Page 20 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

S elene rises late the next day. Marta eventually brings up her breakfast. “I hear you had a rough night, my lady. Are you quite all right now?”

It takes Selene a moment to realise what she’s referring to. The dream has faded now. What she remembers, more than that, is—

“Dorian,” she says. “His Lordship, did he return last night?”

Marta smiles. “Indeed he did.”

Selene lies back against the pillows. She ought to be embarrassed by her display last night. Instead, she finds herself oddly eager to see him. “I suppose he’s locked himself back up in his study again already, hasn’t he?”

“Well, he was in there this morning, but he was heading out to the stables when I came up,” Marta explains.

Selene sits up. “Help me dress.”

She dresses quickly in the new cornflower-blue dress that arrived just yesterday from Greta’s.

Marta pins up her hair and sources her a hat.

Selene wolfs down breakfast and almost runs outside.

If he was heading to the stables, she’s probably missed him.

He might be off again on another trip, for all she knows.

But Dorian is still there when she arrives, busily brushing down a beautiful russet-coloured gelding with a shining dark mane. There are five other horses in the stables, all ranging in colour and size. No matching sets, but of course Dorian isn’t the sort to care about that sort of thing.

“A lot of horses for a small estate,” Selene remarks.

Dorian turns and smiles. “I have a weakness for horses,” he explains.

“And who takes care of them all?” There’s no stablemaster here, not even a boy from the village to muck them out—not that she’s noticed, anyway.

“Soren and myself, mainly, although we hire a lad from the village to help out sometimes,” Dorian says. “His father is our driver when we have need of one.”

“You… muck out stables?”

“Why not? I’ve two good hands.” He glances back to the rest of the mounts. “Would you… like me to introduce you?”

Selene hesitates only for a moment before stepping forward. “Yes, I think I would.”

Dorian’s smile widens, and he sets his brush aside, gesturing for her to follow him down the row of stalls. “Well, this troublemaker here is Bramble,” he says, stopping by a dappled grey mare, who flicks her ears and huffs, as if unimpressed by the introduction.

“She’s beautiful,” Selene says, careful not to reach out just yet .

“She knows it,” Dorian replies dryly. “And she’ll take full advantage if you let her. I once caught her unlatching the gate.”

Selene arches an eyebrow. “Clever girl.”

“She’s lucky she’s charming,” he says, before moving on. “Now, this old man here is Farrow.” He gestures toward a sturdy black gelding, his muzzle dusted with grey. “He belonged to my father. I keep him mostly for sentimental reasons, but he still enjoys a light ride now and then.”

Selene raises her eyebrow carefully. She wants to tease, not offend. “I didn’t realise you were sentimental, Lord Nightbloom.”

Dorian clutches his chest. “Heart of a poet, me.”

She smiles at this, and Dorian moves onto the next stall. A tall, leggy chestnut with a white blaze tosses his head as they approach.

“And this is Foxfire,” Dorian continues, voice tinged with amusement. “A dramatic name for an even more dramatic creature.”

Foxfire snorts as if in agreement, stomping a hoof. Selene chuckles. “I take it he’s high-strung?”

“To say the least. But he’s fast and he knows it.” Dorian gives the horse an affectionate scratch behind the ear before turning to a palomino mare. “And this is Clover. Sweetest thing in the world. A good, steady ride, if you’re ever so inclined.”

The small, sturdy mare blinks at Selene with large, gentle eyes, and she can’t help but smile. “She seems lovely.”

“She is.” Dorian glances at her, then steps back towards the start, to the gorgeous bay. “And, of course,” he says with an air of mock gravity, “we have Hoovian.”

Selene stares at the bay gelding, then back at Dorian. “ Hoovian ? ”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It seemed like a great name when I was a boy.”

Selene’s lips twitch. “I’m sure it did.”

“You are teasing me.”

“On the contrary, Lord Dorian, I am trying very hard not to.”

Dorian bites back a laugh. She likes the way his eyes twinkle when he’s amused.

“I lied to you about my cat’s name,” she admits.

“Oh?”

“It’s not Missy. It’s Mistress Stripe.”

Dorian laughs. Selene does too. It’s nice to laugh with someone, to share a joke. She cannot quite remember the last time she did.

When the laughter fades, he nods toward Clover’s stall. “So…” he begins, looking as nervous as a country boy asking a girl for his first dance, “do you feel like riding?”

Selene exhales, still smiling. She meant what she told him before about not being a good rider, but not being good at something and not wanting to do it are two completely different things. “Yes. I think I would.”

Dorian’s smile is warm and approving. “Good. Let’s get you saddled up.”

Dorian retrieves Clover’s tack and secures the saddle while Selene watches. When he’s finished, he gestures for her to step forward.

“Ready?” he asks.

Selene nods, and with Dorian steadying Clover’s reins, she places her foot in the stirrup and swings into the saddle. The motion is familiar enough, though it’s been years, and she has to resist the urge to grip too tightly with her knees.

“Not bad,” Dorian remarks. “You look comfortable.”

She exhales. “So far. ”

Dorian chuckles before moving to Hoovian. He mounts with an effortless grace that makes Selene all too aware of her own hesitation. As if sensing her thoughts, he clicks his tongue and nudges Hoovian forward at a gentle walk.

“Come along, then,” he says, glancing back at her.

Selene presses her heels lightly to Clover’s sides, and the mare moves forward obediently. The motion is smoother than she expects, and she lets herself settle into the rhythm. They ride in easy silence for a few moments, leaving the stables behind, the open fields stretching ahead of them.

The air is crisp and bright, the morning sunlight turning the golden grass into something almost luminous. Selene watches the way Dorian holds himself, relaxed yet attentive, guiding Hoovian with quiet confidence.

“Do you really have the heart of a poet?” she asks at last.

Dorian glances over at her, brow raised. “Come again?”

Selene keeps her gaze ahead, watching the way Clover’s ears flick in the breeze. “Earlier, you said you had the heart of a poet when I called you sentimental. I’m wondering if that was a jest.”

“Oh, I’d make a terrible poet,” he confesses, adjusting his grip on the reins. “I am… not very good at putting my feelings into words.”

That makes two of us, she thinks. She shifts slightly in the saddle, letting Clover’s steady movement ground her. “What do you like to read, then?”

“I enjoy a classic adventure,” Dorian says after a moment. “Nothing too melancholic or philosophical, although I’m never averse to learning more about the world.” He casts her a sidelong glance. “Yourself?”

“I used to enjoy a nice romance.”

“Used to?”

Selene swallows. She tightens her grip on the reins, though Clover remains as steady as ever beneath her.

How can she explain that she has struggled to disappear into a romance this past year—a year that hasn’t happened for anyone but her—because she either found the couples completely lacking, or found the beauty of their relationship a cruel taunt?

Why doesn’t he want me anymore? she would wonder. Why doesn’t he treat me like this?

She forces a small, dismissive shrug. “They just… don’t hold the same appeal as they used to.” She adjusts the brim of her hat, tilting it slightly against the sun as if that’s all that occupies her thoughts. “Perhaps I’d better try an adventure book, for a change.”

“I have several that I could recommend.”

She likes the idea of reading something that Dorian likes. “If I don’t enjoy them, will I have to lie to you and tell you that they were excellent?”

Dorian smiles. “No. You can give me your honest opinion.” He pauses. “You can always give me your honest opinion,” he adds.

“Ebonrose is in desperate need of updating.”

He laughs. “Of this, I am well aware. Perhaps you can arrange something?”

“I’d like that.”

There’s a blur of fur and movement—then the snap of branches as a squirrel bursts from the undergrowth. Clover jerks sideways with a startled whinny.

Selene, unused to the rhythm of riding, doesn’t shift her weight in time. The world tilts. For a breathless moment, she feels weightless—and then she’s hitting the ground, the impact jarring up her side.

Pain blooms in her ankle.

She exhales sharply, the breath knocked from her lungs. Dorian is there in an instant. She barely has time to push herself up before he’s kneeling beside her, eyes wide with something bordering on panic. “Selene?” His hands hover at her shoulders, as if unsure where to touch. “Are you hurt?”

She blinks, momentarily stunned. “I—” She pushes herself upright, only to wince as her ankle throbs in protest. “I think I twisted—”

She doesn’t even finish before Dorian moves. He’s already checking her leg, hands gentle but firm as he braces her ankle. His mouth is tight, his usual composure fraying at the edges.

“Does this hurt?” he asks, pressing lightly.

Selene tries to wave him off. “Dorian, I’m fine—”

He exhales sharply, as if she’s said something truly ridiculous. “You fell. You’re hurt.” His fingers graze her stockings as he adjusts the angle of her foot, and his expression darkens. “It’s already swelling.”

Selene forces a laugh, hoping to lighten the mood. “Well. That’s what I get for being an abysmal rider.”

Dorian doesn’t laugh. He’s already shrugging out of his coat, folding it swiftly before tucking it beneath her for support.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, his focus entirely on her.

It’s—unsettling, being the centre of someone’s concern like this. Selene doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

“I can walk,” she tries again.