Page 113 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“Your heart is beating very fast,” she remarks.
“Yes, you’re very pretty and it makes me nervous sometimes.”
“Would you believe me if I told you that I think you’re pretty too?”
Dorian tenses, just for a moment. “No,” he says. “But thank you for saying that.”
She watches the fire flicker in the hearth. “Goodnight, husband.”
“Goodnight, wife.”
The next morning, after breakfast, the guests depart one by one, their carriages rolling down the long drive as the hired servants begin the daunting task of cleaning up.
Dorian and Selene stand in the foyer, offering polite farewells, the grand doors opening and closing with every new departure.
“Now, I don’t mean to dismiss your efforts,” Dorian says, his voice low with amusement, “but we didn’t find out a single thing.”
Selene watches the Lord and Lady Quillringer step into their carriage before turning to him with a knowing smile. “No, but we’ve shown everyone what wonderful, charming hosts we are,” she counters. “Which means, when we invite them back one by one, they’ll be far more inclined to accept.”
Dorian grins. “You are so clever.”
“Why, thank you, darling husband, I am.”
Something flickers in his expression. He drops his gaze briefly before glancing around. “No one’s here right now,” he murmurs. “You don’t—you don’t have to call me that.”
Selene tilts her head. “Do you not like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Slowly, she begins to extend her fingers toward his. She barely brushes against his hand before—
“Lord Nightbloom. A word.”
Lady Duskbriar stands in the foyer.
Dorian stiffens before stepping away toward the parlour, casting a fleeting, uncertain look back at Selene before disappearing through the door.
A moment later, Lord Duskbriar arrives, lingering in the foyer like a storm cloud that refuses to break. His expression remains as impassive as ever, but his sharp eyes scan the room with an air of faint disapproval.
“Ebonrose looks… better than I expected,” he says at last.
Selene meets his gaze evenly. “Thank you.”
His attention shifts to the crest above the staircase, where the shield remains bare. “The family emblem needs restoring,” he mutters. Lord Gideon had chiseled away the old motto—it did not align with his principles.
“I have some ideas,” Selene replies.
A pause stretches between them, brittle and uncomfortable.
“You seem happy,” he remarks.
“I am.”
“You could have been happy with the Duke.”
Selene stills, her breath turning to steel in her lungs.
“No,” she says firmly. “I couldn’t have been.”
