Page 70 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
He forces a smile, but his eyes betray his irritation. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “Perhaps another dance another time.”
Selene doesn’t answer. She simply leans into Dorian as he guides her off the dance floor, his touch warm, solid, safe.
Once they are out of earshot, Dorian exhales sharply. “That was quick thinking,” he murmurs. “Though next time, warn me before you decide to swoon.”
She peeks up at him. “Would you have caught me if it were real?”
His lips twitch. “Obviously. What kind of husband would I be if I let my wife collapse in the middle of a ball?”
The wordwifeshouldn’t affect her, not when their marriage is just a matter of convenience. But after standing in the Duke’s suffocating shadow, hearing Dorian say it so lightly feels like stepping into the sun.
He leads her toward a quiet alcove, where a servant is already setting a glass of cool water on a tray. Dorian hands it to her, his fingers brushing hers.
“Are you all right?” he asks, voice softer now.
She takes a sip, then nods. “Yes. Thank you.”
His gaze lingers on her, searching. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
Selene exhales. She should insist she’s fine. That the Duke means nothing to her anymore. But Dorian isn’t an idiot. He saw the way Drakefell looked at her.
But she doesn’t know how to explain it to him in a way that makes sense.
Her friends interrupt them before she has to come up with a response.
“Selene! Darling!” Isabel croons. “Are youquiteall right? You’re very pale.”
“Are yousureyou aren’t with child?” Cecily whispers, as if discussing some sordid secret.
At this, Dorian goes very pale, and immediately walks away from them.
Selene assures them that she is not. She is simply too warm. They twitter around her for a short while, and then decide to take her out onto the terrace for a little fresh air. They soon forget about her, turning instead to gawk over the beautiful gardens, and gush about the beauty of the night.
Selene remembers this conversation, almost word-for-word, like tracing paper over a story. It’s like she’s turned the page of a book to find it printed just like the last one.
Odd. Strange. Unsettling.
Last time they came out here onto the terrace, she marvelled at the moon, too. She was newly married to the Duke, then. She’d wanted him to join her out here and admire it with her. He’d been too busy.
She does not want him to come to her now. But she doesn’t think she’d mind if Dorian came to her instead.
She has little interest in the moon tonight. Her gaze skips across the sky to a small figure standing in the corner of the terrace.
Lord Everton, staring straight at Ophelia.
Selene smiles, inspired by a sudden idea. What if she can change the future—just in a small way? One little thing to spare her friend a month of frustration?
Carefully, she tugs Isabel’s sleeve, pointing at the young lord with as much subtlety as she can muster. Isabel smiles, whispering something to Cecily.
The three girls step back, retreating into the ballroom, leaving Ophelia staring at the moon.
Lord Everton inches closer. He looks at the doors—either checking to see whether or not the women will be returning, or looking for an escape route, Selene isn’t sure.
She jerks her head towards Ophelia. An unladylike gesture, to be sure, but a highly necessary one.
Gather your courage, man!
The three women close the door, giving the couple the illusion of privacy. They can still see everything, of course.
