Title: High Society.
Summary:
Rated: M
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Princess Elena of Bulgaria may not know much of life, but of this she knew was true—Marriage was a business affair. It wasn't like the poetry she had memorized and loved. It wasn't like the songs she heard. Nor was it like the operas she used to watch. No, marriage was a loveless affair meant to produce heirs due to dynastic obligations. And her marriage was no different. Marriage to the Prince of Bulgaria should have been a joyous one. Perhaps if her husband had appreciated her looks a bit more. Perhaps, if his eyes didn't wander in the direction of his strapping Bulgarian soldiers they would have had a chance. Perhaps…
She had given him three beautiful children. Yes, she had. And perhaps it was a fleeting attempt to gain his love and affection. But after their daughter Eudoxia was born, something in her died. It was fitting, she mused. She had given life to her children as her own crumbled into pieces before scattering like ashes in the wind. She rarely saw her children. They were with their royal handlers and Elena had to admit that she was much more sedate with them gone. She was too weak. Bearing three children in four years had taken its toll. And so she spent her days in bed or wandering the gardens of the Vrana Palace. She preferred this "weekend retreat" as her homestead—more so than Euxinograd or the Royal Palace. She loved her gardens, her fountains and the beauty of the wildlife here. She had come to most love a darling flower from Macedonia—a gift from the Turks called a Poppy Flower. And with the art of extraction, she spent more time in an opium daze than not. She could not, for the life of her, describe the euphoria. It felt like home—the only time that she was comfortable and content. She felt as if there was nothing else in the world that mattered when she was under the beguiling spell of her magical little flower. Matthew, her husband, would not have it and forbade the flower from being cultivated in Bulgaria. 'It turns my people into ghosts,' he said. But Elena had her ways. Though, when there were months where it wasn't to be found, she took to having long night rendezvous with champagne and wine. Oh, the beauty of intoxication.
On the rare occasion that Elena was not under the influence of any substance, she was morose and withdrawn. Her life was a solitary affair. And while she had dear friends, she usually kept herself at a mental distance. Tea time was a vapid waste—women congregating to gossip over the scandals of Bulgaria and Europe abound. She often sat in the corner, her mind wandering, and her heart rarely into the conversation.
It was March, and winter was in its last throes of its chilling embrace before spring took hold. She longed to see Parma violets in her garden once more. They reminded her of home. She even missed the Bulgarian roses. She longed for the sunshine. Though, in begging for spring, she knew she was begging for time to move forward. With every day that passed, it brought Prince Matthew closer to her. As a dignitary, he was often away from home, but he was expected soon…so very soon. She was not looking forward to the reunion. So she wrapped herself in the coldness of winter, wishing for time to stand still.
And time did stand still for one brief moment—the moment that a curious Count from the House of Savoy visited Sofia. His name was Count Damon de la Salvatore.
Three weeks later.
Sofia, Bulgaria. 1898. Vrana Palace.
A Count? Something struck her strange when Elena was first introduced to Damon Salvatore in the Parlor Room. Something strange indeed. He breezed into Vrana with the airs of high society and accompanied with a rather impressive mastiff. He snapped his fingers and his dog obediently sat on his haunches. Damon removed his black top hat in a sweeping gesture and bowed low to Elena. And although he was the picture of a gentleman, she felt as if she was being mocked. When he raised his head, his eyes connected with hers. They were the most startling shade of blue that she had ever seen. They were the cool ice in a Bulgarian winter and they bore into her with an audacious stare that, had there been witnesses, would cause a scandal. He took her hand and without warning, pressed her lips against it.
"Your majesty," Damon purred in greeting.
A current flew through Elena's veins and she pulled her hand back, out of instinct, and shocked at his boldness. She heard the shout of a nearby guard due to Damon's liberties and she raised her hand to dismiss him from the room.
Damon stared at the guards mildly, unaffected, as they departed the room.
Elena adjusted the wide, dark mustard colored skirt of her dress. She was barefoot, though her feet were hidden underneath her pleats. She had been wandering the gardens with her chaperone when they were alerted of their guest. He had given no notice to his arrival—an action she found rather uncouth. She had made no attempt to re-dress. Her hair looked wild, as it had come loose from her hair pins. And her skin was pale and cold from the chilled breeze of the late morning.
"You forget yourself, Count," Elena murmured as she perched herself onto a settee.
Damon sat beside her without invitation and grabbed her hand insolently.
"My most humble apology, Your Highness. I am quite beguiled with your most lovely charms."
Elena pulled her hand from his grasp. This man! He was not a gentleman in the least. He was far too comfortable, as if this was his own palace. And charms! She was the picture of modesty and propriety. And to insist that she elicited her charms on him was offensive.
"What brings you to Sofia," she asked at last.
"You, the Princess Elena of Bourbon-Parma, of course. I bring good tidings of your family."
"Bourbon-Parma? I haven't been referred in such a way since—"
"Since before you wed the great Prince of Bulgaria?"
Elena's eyes flickered towards him, saying nothing.
"What news of my family? I haven't heard from them in years."
"Your mother is with child, they say."
Elena scoffed and stood.
"My mother is with our Lord and Savior. That woman is of no relation to me. She is my Father's wife and nothing more. Beyond that, you scandalize me by acknowledging a woman's condition. "
"I apologize."
Elena turned, walking through the parlor. She turned on her heels back towards Damon.
"You travelled from Italy to bring this news?"
Damon said nothing, a small smirk across his lips.
Elena's eyes narrowed. He was reveling in her displeasure. She already despised this man. And yet her proper upbringing pressed her into being a suitable hostess in her husband's absence.
"Do stay for dinner," she requested through gritted teeth.
"It would be my pleasure."
Damon absently patted the head of his dog as he watched Elena exit the room. The pleats of her skirt danced as her hips swayed, her bare feet peeking out as the stepped across the marbled floor.