Page 68 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Dorian winces. “Once or twice at school, while we were still learning,” he admits. “You used to step on my toes.”
That wasn’t quite the romantic image she was hoping for. She wants to tease him—“And you used to like me?”—but she recalls that he asked her not to bring that up again, so she doesn’t.
Someone is waving at her from the corner of the ballroom. Isabel, surrounded by the rest of Selene’s friends, their bright dresses and easy laughter standing out in the sea of noble decorum. Ophelia catches her eye too, grinning and waving her over.
Selene glances up at Dorian, not quite asking permission but checking if he is all right to be left alone. His gaze flickers toward the group, then back to her. A small, almost imperceptible nod.
That is all she needs. She releases his arm and hurries toward them, skirts swishing around her ankles. Cecily looks resplendent in the same crimson gown Selene remembers from the first time she came to the ball. Ophelia’s wearing another creamy creation, less frilly than the one she wore earlier. Isabel is wearing deep blue this time, however—last year, she wore green. Selene casts a look over the rest of the party. Most people seem to be wearing the same clothes as before, but a few have made different choices.
She isn’t sure what to make of that, but she mentally kicks herself for remembering details about clothing and not about important events.
The interrogation begins the moment she arrives.
“You look well,” Ophelia says, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Selene arches a brow. “Thank you?”
“Married life must suit you,” Cecily adds. “You seem—”
“Glowing,” Isabel chimes in. “Not keeping a secret, are you, dear?”
Not the one you’re thinking of,Selene thinks. “I am happy,” she tells them, surprising herself with how easily that lie comes. “But I’m not in adelicatecondition.”
The girls giggle. “Yet,” adds Ophelia.
Selene’s face falls, but she recovers quickly. How often had her friends asked her these questions before, when she was married to the Duke? How often did she have to tell them,no, not yet,and have them respond with “I’m sure it will be soon”? The emptiness inside her grew larger with every question, until she felt it could fill a room.
She does not feel that emptiness now. Yes, someday, she would like children. But with the right person, in her own time.
“Well, Lord Nightbloom looks quite handsome tonight,” Isabel remarks, casting a not-so-subtle glance in his direction.
“It’s love!” Ophelia declares, clasping her hands together dramatically. “Love makes everyone more handsome!”
Selene rolls her eyes but cannot quite suppress the tiny smile that tugs at her lips. She shakes her head, plucking a flower from a vase on the dresser beside them, more to distract herself than anything else.
The laughter of her friends fades into the background as a shadow moves across the ballroom floor.
Selene doesn’t need to look up to know who it belongs to.
“Lady Selene,” comes the deep, familiar voice.
Her fingers tighten around the flower’s stem. The scent turns sickly. She inhales sharply before raising her gaze.
Duke Edmund Drakefell stands before her, broad-shouldered and imposing, dressed in midnight-blue with silver embroidery at the cuffs. He is tall—taller than she remembers—and holds himself with the effortless command of a man accustomed to being obeyed. His dark hair is neatlycombed, a touch of silver at the temples, and his sharp grey eyes study her like a specimen.
She had once thought him handsome. The strong jaw, the regal posture, the way he carried himself like a knight from some old tale. But now, standing before him again, he is less a man and more a mountain—immovable, unyielding.
“May I have this dance?” he asks.
A hush falls over their little circle. Ophelia’s eyes widen in delight. Cecily bites her lip. Isabel nudges Selene’s arm, silently urging her to accept.
Selene cannot refuse him. Not here, not now, not with all these eyes upon her. So she places her hand in his, the touch a ghost of a memory, and allows herself to be led onto the dance floor.
The music swells. The room spins.
She tells herself she is ready for this. That it’s just a dance. That it means nothing.
And yet, as his hand settles against her waist, as his grip tightens ever so slightly, anchoring her in place, she feels the past pressing down upon her. She remembers this body on hers in the night, remembers how these hands would yank at her and pull her into place like a child might pull the limbs of a doll. He would put her wherever he wanted.
