Page 67 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“Lady Margaret is said to be in a verydelicatecondition—”
“Heavens, is that the Nightblooms? Quitethe scandalous story…”
Well, maybe noteverything.But is it possible that Selene’s the only one who’s really changed?
She scans through the guests. Notably absent are her parents, who attended the last time. Selene knows they aren’t here tonight because she is. They are still furious with her, and don’t want to risk a scene.
Selene tries not to let it bother her.
The music swells, the laughter and conversation blending into a pleasant hum. Though she is accustomed to such gatherings, she can feel the tension in Dorian’s frame—as if he is walking through enemy territory rather than a room of nobles. He moves with ease, his expression composed, but Selene still feels the tension in him, a tightness in his posture, in the way his fingers flex ever so slightly against the fabric of his coat. He does not like this.
She leans in slightly. “Would you rather we didn’t dance?”
Dorian exhales a quiet laugh. “Are you offering me an escape?”
“Perhaps.”
His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Then what sort of husband would I be if I declined my wife’s kindness?”
Selene suppresses a laugh, drawing him towards the edge of the ballroom instead. A servant passes by with glasses of wine, and she plucks two from the tray, pressing one into Dorian’s hand. His fingers brush hers as he takes it.
“You are surprisingly thoughtful,” he says, raising the glass to his lips.
Selene tilts her head. “Surprising?”
“I took you for a woman who enjoys spectacle.”
She considers this, swirling the wine in her glass. “Oh, I do,” she admits, glancing towards the dance floor. “But not at your expense.”
Dorian hums, watching her over the rim of his glass. There is something unreadable in his gaze, something that makeswarmth curl in her stomach. She resists the urge to look away.
“Wouldyoulike to dance?” he asks.
Her lips quirk at the corner. “Would you?”
She has always loved dancing, but she doesn’t think she would enjoy it if he didn’t.
“Yes,” he admits. “But only if you’re my partner.”
Selene feels her cheeks heat, increasing rapidly when he leads her onto the floor with easy grace, despite his earlier stiffness. Selene places one hand on his shoulder, the other in his, and allows herself to be guided into the dance. The moment they begin to move, she realises that Dorian is an excellent dancer. His steps are smooth, confident, with none of the discomfort he’d shown before.
“You dislike crowds but not dancing?” she murmurs.
“I dislike having to speak to people I do not care for,” he replies. “Dancing requires little conversation.”
Selene finds herself smiling again, this time without thinking. The music carries them in slow, sweeping turns, and the rest of the ballroom begins to fade. For a moment, it is only them—the gliding of their feet, the warmth of his hand against hers, the soft rustle of fabric as they move.
The music slows, the dance nearing its end. Dorian releases her with the same care he had taken in holding her.
“We should dance more often,” he concludes.
Selene smiles. “We have all night.”
It occurs to Selene that she doesn’t think she’s ever danced with Dorian before—certainly not at a ball. She is sure she would remember a dance likethat.She might have danced with him during their school days, but she has no recollection.
Dorian might.
“Have we ever danced together before?” she asks him.
