I was Elizabeth

*So this is my first chapter. I hope the prologue’s formatting did not ruin it for you. I am trying something new with this one, so keep your fingers crossed people!!!

**Secondly I would like to thank the sweetest gal I have ever met…Jen. You should check out her Harry Potter Stories. They are beyond amazing.


Chapter 1:


The End of Gregory Smith

The night surrounded us with blissful darkness and no cloud clung to the heavy, ebony velvet above us. The air was laden with the sweet scents that only the simmering summer may produce; those of lilacs in bloom and the wavering waft of roses closing for the night.

It was the height of the carnival, and I in my best gown, was mingling with the crowd of well to do’s. I wished Lord Henry the best of luck with his newly acquired vineyard. I complimented Madam Brouche on her elaborate fuscia dress. Truth be told the words were hesitant to leave my mouth for the gown was nothing short of awful.

All in all I did what I have always done, which was to plaster an unwavering plastic smile to my ivory face and play to their egos. In short I performed as every good wife does, with grace and poise. I played the part so well, dancing from group to group, speaking on every subject under the moon, that I failed to see my husband slip off with the renowned English trollop, Aribella. It was a fact that would come to haunt me in the later hours of this perilous evening.

Yes, I was blessedly busy my mind otherwise occupied, when a cold wind passed thru the foyer door and burst out into the garden. All the ladies shuttered and pulled their shawls closer to their bodies. So suddenly chilled was the air that my lungs burned when forced to take breathe. Yet, as soon as the ice drenched air came it passed and it was then that I looked up and saw the most curious man I have ever encountered.

He was a tall man; his frame was slight but strong. His slick brown hair reflected the gleam of the goddess moon, quivering with its own breeze before coming to rest below his chin. His clothes were that of fine silks and cotton, and they darker than the sky above. Indeed it seemed that the night herself had bore him, and delivered him here among the bright pageantry to remind us of some moral responsibility. For he was a priest among sinners so somber was his clothes, a dark contrast to the debauchery that surrounded him.

Yet more striking than his shadowed image was his face, for with just a glance he stirred my steady heart and drew the very thoughts from my mind. My eyes flowed over every sharply cut detail that was etched into his olive skin. His eyebrows were a thick, rich brown that arched delicately at the ends. It gave to his heart shaped face an ere of mischievousness, and lent depth to his almond shaped eyes. These, too, were of a hue of brown as deep as he richest of soils. And, nestled in between these gleaming orbs started the strict bow of his long nose. Though it was great in size in did not distract from his face, for at it’s ending, hovering just above their bed, rest his soft lips. These were full and tinted with the most tender of blushes. Yet, they were not the shade of a ladies blush, these two pillows were tinted with passion. So intriguing was his mouth that one could not help but wish to taste them.

I gazed upon his face for a great time, and so intense was I in my stare that I failed to see the fuscia folds of Madam Brouche’s dress approach me.

“That, my dear girl, is Misseur Dorian Bathory.” She stated in her heavy French accent, rousing me from my ministrations with a fright. “I met the delightful man just a week ago. A very pleasant disposition, and unwed as well! Do you not think he would be perfect for my daughter? Misseour Bathory! Misseour Bathory!” She shouted with a shrill shout. I could not help but cringe at both the volume and the boldness of her action.

Her uncouth calling, however, met its mark; and the dark man whom I had never before seen began his slow approach.

“Misseour Bathory,” the aging she-wolf began again, “I did not know you would be coming. I would have brought my daughter Francine to meet you. I have told her all about you, she is most intrigued.”

It was then that he took her overly decorated, disgusting plump digits in his beautiful hands. The older woman’s flesh seemed to decay in the swift and graceful movements of this youthful jewel as he lifted him to his lips. I swooned though it was not my hand being caressed. Yet, it was as if phantom lips brushed my own soft skin, and my heart began to race even faster. So much so that I feared it would burst and I would die not knowing the pleasure of his lips against my hand.

“Madame Brouche, I am sure your daughter is delicious.” He began in a voice as deep as the forest and as smooth as the satin caressing my breasts. The very timber of his tone broke over you like the tide, and upon receding left one feeling empty inside. Yet, I would not be unfulfilled for long for our evening as strangers was just beginning.

“ Tonight, however, is not for pleasure,” it was with this fading syllable that I picked up on a fading Slovak accent, “no, tonight I am here for business.”

“Business?” The fading peacock squeaked. “Whoever heard of doing business during the carnival? No, this simply will not do at all! Elizabeth, as woman of this house you must order him, the wayward Bathory, to enjoy himself this fine evening.”

“Ahhh,” the handsome Dorian replied, his eyes drifting up and down my form, “so this is the lovely Mrs. Smith. You are a woman I hear to little of.”

“Oh my, yes!” The poorly painted Madame began. “It seems I was so lost in your delectable eyes, Dorian, dear, that I simply forgot to introduce you!”

“No need Madame,” Dorian spoke without looking at the one he spoke to, his eyes locked in my own, “it is her husband that held that duty.”

It was then that he reached for my hand. The tender, cool, silk of his skin brushed against the alerted pads of my fingers, sending the sweet shock down my spin. I held my breathe as her drew my knuckles to his lips searing them with the smallest embrace. Yet, there was more feeling in that one polite embrace than in all the sex I have ever had with my husband.

“I…I am Mrs. Smith, Elizabeth Smith.” I began slowly, stuttering as a mute woman would, had she just learned to speak. “Are you here to speak with my husband Mr. Bathory?”

“Nonsense,” came Madame Brouche unwelcome interruption, “ you, Misseour Bathory, will follow me. There are so many people that will be delighted to meet you.” She finished reaching for his hand.

“Alas I cannot Madame Brouche, I apologize.” He replied while avoiding her painted talons and turning to me continued. “I am here to speak with Mr. Smith about a certain artifact. He is available?”

At this Madame Brouche looked frazzled, as if she had try to accomplish something truly difficult. She left in a huff, muttering impolite things about her hostess the entire way. Eventually she became another blob in the many blobs that loitered in my garden.

“I never did like the woman!” Dorian declared, a full smile gracing his glorious lips. “I believe she has had marriage in mind from minute one! Besides, I hear her daughter is an absolute boar!”

My eyes flew open with shock at the forwardness of his comments. Dorian, however, only laughed at my astonished look. It was a deep, healthy laugh; one that bubbled up from the stomach and floated out of his mouth like the soft pentamic rhythm of a Shakespearean stanza.

“Do not look so affronted Mrs. Smith.” He said stifling another full chuckle. “If we were at all familiar with one another you would have said the same thing.”

“But I am not familiar with you Mr. Bathory. So propriety demands that I be surprised.”

“Bahh,” he said indignantly, “what good has ever come from restraining the truth to spare another’s feelings?”

“You are one to talk Mr. Bathory.” I started slyly. “Was it not you that said her daughter was delicious?”

“Indeed, it seems you have found me out! I live by the rule of hypocrisy!” He said with a mischievous glint glimmering in his eye. “But, I do not have time to discuss that at this hour.”

“Yes, that is right. You are here to see my husband.” I reminded myself more than him. “ I will go and fetch him at once.”

“Please,” he started, stopping me from my forward motions, “allow me to follow you. Think of it as an informal tour.”

With that he offered me his arm and began to lead me around the garden and through our guests.


Mr. Bathory and I had traveled the garden lengths many times, and my husband remained unfound. Part of me was thankful for the extra time I got to spend with this most intriguing stranger. The dirty looks and haughty glances I received from Madame Brouche were just an added bonus for me.

Yet, the fact that my husband’s whereabouts could not be accounted for left me with an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was not in his nature to miss any part of a celebration, especially one so renowned as the carnival. I clung tight to the hope that business had called him inside. I do not know why, but anxiousness consumed me as I steered Dorian in the direction of our home.

“Some business must have called him inside,” I explained quickly, “I am sure we will find him in his study.”

“Lead the way good lady Smith.” He started noticing the way in which I wring my hands due to nerves. “I also hear that the English delight in cigars, good brandy, and the company of other men.” At this he arched his eyebrow causing me to giggle once again.

We continued with our civilized banter until we reached the door of my husband’s study. I heard the softest of muffled voices, and though faint I knew one to belong to Gregory. I nodded to Dorian before rapping upon the door. There was no immediate answer, and I could not force Dorian to wait any longer. So with hands that slightly trembled I unlatched the door and slowly pushed it open. The sight that greeted our eyes will be forever burned into my memory.

There, lying across the thick mahogany desk, a wedding gift from my late father, was the filthy whore Aribella. The sickening sounds of flesh slamming into flesh could be heard echoing around the room. My husband moaned and panted on top of the thick, writhing female form. Her own sounds of pleasure escaped through yellowing teeth and chapped lips.

For a moment I stood there, to shocked to even breathe. I was no longer aware of Dorian’s presence beside me. I was too transfixed at the sight that met me, unable to move my mind kicked into a new motion. Somewhere in the back of my conscious a switch flipped, and on flickered a light that glowered a heated red.

“You…you arrogant bastard!!!” I screamed startling both lovers from their act. My husband turned quickly the flush of passion fading to be replaced by the paleness of fear. He was trying to stuff his still erect member back into his pants, his eyes wide, and the sweat dripping from his brow.

“Elizabeth, darling!” He started but stopped just a suddenly when he noticed Dorian was beside me. “Dorian…I…”

But I did not hear him finish, nor did I care to. I took of running towards my rooms, my eyes blinded and burning with heart wrenched tears. I knew not what to think, only that I felt utterly abandoned and used. All that I had accepted had been false. The marriage that, while never happy, had been violated as if the vows we spoke were nothing but words upon the idiots tongue.

I lay for just an hour upon my bed, crying, kicking, and screaming into the silence. The party forgotten, the carnival unimportant, the masses of people in my garden non-existent. And though I felt I should never rest again, sleep began to descend upon my ravaged mind. The lasts thing I remembered before fading to black was Dorian’s voice in my mind.

“ Sleep now, sweet Elizabeth. All shall be well come morning.”