Page 12 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

S elene doesn’t see Dorian for the rest of the day. He retreated to his study after their breakfast, the door closing behind him with a finality that lets everyone know he is not to be disturbed. She can’t shake the feeling that she’s a visitor here, unsure of how much she can claim for herself.

With nothing else to occupy her mind, she wanders through the house alone, meandering through quiet corridors.

It’s easy to get lost among the dim, carpeted halls and shelves piled high with books and forgotten things.

She traces the contours of the furniture, runs her fingers over the edges of portraits and chandeliers, as if she could learn their history from touch alone.

Her curiosity leads her outside into the sprawling gardens.

The day is warm, the sun hazy, and she sets off to chart every inch of it.

There are stables tucked away behind a grove of trees, and follies scattered throughout the land—delicate, crumbling structures where nature has begun to reclaim what was once carefully constructed.

She passes ponds brimming with fish that swirl lazily beneath the surface, their movements gentle and undisturbed by the passing of time.

Statues, many chipped or cracked, stand sentry throughout the gardens, their original grandeur hidden beneath the patina of years.

As she wanders, she finds herself drawn to the highest point of the land, a knoll that overlooks the village below.

The view is vast, the village clustered beneath the rolling hills, but as her gaze sweeps across the fields, she feels a shiver of nervousness.

There’s something daunting about the distance between her and the world she’s left behind, and the thought of venturing further feels too much for the moment.

Instead, she turns back toward the house.

Lunch is waiting for her on the terrace, laid out simply but beautifully.

There’s a crisp green salad, the lettuce tender and fresh, paired with thinly sliced cured meats and a soft cheese that melts in her mouth.

A loaf of warm bread, crusty on the outside and soft within, is served with rich butter that tastes of cream and sunshine.

The meal is simple, but there’s no denying its excellence—the flavors perfectly balanced, the portions just enough to satisfy without overwhelming.

“This is most excellent, Rookwood,” she tells him.

Rookwood is pruning the hedges nearby. “I thank you, My Lady.”

She gestures to the hedges. “Are you a gardener, too?”

Rookwood laughs. “I do my best to keep this area tidy,” he tells her. “But I find standing for long periods a bit tricky on this leg.” He knocks below his knee. It gives off a hollow, wooden sound .

“Does it hurt?” she asks him.

He shrugs, as if that’s neither here nor there. “I hear you enjoy a nice garden?” he says, changing the subject.

“I do.”

“Then we’ll have to see about getting someone in to fix a little more of this space.”

Selene smiles. She appreciates the gesture.

She should not be unused to kindness—the servants of the Duke’s estate were wonderful towards her, for the most part—but there is something different in the way Rookwood and Ariella speak.

They may be utterly perplexed as to her presence here, but they are doing more than their jobs.

For some reason, it makes her want to cry.

She returns to wandering the gardens after lunch, but it doesn’t hold the same lightness as before. She cannot seem to find a parlour that’s in use, so she collects some books from the library and takes them to her room. It’s the only place she feels she can inhabit freely.

Reading is difficult. The words don’t seem to latch in her mind. She has no letters to write, no parties to arrange, no friends to visit. No one will call on her here.

Dorian doesn’t arrive for dinner, either. She is wondering if he might be avoiding her, or perhaps this is to be their life together. He didn’t want a wife, after all.

She is fine with whatever arrangement he wants, but she wants to know how things are to be.

It is very late when she hears his footsteps at her door. Selene freezes. There’s only one reason a man visits his wife at this time of night. He was kind enough to give her last night, she supposes.

Can she pretend to be asleep?

But she wants to speak to him. If she invites him in, at least they can talk. At least she can decipher what sort of marriage this is .

“C-come in,” she says.

Dorian enters. Dark shadows circle his eyes. He looks exhausted. “Ah, good, you’re still up,” he says. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I apologise I’ve been so busy today. Ariella suggested we go into the village tomorrow. I can show you around and we’ll see if we can find a lady’s maid for you.”

“That’s… that’s very kind. Thank you.”

Dorian nods. “Very well. Good night.” He turns to leave.

“That’s it?”

Dorian stops. “That’s what?”

“You’re just going to… go back to your own room?”

He blinks at her as if she’s talking in riddles. “Yes?”

“Don’t you want to…”

He tilts his head. “Do what?”

“Have your… have us…” Selene tries to find a way to put this delicately. “Don’t you want us to perform our marital duties?”

Dorian’s eyes go wide. He looks almost horrified that she’s even suggested it.

It occurs to Selene that she doesn’t know his preferences.

Perhaps he’s like Lord Greyton and this marriage serves to hide some secret of his.

But he doesn’t feel like Lord Greyton to her.

Why wouldn’t he want to sleep with his beautiful young wife?

His answer is the last thing she expects.

“Do you?”

Now it is her turn to blink at him, certain she’s misunderstanding something.

What does what she wants to do matter—in this regard, at least?

Husbands are to provide for their wives.

Amongst the nobility, they are to ensure they are treated well, doted on, never to want for anything.

In return, wives support their husbands.

They run their houses, entertain their friends, and provide them with sex. It’s a role, a task like any other.

“I’m… I’m not sure I understand.”

Dorian smiles sadly, shaking his head. “I have no intention of bedding you against your will,” he tells her.

The Duke never bedded her against her will, either.

He’d moan and sigh and groan that other women wanted him whenever she declined, but he never pushed further than that.

He seemed to think he deserved some reward for that restraint, and sometimes— sometimes —Selene started to think that maybe he did, too.

It’s a natural thing for men to want from their wives.

Maybe he was being kind. Maybe she was the one in the wrong.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe she doesn’t have to be that girl anymore.

Yet, although there were many times she didn’t want to perform for the Duke, there were times she quite enjoyed it.

There was something nice about flesh on flesh, about making someone happy, about how they seemed closer, afterwards.

Sometimes they’d sit and talk or drink and watch the moon, and conversation flowed easily between them.

It wasn’t all horrible. There was a reason she liked him, once.

She could probably like Dorian the same way. Maybe. Perhaps. If they got a chance to know each other better. It might never be the great love that the poets speak about, but she thinks that she could grow fond of him.

Whether or not he fully understands what he’s saved her from, he has rescued her. He’s asked no intrusive questions. He pulled all sorts of strings to save her from her parents’ house.

He is a lot more deserving of affection than the Duke.

“It wouldn’t be against my—” she begins .

“I’m not sure what you know of the marital act, but it shouldn’t be a chore—something you feel obligated to do. It should be something that both parties really, really enjoy doing.”

Selene swallows, her mouth feeling oddly dry. There’s something about the way he says ‘ really’. Sex for her has never been about desire. Are women really supposed to enjoy it that much? “You sound like you have some experience.”

He laughs. “A story for another night, maybe,” he said. “Good night, Selene.”

It is only as she’s falling asleep that she realises Dorian didn’t answer her question.

The next morning, Dorian takes her, as promised, to tour the village. He takes a simple open-topped carriage that drives himself. Selene feels very strange sitting next to him, not because of how close they are, but because she’s sitting up top. Her mother would think her a common village maid.

She’s not sure what she expected from the village of Lower Thornmere—perhaps a brief stroll through the cobbled streets, a few polite nods to the townspeople, an inquiry about young women looking for employment, and nothing more.

Instead, Dorian takes them down a winding road that runs through the heart of the village, where houses sit close together, their chimneys curling wisps of smoke into the pale morning sky.

The village feels ancient, with its crooked rooftops and flower-boxed windows, each stone of the buildings worn with time and history.

The air is thick with the smell of fresh bread and wood smoke, and as they drive, the townsfolk stop to greet Dorian with familiar smiles and friendly waves.

A child tugs on his sleeve, giggling, and he bends down to ruffle the boy’s hair.

One woman waves a hand from her doorstep, her grin wide, and Dorian nods back, calling her by name as though they’ve known each other for years.

“Good morning, Lord Dorian!” calls a young man, tipping his hat in a gesture of respect. Dorian waves back with a smile, and the young man’s face lights up, as though the greeting is a gift in itself.