A series of firsts for Victor and Victoria. Victoria's POV.

Bonne lecture.

When her mother told her she would be married by the end of the month, Victoria's initial thought was that, for the first time in living memory, Maudeline was making a poor attempt at a joke.

The thought that followed was more sensible—that it was truly more likely that Lady Everglot would betroth her daughter to unknown man without her consent than dare say anything remotely amusing.

Maudeline did not even wait for her daughter's reaction to this news; upon uttering the words, "Your father and I plan to have you wed by month's end to"—a barely perceptible shudder—"a member of the nouveau riche," she had turned on her heel and glided away, likely to conjure up a way to acquire a wedding dress and accompanying trousseau when one's lands out-valued one's specie.

Victoria watched the door to her room shut of its own accord; she turned in her seat at her vanity to assess her reflection. Her entire life—eighteen years and a month, to be precise—she never could quite trouble herself about her appearance. There was no one, after all, whom she wished to impress. She did not know any young men; she had no friends and little acquaintance; and Hildegarde rarely remarked upon her natural beauty (or lack thereof). Her parents, she knew, thought her demeanour an utter disgrace—but if Victoria was perfectly honest with herself, she did not care overmuch about the elder Everglots' opinions.

Yet within a month there would be someone to please, and it would behoove her to determine now the extent—or want—of her personal charms. There was no one of whom she could ask an opinion; there must, therefore, form her own impression.

Immediately her eyes fell to their own image. Too large, she decided critically. Too large and too—pensive. How often had her mother scolded her for her inquisitiveness, as a child? Curiosity is unseemly in a young lady of the beau monde, Victoria. Women ought to be seen and not heard.

Victoria suppressed a smile. Because Lady Everglot was such a paragon of reserve herself, yes?

On to her nose, then. Small, straight, generally unremarkable. Well, unremarkable would have to do.

Her lips. Not quite the rosebud shape so desired by young ladies of fashion, but they were sufficient.

Her complexion. Pale, terribly pale. She pinched her cheeks, to no avail. She sighed and moved onward.

Her form. Her mother always ordered Hildegarde to tighten Victoria's corset until she could hardly speak without gasping; thankfully Hildegarde did not invariably follow this instructions to the letter and Victoria could exert herself more than a dozen steps without nearly fainting. But even sans corset, she was rather thin in the waist; and despite Maudeline's wishes, despite dubious concoctions and bespoke garments, Victoria's hips and breasts would never appear quite as full as fashion dictated.

Overall, a dismal picture. Not ugly—by no means ugly—but not pretty, either. Just—plain.

Victoria sighed again. She disliked to disappoint anyone, much less the man with whom she would spend the remainder of her life, but plain would have to do. After all, it was not as if he had any say in the matter.

Come to think of it, neither did she.

VVVV

It did not occur to her until the day of the rehearsal that she had not given a thought to what he would be like.

For a fortnight she had lingered over her own unsatisfactory qualities, both physical and social—she was too quiet, she had no knowledge of the outside world, she liked books too much, she was far too candid—and had, as a result, neglected to dwell on her betrothed's possible characteristics.

What if he resembled her father? As much as it pained her to think so negatively of her own family, she did not think she could love a man like her father. She hoped Victor van Dort would be kind. She did not care for handsome looks or noble mien—no, she just wanted kindness. Someone who would listen to her ramble about books and would not frown if she asked a question.

She confided in Hildegarde, hoping the older woman could ease her fears; unfortunately her parents overheard, and succeeded only in depressing her further.

Oh well, she thought, as they continued down the hall. She would simply have to make the best of it. Plenty of marriages were without love. Were not her parents a prime example of one? Besides, it was not as if she had a choice. What was the point of worrying?

She retained this attitude for all of ten minutes, then returned to her former anxiety, this time quietly.

VVVV

She was at her vanity, patting down a few stray curls, when she heard it.

The pianoforte.

For a moment she froze, certain she was imagining the sound. In fact, she was not entirely confident that it was the instrument she was hearing and not something else, something more commonplace. She had never heard the piano played before; her mother disapproved of music and her father had no patience for any sound softer than a hunting rifle.

But this—this was more than soft. This was sweetness and melancholy and yearning, gentleness and hope and resignation, all tangled together and wrapped in feelings ineffable. She had never heard such a pure sound. Feelings were non grata in the Everglot mansion; but to whomever was playing this, feelings must be the essence of the soul.

An inkling of the pianist's identity sent her out into the hall, down the staircase, right by his shoulder. She meant to remain as silent as possible—if he played for ever she would be perfectly content—but he sensed her presence and jolted, knocking over the bench and upsetting the vase.

He babbled as he caught the vase and regained some semblance of composure; an apology, an awkward clearing of his throat, and a quiet "excuse me" as he righted the bench. She was vaguely aware of speaking herself—"you play beautifully" is perhaps what she said, though she could not be quite sure, as she was occupied with inspecting him.

This was Victor van Dort. Her betrothed. The man whom she had hoped would not mind her plain appearance and poor social skills; the man whom she had hoped would be kind, if not handsome or noble.

He was very tall and so thin as to make his height more pronounced. His eyes were as large as hers; he was even paler than she was; his mouth was too thin; and he had jet-black hair, a few unruly curls of which fell over his forehead. Most surprising of all, he was very near her age—he could not possibly be more than nineteen or twenty.

Why, he's just as young and uncertain as I am, she thought, relieved.

For a moment they regarded each other—she supposed he was taking stock of her as she was of him—and then her mother burst in and fairly had a fit at the breach of impropriety. As she ushered them towards the room in which the rehearsal would take place, Victoria glanced once more at her intended; and decided that, as unknown to her as the rest of his character was, to spend her life with a man who played the pianoforte with such passion could not possible be an undesirable circumstance.