choked on his brandy. He'd spluttered, a very undignified mess for the first few moments, before he'd reigned himself in to observe the man before him, trying to gauge what sort of Marquis would even dare to jest about such a thing.
He was dressed remarkably, looking just as rakish as the rumors suggested he was with a lopsided grin and a purple velvet suit. Vladimir thought he looked ridiculous. But somehow, someway, he was still charmed by the merry glint in the man's eyes.
He'd been very firm in his first thought to say no. It was only proper after all. But then he'd taken another look around his ballroom, now stock still and roaring with furious whispers at the audacious, ludicrous, outrageous, actions of the Marquis, and he'd come to the conclusion that he didn't quite give a damn anymore.
He'd taken the proffered hand and the Marquis had led him onto the dancefloor, the stings in the corner taking their que to start a new song (bless them) and then they danced. Charles led, holding him scandalously close, and Vladimir couldn't find it in him to mind, not with the acerbic wit, sharp enough to rival his own, and the sheer charm that poured so smoothly out of the other man's mouth. The Viscount found himself laughing harder than he ever had in his life and blushing harder in than he thought feasible. They danced like nothing else in the world even mattered and Vladimir soon found himself being swept off his feet.
The song changed to a new one and yet they kept dancing. The peerage bustling about his home seemed to thaw around him, disapproving titters still following them but at least they weren't the only ones on the dance floor anymore. They were now surrounded by other couples who refused to give a damn, caring instead to follow the revolution being carried out by their betters (they were the two with the highest titles after all).
The song changed again and the whispers still lingering in the hall cried out in outrage. There was significance in a third continuous dance. It was practically a marriage proposal among the upper class. Vladimir was having far too much fun for once in his life to care.
He faced his social ruin with a smile and in the arms of someone he knew he could grow to truly care about. The merry glint in the Marquis's eyes never diminished, it only seemed to grow.
They would later decide to move to France and live out their lives in peace. Together. Never once giving another damn about anything.