Author's Notes:

Welcome all of my readers, to 'How (Not) to Catch an Obstinate Marquess'! I recently read staceums' 'The Outlaw Knight' which is a Seiftis Western AU. I was inspired to write my own, since there are so few in the fandom and somehow, the original idea transformed into a Seiftis Regency Era AU.

This story is much more lighthearted than Black Swan, as well as more fun and humorous. If you're a fan of silly romance novels with a predictable plot, then you'll likely enjoy this story. I've taken much of the same aspects of Regency Era novels (such as the titles of the peerage and their hierarchy), and intermingled them with the world of the game. For reference, the popular gambling hall, Almack's, is now Aphorora's, the pub in Timber. Hessian boots which were often worn by members of nobility and those that were well-off, are now Estharian boots. Horses equal chocobos, etc.

Many thanks to Strings805 for beta-reading for me, as well as helping me brainstorm and flesh out some of the ridiculously fun ideas. I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it, because it seriously is a blast. This story is rated mature for what I hope would be rather obvious reasons, even if the first few chapters don't reflect that.

Last note, the first chapter features both Quistis and Seifer's POVs. That will not be the norm, as I prefer to stick to one POV per chapter.

"Are you even listening to me, Lady Trepe?"

Quistis Trepe, only daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Trepe, jumped in her seat and whirled around to face her suitor, who was looming over her with his hands on his hips.

"I-Of course I was, Your Grace. Please, don't stop on my account," she encouraged with a false smile plastered on her face.

Her suitor, the aging Duke of Dollet, beamed and tucked his graying hair behind his ear before he continued rambling on about how he'd saved so-and-so from drowning years ago, during the war. Quistis smiled politely throughout his story, trying to remember to chuckle and gasp at the right moments to convince the Duke that she was still paying attention to him.

She wasn't.

He was the fifth suitor this month. Her father was dedicated to finding her a man to marry, though she'd insisted each and every time—usually after seeing yet another failed candidate to the door—that she'd prefer not to marry a buffoon, and would be perfectly happy to remain single for the rest of her days.

As she was their sole child, her parents insisted on finding her a suitable match. In her opinion, they were more concerned that the title and their wealth go to someone, since as a woman, she couldn't inherit. Personally, she could care less whether anyone carried on the title of Viscount of Deling. Obviously, her father felt otherwise.

Quistis turned and gazed out the window at the landscape, trying to tune out the grating sound of the Duke's voice.

The day was perfect for riding and she longed to be out there, her hair flying free in the wind as she rode over the hills on her chocobo. By this point, even her least favorite book would be preferable to the company she was currently forced to endure.

She shifted in her seat uncomfortably in an attempt to adjust the corset she was wearing underneath her billowing silky, peach gown. Her handmaiden, Selphie, had tied it far too tight this morning—"Per your mother's instructions, m'lady."—and she felt like she was slowly asphyxiating, though whether that was entirely her corset's fault or the Duke's oppressive presence, she couldn't say.

After another minute of unsuccessfully trying to escape into her thoughts, Quistis decided that enough was enough and turned to the Duke, pressing her gloved hand to her forehead before interrupting him in mid-sentence. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I-I find that I do not feel like myself. I feel rather ill, actually. If it is alright with you, perhaps we can see each other another time?"

The Duke shot to his feet, his eyebrows furrowed in concern as he approached Quistis. "Why of course, Lady Trepe. I would never wish to keep you, if you are not feeling well. I will speak to your father about another meeting, yes?"

"Yes, that sounds wonderful. Until next time then, Your Grace," Quistis mumbled as she waved at Selphie, who was standing along the edge of the room. The brunette scurried over and helped Quistis rise to her feet, ushering her towards the door.

They left the Duke behind in the sitting room and entered the main hall, heading towards the massive mahogany staircase that led up to the living quarters. The lengthy stairs were flanked by lofty, dark wood-paneled walls that rose above them to connect with the exposed trusses that her father had had specially designed for their home, when they'd taken it over from her grandfather.

As members of the peerage, Viscount Trepe was rather well-off, and Trepe Manor displayed that wealth quite ostentatiously. The main hall was decorated extravagantly and most days, her father's exhibition of their overabundance of money disgusted Quistis. Today was no different. He'd likely asked the maids to spruce up the main hall to impress the Duke, though why he bothered was beyond Quistis. From the moment she'd met the man, she knew without a doubt that he would not be the one she'd marry.

Of course, her father could only continue to hope that she'd choose the man of the day as her intended.

The door to the sitting room opened behind them and for good measure, Quistis trailed her hand along the graciously lacquered decorative table against the wall, pretending to use it as additional support while avoiding the gaudy vase that had been placed in the center.

That wasn't there this morning, she thought, annoyed at her father. Where he kept pulling these extra bits of decoration from was the question of the day—no, the month.

Selphie guided her up the steps and when they were halfway up, they heard their butler, Biggs, speaking to the Duke before he showed him out. Once the thud of their colossal front door echoed throughout the room, signifying the Duke's exit, Selphie whispered, "Are you really feeling unwell, m'lady?"

The corner of Quistis' lips curled upwards as she replied, "No, I'm perfectly fine. However, if I had to listen to another hour of that man prattling on about absolutely nothing, I really might have been ill."

The girls giggled quietly to themselves as they stepped up to the second floor, and traipsed down the hall to Quistis' room. After they entered and Selphie shut the door behind her, Quistis pivoted on her heel, facing her handmaiden head-on. She pulled her elbow-length gloves off and tossed them onto the bed as she said, "Will you get my riding gear? I wish to head out for a quick jaunt."

"Right now, m'lady? I imagine your father will wish to speak with you, after you sent the Duke a'runnin' so quickly," Selphie observed.

Quistis waved her hand in the air dismissively before pulling the pins from her chignon, causing her golden hair to fall down in waves around her face. "I will deal with my father later." She turned and reached up, unbuttoning her dress as she insisted, "Hurry! I want to get out the door before he finds out I sent the Duke away."

A grin spread across Selphie's face as she hurried over to the wardrobe, yanking out a pair of slightly worn, brown leather riding breeches, paired with a cream, linen doublet. Quistis tugged her dress up and over her head, tossing it along with her now-unlaced corset to the floor, and grabbed her garments from Selphie.

Ladies generally wore a doublet over a skirt for their riding habits, but Quistis disliked the constricting feel of so much fabric around her legs. She always felt like she was drowning in material, and men's breeches allowed her to ride much more efficiently. Plus, the sight generally sent her father into a conniption, which was an amusing thing to witness.

Quickly, she re-dressed and raced back out into the hallway, making sure to grab her riding gloves on her way out. Selphie shut the door with a quiet thump behind them, before following right on Quistis' heels as they hastily made their way down the stairs. Quistis kept her hand poised above the railing and when they reached the bottom, she grabbed onto the balustrade's curved ornament and swung herself around, heading down the hall towards the kitchens.

The fastest way to the stables—as well as the only way to avoid passing by her father's study, which was right across the hall from the sitting room—was through the galley and out the side door.

Unfortunately, her father must've caught wind of the Duke's premature departure and when she was halfway through her turn around the stairs, the door to his study opened, slamming against the wall behind it. Both she and Selphie jumped into the air and Quistis swiveled around to face her father. Selphie bowed her head and shuffled into place behind Quistis as Viscount Trepe, his face red with anger, stalked up to his daughter.

"What in the world were you thinking, Quistis? Why would you send a Duke away?" he demanded.

"He was rather dull, Father. And old," Quistis replied in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

"At this point, you don't have many options left. The Duke of Dollet was one of the last available bachelors in the county. It was either marry him, or you'll end up a governess!" her father threatened.

"Perhaps I would prefer that," Quistis retorted, placing her hand on her hip.

"No daughter of mine, a Trepe, will become someone's governess," Viscount Trepe spat. He jabbed a finger into Quistis' face before continuing, "You will marry someone within the next six months Quistis, or I will choose a husband for you. Lady Hartley's ball is in a fortnight. I expect you to go and actually socialize. At least try to find a man who can put up with you long enough to propose. Though with that get-up that you're wearing, they might have a hard time even seeing that you are, in fact, a lady."

With that, her father whirled around and retreated into his study, pulling the door shut so hard that the paintings on the walls rattled. Quistis stood frozen in the hallway, her chest heaving and her fists clenched at her side.

Selphie gently laid a hand on her friend's shoulder and murmured, "I'll go tell Irvine to get Boko ready for you," before rushing down the hall into the kitchen.

Once she was alone, Quistis pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes, willing herself to calm down. There was no doubt that her father was a strict man, and he was prone to occasional bouts of ill-temper yes, but this was the first time he'd given her an actual deadline. Six months to find a suitable husband would normally be more than enough for the daughter of a Viscount—especially with the start of the season so near— but Quistis was...Quistis.

She was headstrong, independent, and she refused to marry a man who was incapable of accepting her as his equal. Many of her past suitors simply wanted a beautiful woman to stand beside them as their wife, without voicing her opinion or disagreeing with him on anything, and that wasa wife she knew she could not be.

It was naive to wish to marry for love, she knew that. Even her own parents hadn't, and many members of the peerage rarely did. She couldn't help that feeling in the bottom of her heart, though. She wanted her husband to desire her, to want her for her, and to not have to hide who she really was. She wanted to experience the ripple of nerves in her abdomen when he courted her, when she felt their bare skin touch for the first time. She wanted him to look into her eyes and profess his undying love for her when he asked for her hand.

Selphie teased that she read too many novels, and she was probably right.

Lowering her hand, she clenched her jaw and pivoted on her heel, walking through the kitchen with her head held high, though she knew most of the staff had likely heard her father's tirade. She pushed open the door that led onto the grounds and was met with the comforting sight of her saffron-feathered mount, Boko, saddled and ready to ride.

Her father had thrown a tantrum about Boko's name as well, insisting she name him something more "lady-like", like Buttercup or Daisy. However, in her favorite romantic novel, the hero-knight's chocobo was dubbed Boko, and she had a certain fondness for the slightly laughable name. At her father's reaction, she'd rolled her eyes and declared her chocobo officially named, just to spite him.

Irvine, their stablemaster, stood beside the chocobo, reins in hand. When Quistis trudged across the way towards him, kicking up dirt in her wake, he held out the reins and she smiled at him gratefully as she took them, before slipping her foot into the stirrup and swinging herself up into the saddle.

Irvine turned around and ruffled the feathers of Boko's neck before saying, "Selphie told me what happened. Will you be alright riding on your own, m'lady? Anger makes people do stupid things."

Quistis shifted in her saddle and replied, "Thank you for your concern Irvine, but I will be fine. Anything is better than being here right now."

"Very well," he acquiesced, tipping his hat to her before he stepped backwards. "Enjoy your ride, m'lady, and be safe, hm?"

Quistis nodded and smiled in reassurance, before squeezing her thighs around Boko and snapping the reins. They took off for the fields, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.

They passed underneath the manor's stone archway and she leaned forward in the saddle, urging Boko to ride faster, her mind racing. Her father could insist—no, command—her to marry all he wanted, but in the end, she was her own person. She refused to comply and if a governess was what she was meant to be in life, then she would do so with grace.

She would not give in.

"What the bloody hell are you on about, you old bastard?"

Seifer Almasy, Marquess of Balamb, planted his hands against his father's desk and leaned forward, his eyebrows low over his bright cyan eyes. Normally, his countenance was rather mischievous, with a permanent smirk planted firmly in place. Now however, his expression was filled with unbridled anger.

About five minutes ago, his father, Cid Kramer—or the Duke of Balamb to most—had called him into his office, expressing the urgent need to speak with his adopted son. Of all the things he thought his father could've said, what had eventually come out of the Duke's mouth was not at all what he'd expected. He'd expected to be berated for visiting Aphorora's so often, or for sowing his oats a tad bit too much. But this?

He knew he should've slept in today.

Cid sighed as he folded his hands in his lap and stared up at his son. His difficult, occasionally obnoxious, unrelentingly obstinate, adopted son. He also chose to ignore the insult, seeing as how his son's vocabulary tended to be rather colorful anyway.

"General Caraway and I have come to an agreement. You are now engaged to his daughter, Miss Rinoa Caraway," Cid repeated.

"This is absurd! Me, engaged to a woman I have never even met? Are you mad? What if she's a unsightly wench with a hooked nose?" Seifer exclaimed.

"Seifer, arranged marriages are more common than you think. And she doesn't have a hooked nose, I've met Rinoa. She's rather beautiful, if I do say so myself," Cid attempted to reassure his son.

"Fine, what if she has an aggravating personality? I can't be married to a woman who nags me, day and night," Seifer insisted as he stared down his nose at his father, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"At least wait until you meet her before forming an opinion about her. Give the poor girl a chance. She'll be at Lady Hartley's ball in a fortnight," Cid pressed in an attempt to convince Seifer.

"Oh, is she really? Then I'm not going," Seifer sneered.

At that, Seifer's mother, Edea, stepped up beside her husband and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Seifer, dear. Please don't be difficult. This is for the best! You're turning thirty this year and it's about time you...settled down, don't you think?"

Seifer shifted in place, rocking his weight from one foot to the other. He always felt uncomfortable when his mother mentioned marriage, settling down, or his rather...frequent interaction with the fairer sex. "Thirty is hardly old, Mother. I'm nowhere near decrepit, nor do I plan on using a cane any time soon."

"It's old for a Marquess, dearest. Especially one as handsome as you," Edea stated, a gentle smile on her lips to lessen the verbal blow.

Seifer rolled his eyes. His mother's charm was neverending and he wasn't surprised that she had half the ton under her thumb—of course, that included her own husband and son. He glanced back at her and the gentle smile hadn't gone anywhere, which meant she was just waiting for him to agree and do as she wished.

He was a man, damn it, and he wouldn't give in!

As he continued to gaze into her warm eyes, her smile started to fade and a fresh wave of guilt swept over him. He couldn't, in good conscience, be the cause of his mother's happiness diminishing now, could he?

With a groan, he said, "Very well, I'll go. But I'll hate every second of it, I can promise you that."

Cid waved his hand in the air dismissively as he stood and replied, "Nonsense, son. It won't be that bad, you'll see! In fact, your mother and I—"

Seifer grumbled his displeasure and turned to leave in the middle of his father's sentence, the heels of his Estharian boots digging into the plush rug. It wasn't until his fingers were wrapped around the handle of the door that the Duke spoke again.

"Seifer...you do promise to show, don't you?" Cid called out to his son.

Seifer paused, his fingers squeezing the handle as he hesitated for a second. He schooled his expression into something more neutral before he faced his parents again. From between clenched teeth, he stated, "Of course, Father. I said I would, didn't I?"

His parents nodded at him in approval and he pulled the door open, stepping out into the main room of Kramer Hall. His boots snapped against the polished floors as he stalked over to the stairs leading up to the second floor. As he climbed, he frantically undid the cuffs of his dress shirt, tugging out his pressed cravat shortly after.

The only reason he was in full dress all the time was because someone of his station called for it. If Seifer had his way, he'd be in a loose linen shirt and casual trousers. Something that would let him breathe. In his opinion, full dress was stifling. It was...evidence of the oppressive nature of the ton—evidence that had hovered over him his entire life. It was his entitlement.

He hated it.

If one turned left at the top of the staircase, the door to his room stood at the end of the hall, while his parents' suite lay on the opposite end of the house. It was his room that he headed for now as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated due to the irritation he felt at being commanded around, like he was some...some dog.

"Raijin! Raijin, I need you!" Seifer bellowed down the hall.

Shortly after the sound of his voice faded, the door to his room opened and a tall man with russet skin stepped out into the hall, bowing to Seifer with his hands behind his back. "You called for me, my lord?"

"Yes, I did. Fetch me my black dress clothes. I'm going to Aphorora's," Seifer commanded as he waltzed into his room and tossed his waistcoat to the floor.

Curse Aphorora's for requiring full dress at all times. It was a gambling hall for Hyne's sake, why couldn't the men just appear in their nightclothes? Who cared?

Raijin stooped to pick up the discarded vest off the ground and placed it on a hanger, tucking it back into the armoire against the wall. He pulled out a shimmering, onyx waistcoat with intricate line work tracing across it, lifting it up in front of his body as he faced Seifer again. "This one, my lord? I find that it looks rather eye-catching against your fair hair, you know?"

Seifer glanced at it out of the corner of his eye before doing a double-take. "That one will do. I haven't worn it in some time," he approved, lifting his arms up and out for Raijin.

"Why are you in such a hurry to head to Aphorora's, my lord? Weren't you just there the other night?" Raijin questioned as he pulled the vest off the hanger and raised it onto Seifer's shoulders.

Once Seifer had adjusted the vest so that it lay straight, Raijin traveled to the front of his body and buttoned it up, re-adjusting the cravat of Seifer's shirt. After that, came the pressed and ironed ebony jacket, equally as lustrous as the waistcoat. It might've been vain of him to say, but he was rather fond of wearing all black, as it made his vivid eye color and his light hair stand out all the more.

At the risk of sounding even more vain, this was a night he could gladly use a distraction. The more female attraction he garnered tonight, the better. After all, he was soon to become some privileged little princess' husband.

As his valet worked, he bitterly muttered, "Because, I've just found out I'm soon to be a groom. Might as well enjoy the freedom of being a bachelor, while I can."

Raijin chuckled under his breath and commented, "You, my lord? A dutiful, respectful husband? I can't see it, you know?"

"Neither can I," Seifer mumbled. "Hence, why I'm going to Aphorora's to get rip-roaring drunk, find myself a not-so reputable lady of the night to take to my townhouse, and face the music in the morning."

Raijin brushed the shoulders of the jacket off, indicating that he was finished working and Seifer whirled around, grabbing his hat from a nearby table. As he wrenched open the door, Raijin piped up and said, "Have a good time, my lord. I'll see you again in the morning."

"Will do, Rai. Go take the night off, hm? Take Fujin out somewhere nice or something," Seifer suggested with a lopsided grin.

Not only was Raijin his valet, but he was his friend. Much of his childhood was spent romping about the hillside with Raijin and Fujin, his mother's handmaiden. If Seifer was getting a lucky break tonight, then by golly, his friend deserved one as well.

Raijin chuckled with a nod and Seifer shut the door to his room, ambling down the hall for the staircase. He bounded down the stairs, his footsteps thudding throughout the room and the door to his father's study opened once more. Edea stepped out, spotting her son in full dress and frowned, already knowing where he was off to.

"Honestly, Seifer. Must you go tonight?" his mother implored, displeasure written all over her face.

He detoured over to his mother, placing a quick peck on her cheek before continuing towards the front door. He might've been unhappy with his parents' decision, but he never could hold a grudge against his mother. She didn't deserve it. However, that didn't mean he had to grovel at her feet for permission to go to Aphorora's whenever he felt like it. After all, as she'd said, he was nearly thirty.

Wedge, their butler, opened the door for his lord and as Seifer made his way outside, he called out over his shoulder, "I will return in the morning, Mother."

As they were members of the peerage, their family coach was rather flamboyant. The massive thing sat before him, comprised entirely of glossy black varnish, with their coat of arms placed square in the center of the door panel. Following the fashion of the rest of the decor, the coat of arms was painted in vivid shades of crimson and gold, and the eagle that was the focal point of their arms was featured prominently in the middle. Normally, he'd roll his eyes at the extravagant display, but he could use the added attention tonight.

Seifer heard his mother sigh right before the door shut behind him, and he raced over towards their stately coach. Now that he was outside, away from his parents' judging eyes, his face fell into a scowl. Another footman rushed ahead and opened the small door in the side of the vehicle, pulling down the steps for him. As Seifer looped his hand around the gilded guide rail and lifted himself inside the coach, his glower intensified.

Once he was settled on the opulent velour bench, he rapped his knuckles against the coach's velvet roof, signifying that he was ready to leave. As they set off for town, he glared at nothing in particular, his hands clenched into tight fists.

Vehemently, he vowed, Engaged, my arse. If I have a say in it, marriage will be the last thing I do.

If you enjoyed reading the silliness that is this story, I'd love to hear your thoughts in a review!