Page 96 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Something in her voice reaches him. He straightens up, pushing his glasses up his nose. They’re misted up. “Right, yes, of course,” he says, tugging on his cravat. “I apologise.”
“For that kiss?” she tells him. “I wouldn’t.”
His cheeks heat, and his dimples crease.
“Did you find anything?” Selene asks.
Dorian shakes his head. “Nothing. That doesn’t necessarily rule him out, but… it’s a good start. I consider him on my ‘unlikely’ list.”
Selene nods. “I have to ask… is my father on your list?”
“He was,” Dorian admits. “He seemed a likely suspect for a time, what with his friendship with the Duke being well-known and his willingness to marry his daughter off to him, but nothing about his correspondence suggested he was in league with him.”
Selene nods, then frowns. “How?”
“Come again?”
“How did you investigate my father, when I think the first time I’ve ever seen you at Roselune Abbey was the day we eloped?”
Dorian smiles. “I have my ways.”
“Dorian! Stop being so elusive!”
He moves towards the door. “I’m more attractive that way.”
Selene doesn’t think Dorian needs to tease to make him more attractive. She doesn’t think he needs to do anything but exist in her general proximity, which is a slightly frightening thought.
She follows him to the door. “Are you sure you have what you need?”
“I think so.”
“You’d stay longer if Soren was with you, wouldn’t you?”
“Soren is a ghost,” Dorian reminds her. “He can practically move through walls. Do you blame me for being alittlemore cautious when it comes to you?”
“You’re sweet when you’re protective.”
“Selene, please.”
Selene takes a moment to enjoy his bashful expression, before sobering up. “What if there was another way?”
“Another way of what?”
“Of trying to ascertain what Lord Dashridge may be involved in without rifling through all his belongings?”
Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”
Selene guides them back towards the ballroom, keeping her voice low. “Dashridge has a weakness.”
Dorian folds his arms. “Does he?”
She smirks. “Drink. And flattery. He likes to talk when he’s indulged. If we guide the conversation carefully enough, he may give us what we need without ever realising it.”
Dorian considers this, his gaze flicking back towards the ballroom where Dashridge is now leaning heavily against a column, speaking animatedly with a group of equally inebriated men. “You think he’ll just confess his crimes over brandy?”
“Not outright,” Selene admits. “But men like him always want to impress. They like to boast. If I ask the right questions… if I stroke his ego a little… he may let something slip.”
Dorian exhales through his nose. “And you’d rather dance circles around him all night than let me break into his study?”
