Page 71 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Lord Everton hesitates, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket, before taking a final, bracing breath. Then, at last, he moves toward Ophelia.
Selene presses her fingertips against the glass, anticipation thrumming in her chest. This is it.
Ophelia, oblivious to the audience she has just lost, tilts her head as she senses movement behind her. When she turns, her brows lift in mild surprise.
Everton clears his throat. A silence stretches between them.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Isabel mutters.
Cecily grips Selene’s arm. “Give him a moment!”
Ophelia folds her hands before her, ever patient, waiting. Selene knows her friend well—knows the subtle tilt of her head, the way she’s resisting the urge to prompt him into speaking.
Finally, Lord Everton does. They can’t make out what he’s saying, but Ophelia’s lips part.
Lord Everton carries on speaking, running a hand through his hair. He exhales. Ophelia opens her mouth—
Selene holds her breath.
Ophelia launches herself at Lord Everton, almost knocking him off his feet. She kisses him in a way that makes Cecily cry “scandalous!” and Isabel swoon.
Selene smiles. She’s happy for her friend, but something aches there, too.
It has been a long time since she’s enjoyed being kissed.
The girls can no longer contain themselves. They burst back onto the terrace, throwing themselves at Ophelia and covering her in kisses. Lord Everton sneaks away with a huge grin on his face, no doubt to talk to Ophelia’s parents.
The night carries on in a blissful blur. The engagement is announced, the ballroom erupts into cheers, and Ophelia is radiant with happiness. Lord Everton wears the look of a man who has just won a duel with fate.
Glasses are raised, toasts are made, and laughter spills through the gilded hall like champagne overflowing from crystal flutes. The musicians strike up a lively tune, and before long, the guests launch into aRosavante, the traditional engagement dance. It is a sweeping, whirling thing, full of quick steps and stolen glances, where partners trade places in a flurry of silk and brocade. The dance is meant to symbolise the joy of love and the ever-changing nature of fate, and Selene watches with delight as Ophelia and Lord Everton take the floor, twirling through the crowd with breathless, giddy smiles.
Selene almost forgets about the Duke. Almost.
He is still there, lurking at the edges of the revelry, watching from the shadows with an expression she cannot quite name. Not anger—no, he is too disciplined for that. But something sharp and knowing gleams in his gaze whenever it lands on her. A reminder that he is not so easily dismissed.
She turns away from him, willing herself not to let him ruin this night.
But Dorian—Dorian is another matter entirely.
She scans the ballroom, searching for him amid the swirling dancers and laughing courtiers, but he is nowhere to be found. Hadn’t he been by her side just moments ago? A strange, unfamiliar sensation settles in her chest. Not quite worry, not quite longing—something in between.
Where has he gone?
Finally, the numbers in the ballroom start to thin. Guests retire to their chambers or to their carriages. Selene is no stranger to being the last at a party. She is not ready for it to end.
She steps once more onto the terrace, and stares up at the moon. It really is a beautiful thing. The shadows stretch across the lawns, silvery and stark. The moment could be wrapped up into a bauble.
“Happy with your meddling?” says a voice behind her.
Selene turns. Dorian appears at her elbow, clinking his champagne glass against hers.
She smirks. “Exceptionally.”
Dorian watches her for a long moment. “You’re different tonight.”
She tilts her head. “How so?”
He leans in, just enough that his voice is for her ears alone. “Lighter.”
