Page 13 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

Selene watches closely, noticing how the villagers seem so comfortable with him. One woman approaches them, holding a small bundle of wildflowers. “For the lady,” she says with a wink, pressing the flowers into Selene’s hands.

Selene takes them, smiling at the unexpected kindness. The woman nods, then disappears back into her home, calling out a cheery farewell to Dorian.

As they continue their tour, more villagers come forward, offering her little tokens of hospitality. A man with a basket of freshly baked bread hands her a warm loaf, his face creased in a knowing smile. “You’ll need this for lunch, my lady.”

Another woman, older and wrapped in a thick shawl, gives her a jar of honey, the amber liquid gleaming in the sun.

“For tea,” she says. No coins change hands, only smiles and soft-spoken words.

It’s the same everywhere. A farmer hands her a jar of jam, a candle-maker offers a beeswax candle. No one asks for payment.

“Are these wedding gifts?” she asks.

“You’ll usually find the people here are quite generous,” he says. “But yes, they do seem unusually so today. They’re obviously excited to meet you.”

As they reach the edge of the village, Dorian stops and gestures to a small stone building tucked between two larger structures. “That’s the inn,” he says. “The innkeeper, Charles, is a fountain of knowledge. If we want to inquire about lady’s maids, he’s our best bet.”

Selene looks at the inn, noting its humble exterior. It’s nothing like the grand dining halls and salons she’s accustomed to. “It looks... welcoming,” she remarks, the corner of her mouth curving into a smile.

Dorian helps her down from the carriage, and they head inside. The inn is warm and dimly lit. The fire crackles in a large hearth, and the low murmur of conversation quiets momentarily as Dorian enters.

Behind the bar stands the innkeeper, a tall man with graying hair and a broad, friendly face. He’s wiping down a mug when he spots Dorian, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Well, I’ll be,” the innkeeper says, setting the mug down. “I heard the rumours, but…” His eyes shift to Selene, standing just behind Dorian. “You didn’t tell anything to us, my lord. How dare you keep such a beautiful wife a secret.”

Dorian smiles, a little sheepish. “I’m sure it wasn’t the kind of news you needed, Charles.”

Charles laughs, then looks at Selene with a broad grin. “You’re the new Lady Nightbloom, then?” His voice takes on a warm, welcoming tone, and he offers her a quick bow. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady. I wish I could say we’ve heard so much about you.”

“It was a whirlwind affair,” Dorian tells him. “I shall give you the details sometime.”

When he’s thought of them, Selene realises.

Charles laughs heartily. “Ah, I see. Well, my lord, we’d love to have you both in for dinner sometime. No charge, of course. A wedding gift from the inn to the new lady of the house! ”

“Thank you, Charles,” Dorian says, his voice warm. “I’ll take you up on that soon, I’m sure. But today, I’m just here to let you know I’m looking for a lady’s maid for my wife. Someone reliable with a little experience.”

“Of course. I’ll keep an eye out, my lord. We’ve got a few girls here in the village who’ve been looking for work. I’ll make sure to send someone by tomorrow, if that works for you?”

“Perfect,” Dorian replies, nodding. “Thank you, Charles.”

The innkeeper waves them off, still grinning widely.

They continue their walk down the road, the quiet hum of the village surrounding them. As they approach another corner of the village, Dorian gestures toward a small, well-kept cottage with a neat garden of vegetables and flowers spilling over the edges.

“That’s Greta’s house,” he says. “She’s the village seamstress. She can help with your clothes, if you need anything altered.”

Selene nods, already making a mental note to visit later. Her thoughts drift back to the warmth of the inn, the quiet friendliness of the villagers, and the unexpected sense of belonging she’s starting to feel. For the first time in days, she feels a sense of peace settle over her.

“So, what’s next?” she asks, turning her attention back to Dorian.

“There’s the mill up ahead,” he says, pointing. “And after that, we’ll head down to the old temple. It’s a little worn down, but it’s a beautiful place to see.”

They make their way back to the cart, and Dorian helps her up, his hand steadying on the small of her back. He climbs up quickly before his touch lingers too much, and clicks the horses into action .

But before they get far, an old man steps out of a small cottage by the roadside, leaning heavily on a crooked walking stick. He waves them over.

“Ah, Dorian,” the man calls out, his voice gravelly with years. “Might you give me a hand with my roof? It’s been leaking something fierce.”

Selene is surprised when Dorian pulls the reins of the cart to a halt, and even more when he slides off and makes his way over to the old man.

He can’t possibly be thinking of helping to patch the roof himself, can he?

Her father would have considered himself generous for arranging to foot the bill.

“You’re still dealing with that, Thomas?” Dorian asks, as he unclips his cufflinks. “Let’s see what I can do.”

Selene is sure she’s misunderstanding the situation, but Dorian has already rolled up his sleeves and discarded his jacket. He places his cufflinks beside her on the seat. One starts to roll away. Selene plucks it up without thinking, and whips out a handkerchief to wrap them safely inside.

The old man nods, relieved, and leads Dorian towards his small cottage. Selene hesitates for a moment, unsure of whether or not to follow, but the curiosity wins out, and she climbs down from the cart.

“Can I offer you something, milady?” the old man’s wife calls from the door. She’s an older woman with graying hair and a smile that immediately puts her at ease.

“Oh, I—thank you,” Selene says, her voice a little uncertain. She’s not sure where to begin. But before she can protest, the woman is already handing her a plate with a small, golden-brown cake.

“Fresh from the oven,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “You must be hungry after your long walk.”

Selene takes the plate with a smile, and she watches as Dorian crouches next to the roof, the old man showing him the damage.

He’s making quick work of it, his hands sure and competent, as though repairing a roof is no different than overseeing a grand banquet or negotiating a trade deal.

It’s a curious sight. For a brief moment, she almost forgets the man before her is a nobleman, with responsibilities far beyond the reach of this quiet village.

As she eats the cake, she notices how Dorian’s muscles flex as he lifts the broken slats of wood, smoothing out the imperfections in the roof.

She tries—and fails—not to stare.

The cake, sweet and lightly spiced, tastes even better than it looks. She takes another bite and compliments the chef.

“There’s more where that came from,” the woman assures her. “Have as much as you like. Young Lord Dorian might be here for a while.”

Selene is grateful for the cake, but she hopes it doesn’t take Dorian too long.

She has absolutely no idea how to converse with someone who she’s never been formally introduced to before, especially not a commoner.

She can’t ask her about balls or parties or courtly gossip.

It might be considered rude to ask about her husband’s business.

The weather, she reminds herself. The weather is always safe.

“It’s a lovely day,” she remarks. “The village seems idyllic.”

The woman beams. “Aye, milady. ‘Tis a lovely place to live, if I do say so myself.”

“Have you raised a family here?”

“Six children I’ve had with Thomas—all grown and gone now, of course. My eldest is expecting her first grandchild any day now!”

There’s a lot of children milling around, and Selene realises that these are likely some of the grandchildren she mentioned.

She’s not used to seeing so many children in such a small place, but it’s nice to watch them play.

She finds she doesn’t need to make much in the way of conversation after that.

She and the old woman watch the children together while Dorian finishes with the roof.

“There,” he says, standing and dusting his hands off on his trousers. “That should hold for now. I’ll send someone to check on it later.”

“I’m much obliged to you, Lord Dorian,” Thomas says, standing at the foot of the ladder.

Dorian forgoes the ladder, sliding to the bottom and leaping off in a motion so slick and swift he looks like a cat. His fine shirt is dirted now, his brow is beaded with sweat, and a dark sooty stain streaks across his cheek.

Selene has never seen a gentleman so messy before. She has no idea how to react.

She certainly doesn’t know why she wants to reach across and brush the soot from his face.

One of the neighbours comes by to take the ladder. He smiles at Dorian as he takes it under his arm. “Lord Nightbloom,” he says.

For the first time since they arrived in the village, Dorian doesn’t smile back. At least, not immediately. There’s a slight hesitation before one arrives. “Alfred,” he says curtly.

Alfred doesn’t notice the hesitation, or if he does, it doesn’t bother him. He stores the ladder in an outbuilding and comes back for the rest of the tools.

Dorian climbs back onto the cart. Selene wants to ask him what that interaction meant, but it isn’t her place. She is probably reading too much into it.

“Where are my cufflinks?” Dorian asks, patting down his jacket.

“Oh!” says Selene, retrieving them from her handkerchief. “Here. I didn’t want them to get lost.”

Dorian fiddles with the cufflinks, struggling to get them back on by himself. Selene reaches across to aid him .

“Here,” she says. “Let me.”

Dorian says nothing at all as her fingertips brush against his wrist. His skin is flush from the exercise, his pulse beating rapidly. She focuses on the small, intricate task before her, slipping the cufflink through the buttonhole.

Dorian stills beneath her touch. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t speak. The silence between them shifts.

Selene swallows. It’s nothing. Just a practical thing. Just a simple fastening of fabric and metal.

Yet when her palm glides against his as she moves to the other cuff, she feels the way his fingers flex, as if resisting the urge to catch hers.

Her breath catches, but she does not falter. She slides the second cufflink into place, pressing it flush against the fabric.

“There,” she murmurs.

Her hands linger a fraction too long before she withdraws them, settling them neatly in her lap.

Dorian flexes his fingers once, then exhales, turning his gaze forward. “Thank you,” he says, voice quiet.

Selene nods. The cart lurches forward.

Her heart beats as rapidly as the wheels turn.