Page 44 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“To say the least. But he’s fast and he knows it.” Dorian gives the horse an affectionate scratch behind the ear before turning to a palomino mare. “And this is Clover. Sweetest thing in the world. A good, steady ride, if you’re ever so inclined.”
The small, sturdy mare blinks at Selene with large, gentle eyes, and she can’t help but smile. “She seems lovely.”
“She is.” Dorian glances at her, then steps back towards the start, to the gorgeous bay. “And, of course,” he says with an air of mock gravity, “we have Hoovian.”
Selene stares at the bay gelding, then back at Dorian. “Hoovian?”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It seemed like a great name when I was a boy.”
Selene’s lips twitch. “I’m sure it did.”
“You are teasing me.”
“On the contrary, Lord Dorian, I am trying very hard not to.”
Dorian bites back a laugh. She likes the way his eyes twinkle when he’s amused.
“I lied to you about my cat’s name,” she admits.
“Oh?”
“It’s not Missy. It’s Mistress Stripe.”
Dorian laughs. Selene does too. It’s nice to laugh with someone, to share a joke. She cannot quite remember the last time she did.
When the laughter fades, he nods toward Clover’s stall. “So…” he begins, looking as nervous as a country boy asking a girl for his first dance, “do you feel like riding?”
Selene exhales, still smiling. She meant what she told him before about not being a good rider, but not being good at something and not wanting to do it are two completely different things. “Yes. I think I would.”
Dorian’s smile is warm and approving. “Good. Let’s get you saddled up.”
Dorian retrieves Clover’s tack and secures the saddle while Selene watches. When he’s finished, he gestures for her to step forward.
“Ready?” he asks.
Selene nods, and with Dorian steadying Clover’s reins, she places her foot in the stirrup and swings into the saddle. The motion is familiar enough, though it’s been years, and she has to resist the urge to grip too tightly with her knees.
“Not bad,” Dorian remarks. “You look comfortable.”
She exhales. “So far.”
Dorian chuckles before moving to Hoovian. He mounts with an effortless grace that makes Selene all too aware of her own hesitation. As if sensing her thoughts, he clicks his tongue and nudges Hoovian forward at a gentle walk.
“Come along, then,” he says, glancing back at her.
Selene presses her heels lightly to Clover’s sides, and the mare moves forward obediently. The motion is smoother than she expects, and she lets herself settle into the rhythm. They ride in easy silence for a few moments, leaving the stables behind, the open fields stretching ahead of them.
The air is crisp and bright, the morning sunlight turning the golden grass into something almost luminous. Selene watches the way Dorian holds himself, relaxed yet attentive, guiding Hoovian with quiet confidence.
“Do you really have the heart of a poet?” she asks at last.
Dorian glances over at her, brow raised. “Come again?”
Selene keeps her gaze ahead, watching the way Clover’s ears flick in the breeze. “Earlier, you said you had the heart of a poet when I called you sentimental. I’m wondering if that was a jest.”
“Oh, I’d make a terrible poet,” he confesses, adjusting his grip on the reins. “I am… not very good at putting my feelings into words.”
That makes two of us,she thinks. She shifts slightly in the saddle, letting Clover’s steady movement ground her. “What do you like to read, then?”
