Page 10 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“Are you… sure?”
“Quite sure. The only thing is, how are we going to convince your parents to give their permission?”
“We can’t,” Selene admits, her voice catching slightly. “We would have to—” She hesitates.Elope.The word lingers in the air, unspoken.
Dorian raises an eyebrow. “An elopement? How scandalous, my lady.”
“It’s… necessary,” she murmurs.
“Quite,” he agrees, pushing his glasses up his nose.
Elopements are scandalous, she knows. But their scandal fades once they’re completed—once the couple is married and enough time has passed. Eventually, such storiesbecome romanticised. At least, they do when the couple appears to be in love.
Selene swallows hard. She can pretend to be in love with Dorian. She has pretended just fine with the Duke.
“Shall we?” Dorian asks, gesturing towards the house.
Numbly, she nods. There ought to be a thousand questions crowding her mind, and yet there are none. How will this work? What story will they tell? And how ‘married’ will he expect them to be?
They wander back through the grounds, the quiet settling between them like a fragile veil. Selene still can’t quite believe Dorian has agreed. She can’t believe they’re really going to do this.
“What’s your favourite colour?” she asks as they approach the house.
Dorian blinks, taken aback. “I’m sorry?”
“I should know something about you if we’re to pull this off,” she explains.
Dorian laughs, the sound edged with nerves. Of course he’s nervous—what they’re planning is absurd. “Emerald green,” he replies. “Rather dull, I know.”
“You’d look good in green,” Selene comments, her voice flat and detached. She isn’t even sure what she’s saying. “I like lavender,” she adds quickly. “Pink. Sunrise colours. Anything soft.”
“I like horse riding,” Dorian offers after a moment.
“I’m not a very good rider,” she admits. “But I am quite good at embroidery. I like…” She hesitates. She wants to say she likes making pretty things, but she stops herself just in time.
Weeks into her marriage to the Duke, she had confessed the same thing, presenting him with a handkerchief she’d embroidered with his favourite hound. He’d laughed at her, as though she were a child showing off a simple drawing.He couldn’t understand why she’d want to make anything herself when she had servants to do it for her.
Dorian isn’t the Duke,she reminds herself. But the truth is, she doesn’t know him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t laugh, either.
Their conversation ends as the voices of her parents carry over the wind. Selene’s stomach tightens. Her mother and father emerge from behind a row of manicured hedges. Against the wild beauty of the garden, they seem sharp and overbearing.
Her mother, Lady Evangeline Duskbriar, is the very image of Florenwall’s grand dame. She wears a stunning dress of rich crimson silk embroidered with threads of gold, the fabric shimmering in the dappled sunlight with each calculated step. Her light gold hair is arranged in perfect curls, adorned with garnets. Elegant as she is, her smile never reaches her eyes. When her piercing gaze lands on Dorian, it carries a flicker of distaste.
Her father, Lord Alistair Duskbriar, is a more understated but no less imposing figure. His dark suit, tailored in a style several seasons past, speaks of his adherence to tradition and disregard for current fashion. He carries himself with a stiff dignity. Though Selene favours her mother in appearance, she has inherited her father’s green, glass-like eyes.
His gaze lingers on her briefly, touched with impatience, before shifting to Dorian. A faint scowl forms, as though Dorian’s presence is an affront to the family’s carefully maintained image.
“There you are, Selene!” her mother exclaims, her tension masked by a falsely cheerful tone. She dismisses Dorian’s presence entirely, treating him as though he were a footman rather than a lord. Her focus remains firmly on Selene, her smile tight as she delivers the news. “The Duke has formallyasked for your hand, dear. He’s waiting to accept you in the blue room.”
Her father gives a small nod of approval, his eyes gleaming with expectation.
Selene has known this was coming. Of course she has. But now that it’s here, now thatheis here, she can’t seem to respond. It’s all happening again.
Refuse,a voice inside her urges.Speak!
But she can’t. She can’t speak. She can’t even move.
“Selene?” her mother asks, frowning. “Are you quite all right? This offer is hardly unexpected.”
