Page 32 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Her gaze drifts from the map back to the window, to the faint outline of the village beyond. Dorian could have rebuilt his fortune if he had demanded more from his tenants. Instead, he let the house crumble around him. He chose to care for them instead.
A strange, restless ache stirs in her chest.
She’s startled by the sound of footsteps. Dorian stands at the threshold of the library, arms folded, watching her.
“You look deep in thought,” he remarks.
She hesitates, then gestures at the map. “I was thinking about the village.”
He steps inside, crossing the room, and glances down at the map. “What about it?”
“That you take better care of it than you do yourself.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Is that a criticism or a compliment?”
“Both.” She tilts her head, studying him. “You must know that people will expect us to entertain, now.”
His lips quirk in something that isn’t quite amusement. “Yes, I’m aware.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“I mind,” he says, rolling his shoulders, “but I knew what I was agreeing to when I married you.”
She hadn’t expected such honesty. It unnerves her, how easily he accepts what he does not want. How much of his life has been shaped by duty? By quiet sacrifices?
How much has yours?
Dorian leans down, palms braced against the edge of the desk, close enough that she catches the faint scent of ink and earth. Close enough that the air between them shifts.
She ought to retreat, but she doesn’t.
“You don’t have to make this harder on yourself,” she says softly.
His eyes darken. “Neither do you.”
Something in his voice unsettles her, something unreadable.
She realises then how little distance remains between them. The warmth of him lingers against her skin, a near touch, a promise unspoken. Her breath slows.
He does not move away.
Neither does she.
Not until the distant sound of hooves and cart wheels breaks the moment, shattering whatever had begun to form between them.
Dorian straightens first, stepping back as if nothing had passed between them at all. “Ariella must be back.”
Selene swallows, smoothing her skirts. “Yes.”
“Well,” he says, gesturing to the door, “shall we?”
Marta is very excited by her new position. She and Dorian discuss her wages secretly, away from Selene’s ears. She wouldn’t know what to offer her, anyway. Marta has just one request: while typically lady’s maids live in the same house as their mistress, Marta would like to remain in the village overnight unless she’s needed. Selene has no wish to take anyone from their family, so she readily agrees.
Dorian smiles as she’s taken off on a tour by Ariella. “She has a sweetheart in the village,” he explains. “Jon. Nice chap.”
He disappears shortly after divulging this, and Selene spends the rest of her day with Marta, acclimating her to the house, her gowns, and the demands of the job. Marta swoons over Selene’s collection, and they have fun discussing every alteration that they could make for various different imagined scenarios, and Marta familirises herself with some of Selene’s favourite hairstyles.
“Feel free to experiment,” Selene tells her. “Cassie—my old maid—often did whatever she liked. I quite enjoyed that about her.”
