Work Text:
When Estella looks back on this day, she will blame naught but herself, and scorn only her own foul judgement. She, who knows what her family is — knows their tricks, their need for control, their refusal to let her stray from the fold. The Aldermere family does not want their eldest daughter to marry. They have made it clear in private that they will go to any lengths to stop it.
Lord Simon Baviston has never been daunted by threats. Indeed, he seems to find them exciting. He absorbs it all with unflappable good humor — the round-faced, heavy-bellied easygoingness he’s so well-known for. Nothing gets under his skin. No man can uncover his secrets (and Estella's brother has certainly tried), for Baviston apparently doesn't have any.
He is the most open man Estella has ever met. That’s terrifying.
So, of course her family would try to destroy him. Of course they’d do their worst. Estella should have known. Should have suspected it, and warned her suitor not to accept the invitation to dinner.
At least, not to touch the wine.
“My dear lady,” Baviston murmurs… and when he leans close, Estella smells the cloying honey-wine sweetness on his breath. He stifles a hiccup close to her ear, before murmuring, “what has you so restless tonight?”
He looks genuinely concerned. That’s the trouble — Baviston always sees through her.
“Nothing,” Estella murmurs, and ducks her head. The suckling pig is dry tonight; it tastes like ash in her mouth. When she glances over, the damned man is still looking at her, his head tilted. Despite sloshing with three cups of tainted wine, he meets her eyes, undaunted.
“Estella…”
She loves the melody of her name on his lips.
Baviston’s voice is slow, warm, just the slightest bit unsteady. Still, his focus is entirely on her. She is unused to anyone caring enough, to paying attention to what she consumes.
“You haven’t eaten a bite.” He gestures to her plate with a lazy flick of his wrist. Another sip of wine… and Estella can’t help the way her eyes track it. “Mustn’t waste your strength, my dear. Who knows what… trials the night may yet bring?”
The way he says it sends a shiver down Estella's spine. Does he know?
The wine should have made him sluggish and incoherent — loose-lipped, sloppy enough to spill his worst secrets. At the very least, to humiliate himself. Yet her family’s scheme has played out to noeffecr. Baviston does not slur or stagger. His round face is flushed, eyes hazy… but he lounges back in his chair, heavy frame slouching comfortably. His waistcoat is painfully snug where it strains over his belly — his Lordship has eaten well tonight. Besides the suckling pig, they have had roast potatoes, greens, a spiced lemon sauce…
Three servings. God. She does not know how his Lordship managed. Bavison ate comfortably, making idle conversation, even as his words grew slow and his movements grew sloppy. Her grandmother glared him down across the table, likely plotting his brutal demise. Her father’s questions were sharp, probing; her brother threw out jabs about Baviston’s fortune, his investments, his choose of company. None of the barbs landed. They seemed to bounce off his Lordship, jolly and impervious as ever.
Now, he’s comfortable. He casts Grandmadam a smile, tilts his head with condescension in Julian’s direction. His cheeks are rosy; his eyes are sharp.
Far too sharp for three cups of wine.
A soft hckk escapes his Lordship before he can smother it, his chest jolting. Bavison blinks, momentarily surprised at himself — then grins. Amused by his own indiscretion.
Something hot and hungry coils in Estella's gut, a snake yearning to strike. Her fingers curl in her lap.
“You have indulged, My Lord,” she utters softly
Baviston casts her a thin smile. “Why should I not?”
Across the table, her brother’s smirk is fading. This was all Julian’s scheme, and he expected the worst — for Baviston to begin slurring, and make an utter spectacle of himself. Instead, the man lounges like a lazy cat, taking up space at their dinner table as though he belongs there. A member of the family already.
Beneath his smooth facade, Estella's brother is seething.
“More wine, Lord Baviston?” He not-so-subtly nudges the decanter toward him.
Baviston’s fingers drum the stem of his glass. A soft click-click-click, and Estella cannot look away. His throat bobs as he swallows — from nausea or contemplation, Estella cannot tell.
“Oh, I truly shouldn’t,” he sighs… yet his hand is already drifting toward the bottle.
Oh, Lord help her.
Another glass down, drained in a few lazy sips as he parries her father's questions. Yes, his family line goes back generations — to the Tudors, in fact. One Baviston lost his head in Henry VIII’s fits of temper; thankfully, the family fortunes improved. His father made clever investments in industry, and ever since their coffers have been booming—
Baviston stops, raises a fist to his mouth, and exhales a hearty brooOouurpp!
“Goodness,” he chuckles— and Estella can taste the rich wine dripping from his voice. “How ill-mannered of me.”
Not a blush, not a stammer... he doesn't even lower his gaze. Is the damned man enjoying this?
The fourth cup hits just as his head begins to loll. He swallows a yawn, then hiccups again. One hand has lazily drifted to his belly — Estella suspects he doesn’t realize, but he’s rubbing it like a contented bear. Again, Baviston belches. The low bruUUurp rolls past his lips, and he looks downright content.
“You must forgive me, Lady Estella,” he says quietly… and at last, his words are slurring. “I’m not usually so…”
“Indiscreet?” her father suggests. His voice is too tight, too careful. Julian’s jaw is clenched, his gaze flickering to Baviston’s hand still splayed over his stomach. Her grandmother sits like a polished statue, fork poised over her plate. Everyone at the table waits… watches. Their anticipation cools ‘round the table like a serpent, and Baviston is oblivious to it all.
“If you insist,” Baviston shrugs. His hand drops back down, fingers splayed wide across the curve of his belly. He rubs it absently, a hazy smirk on his lips. “Now, how about dessert?”
By the time the dessert plates are laid upon the table — a rich array of pastries, alongside an elaborate vanilla sponge cake — Baviston has begun to stifle hiccups. They jolt him periodically, making his stomach rumble. His Lordship rubs his chest… but seems to register only hazy inconvenience. He watches, rapt, as the servants deliver the final course.
“Cake,” Baviston exclaims rapturously. “Mmmm… you spoil me tonight, Lord Aldermere!”
“Not at all,” her father insists, as Julian subtly tops up Baviston’s wine.
Heat prickles beneath Estella's skin; she cannot help the way her breath catches. A slice of cake is laid before her, but she barely acknowledges it. The moment Bavison’s hazy eyes meets her own, she averts her gaze..
For a long moment, though, he lingers. She feels the weight of his stare (heavier than usual tonight, drenched in wine) and holds herself rigid, determined not to flinch. This insufferable man will not get under her skin.
Beneath the table, a foot gently nudges her own. Estella's eyes widen.
“Ah,” Baviston murmurs. “There. You have not turned to stone after all.
She levels a fierce glare at him. “I suspect you are deep in your cups, My Lord. You do not know what you’re doing.”
“Ohh, you underestimate me,” Baviston murmurs, a lazy grin on his lips. He raises his napkin to his mouth, burps shamelessly, and then dives into his cake with gusto. His hands are clumsy, and he can barely find his mouth — but his Lordship is determined to enjoy dessert.
Do not watch, Estella scolds herself fiercely. The man is a nuisance. He is determined to make a spectacle of himself, and he will not succeed.
Determined to gain her attention. Just like when he won that horseshoe throwing contest; just like when he bet on the prize horse at Newmarket. Just like when he bent low over her hand and kissed her, lips lingering too long. Soon, you shall be my wife, he’d promised. You already love me. Just haven’t realized it yet. I’ll steal you away, forbidden princess, and oh, the places I’ll carry you…
The man is mad. Utterly deluded. She is not his just because he has courted her for four months. She will not give into his advances, to this endless tip-toe dance. He would make a thoroughly unacceptable husband... and nothing about Baviston appeals to her. His rotund frame, his keen eyes, his bold mouth…
Dear god, his mouth…
Now, Baviston’s lips are stained with frosting. He makes a show of himself, moaning softly around each bite. His cheeks are flushed crimson, breaths heavy and labored; he does not lean forward, so much as sways, his heavy body making the chair creak. Surely he must be aware of the effect the wine is having on him, aware of the Aldermeres’ unforgiving stares… but they do not trouble him in the slightest.
Down goes the last bite of the cake. He chases it with a gulp of wine. Baviston sways, then belches into his napkin — a wet, rolling huUuUuUuurp that makes his eyes go glassy.
“Mmm,” he mutters, licking his lips. “That… that…”
The wine is truly hitting him now. His eyes droop. His words slur. Forming a sentence is a daunting challenge.
Estella's fingers tighten around her own fork, knuckles whitening. She should be horrified. Any proper lady would cringe from this sight… and oh, the sight of him. Flushed, slumped in his chair, utterly undone by the weight of his own indulgence — his round, heavy belly straining against his buttons as a lazy hand works it. He is utterly debauched, and the sight ought to revulse her.
Instead, a traitorous heat is creeping up her neck. When did the room become so damned hot?
I do not want to look, she thinks, helpless to turn away.
Baviston's gut swells visibly against his trousers now; his breaths come slow and thick. He exhales through parted lips, a soft, grunt escaping him (a sated pig, Estella thinks deliriously) as he rubs his middle in slow circles. His fingers play idly with the buttons. Relief could come so easily… and oh, what a scandal it would stir. The illustrious Lord Baviston, playing the hog at the dinner table, disgracing himself in front of his betrothed's family. Of course it happened, Julian Aldermere is spreading the tale everywhere, how disgraceful...
The thought leaves her feeling queasy. She ought to have stopped this long ago. At the very least, she owed Baviston that for his persistent kindness.
Her father sets his glass down hard on the table.
"My Lord.” His voice drips with false concern. “Might it be wise to retire for the evening? You seem... rather overcome.”
Julian smirks into his wine.
And yet Baviston only blinks at them, languid and undaunted. A slow grin spreads across his face.
"Retire? Mmm… nonsense. The night is young, and we..."
He pauses, pressing a fist to his mouth to catch another deep hrrruUUURP. His throat works. His eyelids flutter. And perhaps it feels divine, for when he lowers his hand, his grin is downright satisfied.
"... we have yet to discuss my engagement.”
Her father goes rigid as a statue. His gaze could cut Baviston like flint, yet still, the gentleman seems unfazed.
“M-my Lord…” At last, it’s Estella's turn to lose her composure. All the heat kindling within her surges to her cheeks, turning her as bright red as her hair. Their engagement? How dare he? A hot flash of fury is followed by embarrassment, then anger again — impotent, and all the hotter for it.
“Lord Baviston, I have not accepted your proposal.”
Even if she wanted to… her family would never allow it. Baviston has proposed three times, and each time, Estella has had to turn him down. Now, riding so high on the thrill of the chase… he will not give up without a fight.
Baviston's heavy-lidded gaze slides over her, like honey dripping from a spoon. Estella feels it soak into her — the weight of his appraisal. He exhales through his nose, before lifting his wine once more.
“Why don’t you?” His voice is painfully soft. The crystal glass catches the candlelight as he swirls it, dregs of tainted wine clinging to the sides. "I shall never quit, my dear. And you have too much pride to refuse me forever. I will run out the clock if I must. Marry you when we’re both old and grey."
He takes a deliberate sip, swallows, then gives a satisfied little sigh.
Estella is going to murder him.
“My Lord,” she says tersely, because it’s time for this charade to end. “The wine—“
“Is tainted? Mmm, you don't say.” Baviston sloshes the glass again… then raises a fist to his lips and burps, shoulders jolting. “Ahem. Did you think I would not notice the taste? A very... hcck!! poor additive. I’ve indulged in far better… while traveling in India. Persia. Russian vodka. Try a taste of that, then tell me if this…”
He pauses, licking his lips. His Lordship is definitely slurring, but there’s something remarkably steady in his gaze. Baviston sets the glass down.
“Marry me, Estella,” he says softly. “Haven't I done enough?”
“Wh— done—“
“Have I proven myself?” He spreads his arms, a sloppy, drunken gesture. Ah. “Let your family— hlkk! — poison me? Figured it was an or- or’in— orientation.”
“I say, sir!” her father declares, slamming his fist on the table. Baviston ignores him. His gaze is fixed entirely on Estella; the rest of the world has ceased to exist.
“If it’s torture you want… you’ll— hICC! — find a willing victim in me. I will en— endure… any mode of torment you devise. You… you’re the— huuurp— most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. To be… tortured by you is a pleasure.”
Warmth creeps up the back of Estella's neck, flooding her chest and tightening her throat. It’s not desire anymore. Something deeper— something far more painful.
When she speaks, her voice is a croak. “I’ll make you fat as a hog.”
Baviston pats his rotund belly. “Nearly there already.”
“I’ll despise you every day.”
He licks his lips. “How delicious.”
Lord, he’s impossible. She cannot push him away (and she’s tried, oh, how she’s tried!) Yet now she’s on the spot, with her entire family watching… Estella must end things now. She hesitates, drawing a deep breath… before dropping the poisonous truth. It will kill them both slowly if they let it fester — better he knows now.
“I… can never love you.”
Baviston doesn’t even flinch. He meets her gaze, drunken and hazy… yet somehow, his green eyes sparkle.
“Let’s put that to the test.”
Estella's breath catches sharply.
Without warning, her brother's chair scrapes back with a violence.
"That's enough." Julian's voice is a blade, severing through the fragile connection between them. "You disgrace yourself — disgrace our family — with this drunken fantasy. There will be no engagement with my sister, sir.” He pronounces the words like a prized diamond: my sister. “Not now. Not ever.”
Baviston blinks up at him, thoroughly unbothered. Slowly, a brow arches — all-too-knowing. Julian may not know his secrets, but Baviston has certainly learned his.
Then, with deliberate slowness… he pushes his chair back and rises. It takes a lot of effort. His heavy bulk does not want to be moved, and the wine has taken a bigger toll then he let on. Baviston has to brace himself against the chair, swaying; a few sharp hiccups escape him, and he looks dazed.
“Hah!” Julian throws out a hand. “Here, Estella, see your paramour! Such a fine specimen! Ripe and fat as a tomato, ready for plucking! Quite the husband he will make, unable to hold his—“
He’s not expecting Baviston to punch him.
No one is (though, looking back, no one can blame him). Chaos at once erupts around the table. Father leaps to his feet, bellowing like a sea captain; Grandmother tumbles back in her chair, nearly falling over; mute Aunt Isa lets out a shriek, the most anyone’s heard from her in years.
Julian tumbles forward in a heap, landing against the table; he slams into the sponge cake, taking it down with him in a sodden mess of frosting. Baviston shakes his hand out, then stumbles with the momentum, nearly losing his own balance.
When she finds her hand gripping his arm — holding him upright — no one is more surprised than Estella herself.
Baviston slowly turns to her; his face is crimson, breath reeking of wine. He hiccups softly, then smiles, all shameless and sweet.
“Does this mean we can come to an agreement… my lady?”
Frankly, Estella isn’t sure what it means. Only when Baviston lays a hand over her own does she realize she’s trembling.
“Perhaps,” she says, voice small enough to belong only to him, “it is worth trying.”
“I never try without expecting to succeed,” Baviston murmurs. “I will earn your love, dearest.”
He follows this up with a deep, wine-soaked belch.
Estella raises a brow.
“E- eventually,” her paramour amends.
It feels like a leap into darkness…but for the first time ages, Estella Aldermere (soon to be Lady Baviston) is not afraid in the slightest.