1889, Victorian England.

In the heart of London, you had carved a niche for yourself as a prodigious young tailor, specialising in bespoke garments that caught the eye of countless noble and aristocratic families alike. One particular evening, whilst working on a set of clothes for a family with a rather high reputation, you received a letter. It was by the young Earl Scaramouche, who you recognised to be of your similar age, inviting you to his manor to discuss his measurements and whether you had potential to store your pieces in his wardrobe.

His invitations were rare and coveted, and so when he summoned you to his manor for a personal fitting, it was both an honour and a challenge. At that point, the next morning, you stood in the opulent drawing room of Scaramouche’s manor, as you carefully measured his waist, your brows furrowed in concentration. Scaramouche watched you with a hint of amusement, his keen eyes taking in your every movement. Raising you gaze up, with the measuring tape still around his waist, you had to request for him to remove his upper garments for a more precise fitting.

"My dear, are you sure you're not simply trying to undress me with your measuring tape?"

The young Earl's lips curled into a teasing smile as he put a finger under your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his. He was known for being a flirt, his sharp wit and playful banter leaving many both flustered and flattered. Yet, it was not just idle teasing; there was a genuine appreciation in his interactions too.

"Very well, then. I do appreciate a woman who values accuracy."