Page 21 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

Dorian lifts his gaze to hers, expression flat. “No, you cannot.”

She scowls at him. “You can’t just decide—”

“Selene.” His voice softens. “Let me help you.”

She swallows, thrown by the quiet sincerity in his tone. A moment passes. The wind stirs the golden grass.

At last, she sighs. “Fine. But only because I have no better alternatives.”

Dorian smirks, just slightly. “Of course. ”

Then, before she can protest further, he moves—gathering her into his arms with infuriating ease.

Selene startles, hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders. “Dorian—!”

“Relax.” He shifts her weight, holding her securely against his chest. “It’s not far back to Ebonrose.”

She could argue. Could insist he let her down.

It will probably be a long hobble back…

Instead, she rests her head against his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his breath.

Dorian carries Selene through the front gates of Ebonrose, his grip steady despite the long walk back. She’s uncomfortably aware of how easily he holds her, as if she weighs nothing at all.

The manor looms ahead. As they reach the steps, the door swings open, and Soren strides out, his sharp gaze sweeping over them.

“What happened?” he asks, frowning.

“Selene fell from her horse,” Dorian explains briskly. He doesn’t slow, stepping past Soren and into the house.

Soren blinks, glancing at Selene, who offers him a half-hearted smile. “It wasn’t a very graceful fall,” she admits.

Dorian doesn’t humour the joke.

“Where are the horses?” Soren asks instead.

“Still on the path near the western orchard,” Dorian says over his shoulder.

Soren mutters something under his breath and takes off down the steps.

Inside, the cool air of the manor is a relief after the warmth of the sun. Dorian moves swiftly across the foyer, carefully placing Selene down on the settee in the parlour.

“Ariella!” he barks .

The housekeeper arrives within moments, her sharp eyes narrowing when she sees Selene’s ankle. “What’s happened?” she sighs, already rolling up her sleeves.

“She fell,” Dorian says.

“I can see that,” Ariella replies dryly.

Selene suppresses a smile despite herself.

Ariella gestures toward Dorian. “Fetch me some cool water and a clean cloth.”

Dorian hesitates, glancing at Selene as if reluctant to leave.

Ariella snaps her fingers. “Go on, then. She won’t disappear while you’re gone.”

Dorian exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw, then nods and strides out of the room.

The moment he’s gone, Ariella turns back to Selene with a knowing look. “Menfolk,” she says. “So easily rattled.”

Selene doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she busies herself adjusting her skirts. “It was just a fall.”

Ariella gently lifts Selene’s foot and begins to examine the injury. Outside, Selene hears Dorian’s footsteps returning, and she feels an odd warmth settle in her chest.

Just a fall. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

“Do we need to call a physician?” Dorian asks Ariella.

“It is a sprained ankle, ” she insists. “Honestly. Rookwood deals with worse than this on the daily, and you never fuss over him.”

Dorian mutters something under his breath, handing over the water and cloth. Ariella has already removed Selene’s boot, but the stocking requires her to hike up Selene’s skirt. Dorian’s face goes as red as beetroot, and he turns away.

“It is skin, Dorian!” Ariella sighs exasperatedly. “You are not a monk. ”

Ariella dabs at Selene’s ankle with the cool cloth, her touch brisk, careful. The swelling has already begun, though thankfully, the skin isn’t badly discoloured.

Dorian, still turned away, clears his throat. “Should we elevate it?”

“Yes, that would help, but let’s get her back up to her room first.”

Selene starts to protest—this is an awful lot of fuss for a simple sprain—but before she can, Dorian moves to scoop her up again.

Ariella swats at his arm before he can even reach her. “Absolutely not.”

He frowns. “She shouldn’t walk on it.”

“And she won’t. She’s got me.” Ariella levels him with a look. “The poor girl’s dignity is still intact; let’s not go embarrassing her further.”

Dorian hesitates. He casts a glance at Selene, as if seeking permission, but she pointedly does not meet his gaze.

“Fine,” he relents.

Ariella clicks her tongue and loops Selene’s arm over her shoulder. “Come on, then. We’ll take it slow.”

It’s an effort, but Selene makes it up the stairs with Ariella’s steadying hand. Once in her room, she sinks into the chair by the window, sighing as she settles in.

Dorian doesn’t follow them up, but Marta appears shortly after with a tray of tea and biscuits. “He sent this up,” she says, setting it down on the side table. “Said you ought to have something warm.”

Selene blinks at the tray, then at Marta. “I think he’s overreacting.”

Marta hums noncommittally and hands her a teacup. “Better to be fussed over than forgotten.”

Selene doesn’t quite know how to answer that, so she simply takes a sip.

As if sensing her mood, Mistress Stripe hops up onto her lap, curling into a tight ball against her skirts. Selene strokes the soft fur absentmindedly, listening to the gentle purrs.

Perhaps the fuss isn’t so bad, after all.

Ariella elevates her leg and leaves her to it. Marta hovers at Selene’s elbow, waiting to be told what to do. “Did his lordship really carry you from the orchard?” she asks.

Selene feels flushed. “He did.”

“He’s a very caring husband.”

He is, thinks Selene, but he isn’t mine. “You’ve a sweetheart, don’t you, Marta?” she asks, eager to change the subject.

Marta smiles. “I do, my lady. Jon.”

Selene points to the seat opposite her. “Come. Sit. Tell me about him.”

Marta is only too happy to oblige.

An hour later, Selene knows everything there is to know about Jon Porter.

He is a quiet, steady man. He is a carpenter by trade, born and raised in Lower Thornmere, the son of a cooper, but he had no interest in barrels.

Instead, he took to furniture-making. Selene makes a mental note to see him later about some new pieces for her room.

Marta tells Selene how they met—Jon was repairing a broken chair in the servants’ hall of the mayor’s house when she came storming in, muttering about someone tracking mud into the kitchen.

He had looked up, grinned, and offered to make her a better mop.

She had rolled her eyes, unimpressed, but somehow, that moment had lodged itself in her heart.

Their courtship was a slow thing. He would leave little things for her—a wooden spoon he’d carved when the old one in the kitchen cracked, a small box with an intricate lid for her sewing needles, a pair of hair combs shaped like leaves.

At first, Marta hadn’t known what to make of him, but eventually, she realised she looked forward to his quiet presence, the way he listened more than he spoke, the way his hands were always busy.

One winter evening, he walked her home from the market, snowflakes catching in her hair, and asked if she might let him court her properly. Marta, feeling bold, had told him he’d been courting her for months already. Jon had only smiled and taken her gloved hand in his.

Now, they were saving up to marry. Jon wanted to build them a home, a place of their own. Marta had no doubts he would. He was the kind of man who finished what he started.

As Selene listens, sipping her now-cool tea, she finds herself oddly envious. Not of Marta, nor of Jon, but of the simplicity of it all—the certainty, the quiet devotion.

She wants that. She wants that, and she fears that she may never have it. The Duke hasn’t left her with much of a heart to give to anyone. And Dorian…

Well, he’s made it clear that he would like to be free one day to marry someone else. He’s kind to her, but he’s kind to everyone. She would make him a poor wife. She isn’t his match. She doesn’t want to burden him with her presence forever.

Selene is quiet for a long moment after Marta finishes, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. The room is warm, but a chill settles in her chest nonetheless.

“You’ll be very happy,” she says at last, and she means it.

Marta smiles, but her eyes are perceptive. “You will too, my lady.”

Selene doesn’t answer.

A short while later, footsteps sound outside. She looks up just as the door swings open again—Dorian enters, arms full of books.

“Adventures,” he tells her. “As requested.”

“Oh!” Selene grabs the first one from the pile. “Are these favourites of yours? ”

Dorian smiles. “One of them is,” he says. “Two of them are mediocre, in my opinion, one I’ve never read before, and a third I despise. So you have no choice but to be honest with me.”

“That’s devious, ” Selene says. “I had no idea you had a wicked side, Lord Nightbloom.”

Dorian looks down. “I can be wicked,” he says, in a way that makes Selene certain that he is not. “How’s the ankle?”

“It’s fine,” she insists. “I see you’re quite recovered.”

Dorian frowns. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“My fall,” she explains. “You seemed to take it worse than I did.”

“It was my fault. I should have—”

“How can a horse being spooked be your fault? ”

Dorian opens his mouth and shuts it again. Clearly, there is nothing he can say to that. But Selene understands this feeling, that everything is somehow down to you. Dorian seems to think he’s responsible for everyone and everything.

She shifts in her seat, setting the book aside. “You’re always like this, aren’t you?”

Dorian glances at her warily. “Like what?”

“Carrying guilt that isn’t yours.”

His expression remains carefully composed, but there’s something tight about it, something that suggests she’s struck close to the truth.

“I don’t—” He stops himself, shaking his head slightly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Selene tilts her head, studying him. He looks exhausted, the kind of weariness that sleep won’t fix. She wonders if it’s always been there, if she’s only noticing now because she’s looking properly.

“It matters to you,” she says softly.