Chapter Text
This had been one of the achievements that she was rather proud of. Prouder than most, in fact. Not that she was a woman who didn’t take pride in the things she achieved, oh no, not at all. She just felt like that for something like this, she could afford the extra dash of pride.
That night, her senses had the privilege of enjoying a feast like no other. The cries and wails of pain and agony, echoing and reverberating through the hallways of the mansion. The acrid smell that hung thick in the air. The warmth and stickiness on her fingertips and beneath her painted nails. The taste of iron on her tongue. The sight of blood. So much blood. She’d never seen anything quite so beautiful before.
She liked it when they had struggled against her. When they had tried to fight back. The feeble attempts at grabbing a weapon, at trying to stake her, to hurt her in any way possible, even if it was just to give another person the opportunity to escape. None of them escaped, of course. She liked playing with her food, but she never let anyone go. Not unless it served another purpose. The Belmonts fancied themselves monster hunters, and she took great satisfaction in reminding them that they, in fact, were nothing of the sort. At the end of the day, they were all mere humans: glorified bags of blood that happened to be bipedal. Ripping them apart was sufficient to prove her point, she thought.
The screams were a musical symphony rivalling those of those fancy human composers, and some sentimental part of her was a little sad that she’d likely never have the pleasure of hearing anything like it ever again.
Though maybe she would, she had thought to herself with a rather perverse smile when she realised they’d missed someone. Her servants had counted and identified the bodies after they’d all been killed. Trevor Belmont wasn’t among them. He was lucky to not have been home that night, then.
It wouldn’t be worth the time to seek him out and kill him. She had more pressing matters to attend to. Besides, maybe he’d start a family of his own, and she would have a chance of recreating this beautiful scene of blood and gore that she’d painted.
Maybe he’ll appreciate what she left behind for him. Maybe he won’t. Regardless, he’ll surely never forget it.
*
Trevor abruptly sits up. A thin sheen of cold sweat sticks to his skin. His breathing is laboured and heavy. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but finds that his mouth is far too dry to do so. He looks at the windows, the heavy curtains drawn in front of them to block out any light. Still, the faintest rays of morning light peek through from between and beneath the fabric. It’s early, then. As he exhales and leans back against the headboard of the bed, you rub your eyes and look at him with a groggy expression.
“Honey? What’s the matter?” you ask, stifling a yawn.
“Nothing,” Trevor croaks, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand. He finishes it in one go and sets it back down. “Go back to sleep.”
Immediately, you’re wide awake. Call it a sixth sense, a woman’s intuition, or whatever you like, but you can always tell when Trevor is lying. Especially when something is wrong. Cosying up to him and taking his hand into yours, you can’t help but notice how clammy his skin feels as you repeat your question. “What’s the matter?”
“Bad dream, ‘s all,” he tells you, giving your hand a squeeze. “I’m alright, don’t worry.”
“What did you dream about?”
God, you’re tenacious, Trevor thinks as he shoots you a look. Then again, that’s exactly one of the things he likes about you so much. When something’s bothering him, you’ll always find a way to get it out of him. Talking about it more often than not makes him feel better too, no matter how unlikely he is to ever admit that out loud. He manages to swallow the lump in his throat before he gives in. “About the night my family was murdered.” He doesn’t even have to look at you to know that you’re going to ask him if he wants to talk about it. So he just continues with a cheerless look on his face. “It’s almost always the same dream. The moment I came back home, at night. I’m standing in front of the front doors and it’s completely quiet. And I know there’s something wrong, but I can’t do anything. Can’t move, or look around, not even scream if I wanted to. All I can do is just stand there helplessly, looking at the front door, and knowing damn well what’s behind it.”
You watch Trevor exhale and sink further into the pillows. “Hey,” you begin softly. You’re not entirely sure what to say. You were hoping the words would come to you as you spoke, but what is there to say, really? There’s nothing you can think of that feels appropriate, nothing that feels right. “Thank you for telling me this,” you settle for, and Trevor gives you a half-hearted smile. After pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder, you ask, “Would a cuddle make you feel better?”
“It probably would, actually,” he says, lying down properly next to you again so you can completely sink into his embrace. You rest your head against his chest and drape your arm over his waist, the other arm wedged between the two of you so you can draw little circles on his skin with your fingers. Occasionally you feel him shiver when you brush over a particularly pleasant spot. There you remain for a while as you listen to his heartbeat calm down, and bit by bit return to a slow and steady rhythm. With his arms wrapped around you and your legs tangled, it’s very, very tempting to allow yourself to drift off to sleep again.
Trevor, of course, realises this and reminds you not to. “Sun’s almost up. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”
“Mm... Not just you?” you mumble, voice muffled by his skin.
He lets out a low chuckle and you feel the pleasant rumble in his chest. It’s one of your favourite feelings. He strokes your hair, carefully running his fingers through the strands as he works out any tangles in there. “No, Lady Belmont, I’m afraid not. You have your own responsibilities today that require your attention.”
“...Five more minutes?”
Trevor kisses your forehead. “Alright, five more minutes.”
*
Hiring enough people to keep the Estate running was... a process. To say the least.
Finding willing people was already hard enough, especially after what had happened to the previous staff members. Then there was the matter of the requirement you and Trevor both agreed on: everyone has to be able to defend themselves in a fight, in some shape or form.
Miraculously, though, you managed to scrounge together the bare minimum of staff. The very bare minimum.
“Rise and shine, ma’am!” The curtains are drawn open for you, and you lift a hand to block out the light as you squint. You’re awfully aware of the lack of Trevor next to you in bed. “Lord Belmont said you’d fallen back asleep, and sent me to wake you. He’s already left.”
Damn it.
Though you can barely discern her features with the bright sunlight shining in from behind her, you just know that Millie is smiling at you. There’s hardly a time that the girl isn’t smiling, really. Sitting up and rubbing your eyes, you ask, “What time is it?”
“Well past eight, ma’am. Shall I bring breakfast up to your room, or will you have it downstairs?”
You let out a long, drawn out exhale through your nostrils, still tired despite the extra sleep you got. Or maybe you’re tired because you’re not much in the mood for your responsibilities today? You’d much rather spend the day enjoying the nice weather, reading a book in the garden. Now you actually have to get up and get dressed properly. “No, downstairs is fine.” You chew your bottom lip. You don’t really want to eat breakfast alone. You know it’s not “proper” to dine with the staff, but neither Trevor nor you have ever been much for propriety. “Have you all eaten yet?”
Millie’s grin has become visible now your eyes have adjusted to the light. Her green eyes have a glint of mischief in them. “Afraid so, ma’am.”
Thus, Millicent “Millie” Maynard, your chambermaid, helps you get dressed and ready for the day. She doesn’t have much of a gentle touch like Flora’s (your chambermaid back at Carter House in London), but she does always carry an upbeat and positive attitude with her. It’s infectious. Most importantly, Millie can handle herself in a fight. She’s the daughter of a blacksmith and, in her own words, “grew up playing with swords instead of dolls”. Trevor was skeptical at the girl’s claims when she arrived at your doorstep, even though she already came with a blade on her hip. You asked him to give her a chance, to let her show both of you whether or not she was truly capable of fighting with a sword. After disarming Trevor five times, Millie was hired.
“An exciting day ahead, ma’am?” Millie asks while brushing your hair. You wince whenever she brushes it with just a little too much vigour, feeling like she’s trying to rip out your hair by the roots. You know she’s not doing it on purpose, but it’s painful nonetheless.
“Depends on what you call—ow—” “Sorry!” “—Exciting.” You shoot Millie a glare, who smiles sheepishly before continuing with a slightly more gentle touch. “There’s the modiste visiting around ten to get me fitted for new dresses,” you say, glancing at Millie. She just hums, not needing additional explanation. You tend to wear through your wardrobe quicker than most ladies. She’s seen you return home in the dead of night wearing ripped up, bloodstained dressed before. “Some of my auntie’s old friends are passing through the area today and insisted on visiting for tea. Which means I’ll have to entertain them this afternoon.” You sigh. “But they’ll only be here around four, I think...” Millie nods as she begins to pin up your hair. You look at her through the mirror and ask, “I was thinking of heading to the village this afternoon to do some shopping. Would you care to join me?”
Trevor had refused to take your dowry when you got married. He’d told you that he didn’t need it, and he didn’t want it either. He only wanted to marry you for you. Of course you appreciated the romantic sentiment behind it, but you also very much appreciated the extra bit of freedom it gave you. Simply put, it meant your sizeable dowry went into your own pocket. This, in turn, means that you have your own money to spend however you like, without having to consult with your husband dearest first.
Millie is almost finished with your hair. “Though I appreciate the offer, I should be trying to get the blood out of the carpet in the downstairs drawing room... Especially if we’re hosting people today.” She grins at you. “I don’t think you nor Lord Belmont will appreciate it if Lady Carter’s friends start asking questions.”
Right, the “demon-bursting-through-the-window-into-the-drawing-room” incident.
“... You can just roll up the carpet and put it in storage for now, we’ll figure out how to get out the blood another time,” you tell Millie after a short silence. In the back of your mind you know that carpet will never see daylight ever again, instead becoming a glorified dust collector.
She smiles and nods. “Well, there we go. Lady Belmont is now presentable for the world,” Millie says, taking a step back to let you admire yourself in the mirror. “Good enough?”
You chuckle and smooth out your dress. “Good enough.”
Breakfast gives you the opportunity to just zone out and stare blankly ahead while chewing on your food. It’s a great way to slowly start your day, even though you regret not having Trevor with you.
The Estate finally looks like a true home again, though there are still enough of its many, many rooms that remain unused. You sometimes even still find yourself losing your way in the seemingly endless hallways. Even the country home of your aunt (or technically, of her son, your cousin (it’s hard to think of Marcus of a landowner, even though he is)) is nowhere near as big as the house you now live in. It’s obviously intended for a big family, but for now it’s just you and your husband. It’ll be a while before Trevor is comfortable enough to host any big social event here, and that’s completely fine by you. The London season and thus the season for the Marriage Mart has long since ended, and neither you nor Trevor are on it anymore — being married to each other, and all that. In fact, summer is creeping to a close, and your younger cousins Prudence and Grace have been getting more pushy with their questions about when they can finally visit. Hardly a week passes that you don’t receive at least two or three letters from them. Maybe it’s about time you have them over, but you’re not sure if you have the time or the energy. Your activities and responsibilities as Lady Belmont often keep you up into the wee hours of the night, and that’s not counting the times that it’s specifically Trevor keeping you awake.
While you pour another cup of tea for yourself (the butler has better things to do, and you’re perfectly capable of fixing a cup of tea for yourself), you wonder what your husband is up to.
He’s probably fine.
Probably.
*
Trevor rolls up his sleeves. Then with a jump he grabs onto the low edge of the roof, and hoists himself up. He cusses under his breath when his foot loses grip and slips from the wall, but he eventually manages to climb onto the roof.
“Almost there, Lord Belmont,” he hears Mr Whitlock call out from below, who’s holding his coat.
“I can see the d—“ Trevor clears his throat to stop himself from using uncouth language out loud in front of the children of his tenants. He exhales harshly through his nostrils. “I can see the cat, yes.” Sitting on the roof, looking terrified, is a rather corpulent tabby cat. Trevor climbs over to the creature. “Here, kitty kitty,” he mumbles. This has to be one of the stupidest things he’s had to do so far as viscount. Or maybe the stupidest thing he’s had to do was settling that dispute over a stolen cow? (The farmer’s next-door neighbour was the thief and adamantly denied that he’d stolen the cow.) Trevor doesn’t want to think about it too much.
Eventually he manages to get the cat off the roof, though not without a fair share of claw marks on his forearms. Once “Mister Chumpkins” is safe in the embrace of the little girl, he’s showered with praise and gratitude. Trevor just gives the children and their parents a tired smile and tells them it’s no problem, really.
“And so Lord Belmont performs a heroic rescue of Mister Chumpkins,” Mr Whitlock says while they return to their horses. Trevor takes his coat from the steward, adjusting his pace so the older man can keep up with him. “Surely this is all the village will be talking about.”
“God, I hope not,” Trevor grumbles, stopping next to Mr Whitlock’s horse to help him get on. Edward Whitlock, his steward, walks with a cane. The ageing man used to be an army surgeon long ago, which was, sadly, also how he got his limp: a bullet in his left leg. Despite this, Trevor wouldn’t dare underestimate Mr Whitlock in a fight. He’s one of the few people who know that the innocent-looking cane has a blade hidden within it. Both you and Trevor could tell from the moment you met him that Mr Whitlock would make a fine steward. You felt better knowing that he would be there to help guide Trevor in his new role as viscount.
“You should be happy, Lord Belmont,” Mr Whitlock says once he’s in his saddle. “Your tenants have slowly started to forgive you for your disappearance. They could have been standing in front of your home with torches and pitchforks. Instead, they’re asking you to rescue fat cats from roofs. I have decided long ago which option I find to be preferable.”
Trevor mounts his own horse, then gives Mr Whitlock a wry smile. “You never beat around the bush when you speak, do you?”
The two men begin riding to the next home. “I truly do not see the point of doing so.”
Returning to the Estate meant picking up the responsibilities that he inherited with his title. Trevor still considers himself far too young to be Lord Belmont, but what choice does he have? Besides, your cousin, Marcus, was thrown into the same position at a far too young age as well. It took some time, but he eventually grew into his role and made a fine viscount. Trevor hopes he’ll be able to do the same.
“It still amazes me how you always appear to be frowning, Lord Belmont. Does it appeal to Lady Belmont? Or do you reserve your rare moments of not-frowning for her?”
Trevor shoots Mr Whitlock a glare. “I thought my steward was supposed to instruct me in the ways of being a good landowner, not in the ways of how I should wear my facial expressions.”
“I think the latter is just as much part of my job as the former,” Mr Whitlock says, never even needing to think for a moment to be able to provide a witty response. “I consider ensuring the well-being of your family just as important a duty as ensuring the well-being of your land.”
Trevor only gives a thoughtful hum in response.
“Speaking of which—”
Oh no, here it comes.
“— Have you already started thinking about siring an heir?” Trevor doesn’t respond immediately, and Mr Whitlock takes the silence as an opportunity to continue speaking. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you and Lady Belmont how that would work—” Trevor groans “—but if my arithmetic is correct, and it virtually always is, it has been almost three months since you’ve been married, and Lady Belmont is still not with child.”
“I think this conversation is something that should be reserved for my wife, very much like my moments of not-frowning,” Trevor grumbles.
“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly. I’m just reminding you to have the conversation.” Mr Whitlock shoots Trevor a look that he finds hard to ignore. “Soon.”
*
You run into Trevor’s arms, who picks you up and lifts you up to kiss you. When he sets you down again you give him a giddy smile, then glance at the dining table. There’s suspiciously little silverware laid out.
“Are we not dining with the staff tonight?”
He lifts your hand so he can press a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist. “It’s just the two of us tonight. I wanted some time alone with you.”
You hum in approval. You’re sure there’s something more behind it, but... it’s a damn good answer, and you’ll take it. Your attention is pulled to the angry red scratches on his skin. “Will those be your new battle scars?” you ask, running a finger over his forearm.
“Mhm. From a terrible monster called Mister Pumpkin. Or something along those lines, anyway...”
You raise a brow.
“It was a cat,” he explains.
While eating, you tell each other about your day. Trevor regales you with the very entertaining story of the rather overweight tabby cat he had to rescue from a roof, and you tell him about the ladies you had to host for afternoon tea — who all seemed very disappointed that Lord Belmont wasn’t home.
“Aren’t they all married?” Trevor asks, raising his brows as he raises his glass to his lips.
“Yes, but perhaps you might recall that they still have eyes. And perhaps you might also recall that you’re very pleasant to look at.”
He grins, and you know you’ve made a mistake by inflating his ego too much. “Am I now?”
You roll your eyes, then change the subject. Leaning towards him, you ask with an inquisitive look in your eyes, “Are you finally going to tell me why you didn’t invite the staff to join us for supper tonight? I know there’s something. There has to be.”
“Only if you tell me again that I’m very pleasant to look at.”
“Trevor, you are a fiend.”
“I love you too.”
You let out an annoyed groan, but before you can sink back into your chair Trevor has grabbed your wrist. He pulls you onto his lap and puts his arms around your waist. You huff. Trevor presses a kiss to your cheek.
“Come now, don’t be upset. I was just teasing you,” he says with a playful smile. “Forgive me?”
You flash him a mischievous grin. “Only if you tell me why it’s just the two of us at supper tonight.”
Trevor laughs, clearly amused. “Very well.” He looks at you with a smile, but it’s not as cheeky as it was before. In fact, he looks rather serious. You stay quiet as you wait for him to start talking. Carefully he begins, “I’ve been... thinking. We’ve been married for a few months now.” He parts his lips to continue, but no words come out for a moment as he’s clearly trying his best to formulate his sentences the right way. “I’m... I am the last living member of my family, which means I’m the only one who can pass on the Belmont name and—”
“You want to start trying for a baby?” you blurt out.
His cheeks redden, which is a rare but welcome sight. “Well. It’s not like we haven’t been trying,” he mumbles. “I just thought maybe we should try with a little more... purpose. That is,” he turns to look at you with an earnest expression. “Only if you want, of course.”
Trevor realises in that moment that he’d let his family line die with him if you said no to having children. He simply loves you that much, and couldn’t even imagine forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do. However, lucky for him and for the Belmont clan, you have different things on your mind. While Trevor was talking, you imagined him as a father. Tenderly holding a baby in his arms and kissing their forehead. Playing with a toddler by throwing them up in the air and catching them. Teaching a young child how to fight with a sword, and dramatically pretending to go down in a practice fight. The Estate would be filled with so much laughter and love, and immediately you know that that’s exactly what you want with and for Trevor.
“Yes,” you tell him, nodding. You can’t help but start to smile. “Yes, Trevor. Let’s try for a baby.”
A sense of relief and so, so much happiness floods him. He cups your face with his hands and kisses you over and over and over, repeatedly declaring his love for you while you stifle your laughs. However, as things tend to go with Trevor, the kisses slowly turn a little more passionate, a little more fervent, and a little more erotic than they ought to be at the dinner table. You close your eyes and moan his name against his lips. His body tenses up beneath you.
“Maybe we should try for a baby right here and right now.”
Trevor quickly gets up from his chair, carrying you in his arms, which earns a yelp from you. You giggle. “Trevor! Maybe you shouldn’t, lest the housekeeper decides to shoot us.”
He grins, kissing your neck. “Of course. To the bedroom, then. I’ll have my dessert there.”