Page 28 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

T he next week, Dorian and Selene (accompanied by a very eager Marta and a less than eager Soren) head off for Kenwood Grange, home of the illustrious Fairmonts. It’s a long journey, and Dorian keeps getting out to sit up top with the driver, leaving Selene alone with Marta for much of it.

“Lord Nightbloom is not very good at sitting still,” Marta remarks.

“Lord Nightbloom is not very good at doing nothing,” Selene corrects.

“He’s a good man.”

“Yes,” she says, a little sadly, “he is.” Too good for me. She clears her throat, not wanting to give weight to that thought. “How have you settled in, Marta? The work isn’t too hard, I hope?”

“Not at all, My Lady! I will admit, I did find how… how casual things are at Ebonrose a little jarring at first, but now… I do like how things are.”

“Me too,” admits Selene, smiling largely to herself. “On both accounts.”

Pleasant as Marta’s company is, it’s a relief to finally reach Kenwood Grange.

The estate is a grand affair, its sprawling grounds awash in the soft gold of late afternoon.

Kenwood Grange is nothing like Ebonrose—where Selene’s home is a place of shadowed corridors and solitude, Kenwood is a place of warmth and movement, filled with laughter spilling from open windows and the scent of flowers in full bloom.

The moment the carriage halts, Ophelia Fairmont is already hurrying down the front steps, skirts gathered in one hand, an expression of unbridled delight on her face.

The last time Selene saw her, she was round with child.

It’s jarring to see her now looking so slim, and without the baby Selene expected.

How strange to think that no one will remember its almost-existence other than her.

“Selene!” Ophelia exclaims, barely waiting for the footman to lower the step before she reaches out, grasping Selene’s hands and squeezing them tight. “At last, you've come! It has been absolute ages , you wicked creature!”

Selene laughs as she is pulled forward. Ophelia is her opposite in many ways.

Small and curvy, with warm brown skin and even warmer eyes.

She’s dressed in a creamy, frothy dress that gives her the appearance of a cupcake, with fresh flowers studded in her beautiful black curls. They surround her face like a halo.

“It has been two months at most, Ophelia,” Selene responds, hoping she’s get the dates right .

“Two months? A lifetime !” Ophelia insists. She turns her attention briefly to the others, offering quick greetings—an enthusiastic nod to Marta, a more reserved but polite acknowledgement of Soren—before her eyes flick to Dorian, who has just stepped down from the carriage.

“Ah, Lord Nightbloom,” she says with a wry smile. “I do hope you’re prepared for the trials ahead. My father and brothers have been dying to speak with you.”

Dorian inclines his head with a rueful smile, but Selene catches the flicker of something wary in his eyes. He’s well aware of what awaits him inside—an evening of measured conversation, political positioning, and attempts at gentle intimidation from Lord Fairmont and the rest of the party.

Sure enough, barely a moment after the introductions are complete, he is swiftly drawn into the house, flanked by Ophelia’s eldest brother, Laurence, and their father, Horace. He casts Selene a fleeting glance—a clear help me —before he disappears into the smoking room.

Ophelia, entirely unrepentant, loops her arm through Selene’s and steers her towards the sunlit parlour, where refreshments await.

“Come, I want to hear everything .”

The parlour is bright and welcoming, the scent of fresh roses lingering in the air. A maid sets down a delicate tea service, and Ophelia waves her away impatiently, her focus entirely on Selene.

“Now,” Ophelia says, clasping her hands together with a gleam of anticipation in her eyes, “you must tell me everything. And don’t you dare be evasive!

What is it like being married to Lord Nightbloom?

What is he like behind closed doors? I was quite aghast when I heard the news, you know—I thought you’d lost your mind entirely.

But I have heard… whispers. So , go on. Enlighten me. ”

Selene lets out a breath of laughter, shaking her head. “Ophelia, truly, it is not half as scandalous as you seem to wish it were.”

“Drat.” Ophelia sighs dramatically. “So, no dark rituals or bloodletting by candlelight?”

“Ophelia, have you been reading gothic novels again?”

“They’re just such fun! ”

Selene snorts. “There are no dark rituals that I have been made aware of at Ebonrose Hall.”

Ophelia pouts. “A pity.”

Selene takes a sip of her tea, considering.

It surprises her, really, how easy it is to speak of Dorian.

How the words come without hesitation. “He is…” She pauses, searching for the right words.

“He is good , Ophelia. Kind. Clever. Thoughtful. He listens—really listens. And he is patient with me, which I do not always deserve.”

Ophelia nods, as if affirming something to herself. “That’s a relief. When I first heard of the match, I was certain you’d be doomed to a life of misery. But—” she lowers her voice slightly, “—it seems you may have been the fortunate one after all.”

Selene blinks, looking up. “What do you mean?”

Ophelia stirs her tea absently, glancing towards the door as if checking that no one is listening. “The Duke,” she says vaguely. “There have been… rumours .”

Selene leans in slightly. “What sort of rumours?”

“All sorts,” she says. “None with any proof, of course. But… well. I’ve heard tales of a mistress in town, of him being ghastly to his servants, that he beats his dogs… even suggestions of an illegitimate child. Plenty to suggest that he is not as nice a fellow as we initially thought.”

Selene pauses. She’d never heard these rumours before in her other life.

And whilst there is plenty the Duke is guilty of…

none of those strike a chord. He loved his hounds, for on e, and although she certainly could imagine the Duke with a mistress, she had no reason to suspect he would have kept that from her while they were married. As for the suggestion of a child…

He had wanted one so badly while they were married. Had begged her for one. “What good are you if you can’t breed?” he’d told her once. “If you, of all women, can’t give me a child…”

If he’d had one already, Selene had no doubts he would have held it over her head. Proof that she was the problem, and not him.

Selene looks across at Ophelia now. Her friend had been in her fifth month with child by the time Selene’s life had restarted. “You’ll have one soon,” she’d told her. “ Many woman take longer than a year to conceive.”

Selene knew that was true, but it hadn’t helped her at the time.

She was relieved now that she hadn’t borne the Duke’s child—she couldn’t imagine the pain of having returned to a life without them in it—but that had felt like her sole mission for a year.

A mission she was constantly reminded that she’d failed at.

But maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it had always been him.

And if it was… then the rumours about him fathering a child were wrong.

Who would be spreading false rumours about the Duke?

Before she can fixate too long on the matter, Ophelia waves a hand, as if brushing away the topic altogether.

“But enough of that! I have far more pressing concerns.” Her entire demeanour shifts in an instant, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Lord Everton is here tonight, Selene. Everton! And I know he means to propose.”

Oh dear, thinks Selene. This again.

Selene allows herself to be swept along, though the mention of the Duke lingers uneasily in the back of her mind.

The conversation with Ophelia that follows is almost word for word the one that they had a year ago. Selene does her best to play her part, unwilling to crush Ophelia’s dreams and knowing that it will turn out all right in the end for her friend… just not tonight.

It’s a relief to finally be permitted to leave to get ready for the ball.

Dorian is already in their room by the time she arrives, taking a cup of tea by the window and enjoying a moment of quiet. Selene knew that they would be sharing a room for the night. She knew it, he knew it… and it was still a shock.

Her eyes drift to the sole bed in the middle of the room.

“This chair is very comfortable,” says Dorian, not looking up.

“I’m glad to hear it?”

“I’m just letting you know that I have no qualms with sleeping in it.”

“Oh!” Selene bristles. “That’s not… I don’t mind—”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Would you prefer to sleep in a chair?”

“Ah… no.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He returns to reading his book. “How was Ophelia?”

“Very excited. She thinks Lord Everton will propose tonight.”

Dorian laughs. “Unfortunately, the man has the courage of a soggy newspaper.”

“I am inclined to agree. ”

The door opens, and Soren comes in with their trunks. Dorian groans. “Is it that time already?”

“I’m afraid so,” says Soren solemnly.

Marta arrives a moment later, and a screen is pulled across the room to give them a modicum of privacy while they dress.

“I hope your garments suit,” Selene says as she wriggles out of her dress. “Did you get to try them on before we left?”

“I confess, I did not.”

Selene grumbles under her breath. “If it doesn’t fit—”

“Yes, yes, it’s all my fault. You sound like Ariella.”

“That is not a bad thing.”

Dorian sighs, and goes quiet for a moment. “I have something for you,” he says, calling Soren over.

“What is it?”

“A gift. It’s customary, I believe, to gift your wife a piece of jewellery for your first ball together as a couple.”

It is, but Selene had not expected Dorian to get her anything. The Duke did. It was a huge sapphire the size of a baby’s fist, inlaid with diamonds. It was beautiful, and heavy as a chain.

“Since when have you ever been customary?” Selene asks.

Dorian doesn’t reply, but Marta darts out from the screen to collect a small velvet box. She opens it to reveal a tiny silver flower on a chain so delicate it’s almost invisible. At its centre is a single pearl.

The Duke would never have thought to buy her something like this. No one would. It’s far too simple.

“I don’t expect you to wear it tonight,” Dorian says. “I know it’s not the sort of thing you usually wear, I just—”

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Marta helps her put it on. It rests beneath her collar bones, just above her breasts, as light as a kiss .

A few minutes later, she steps out from behind the screen.

Dorian is standing in his fine suit. It’s deep emerald, stitched with gold, the cravat a mix of pale green and golden thread. It goes well with the red of his hair.

Selene stands for a moment, fingers brushing the tiny silver flower at her throat. It is delicate in a way she is not used to—like something precious, something meant to be kept , rather than displayed.

She draws in a breath and steps fully into view.

Her gown is green, a shade richer than moss, deep as the forest after rain.

The fabric catches the light, shimmering between emerald and pine.

Gold embroidery swirls along the hem and the edges of the fitted sleeves, delicate patterns of vines and curling leaves, as if the dress itself were a living thing, winding around her.

The bodice is structured but not severe, cinched at the waist with just enough softness to flatter.

The neckline is lower than what she usually wears—not scandalous, but enough to suggest she is a woman, not just a lady of title.

Her hair is pinned in soft waves, not the elaborate styles favoured by court but something gentler, more natural. A few strands escape to frame her face, and though she had worried about it earlier, now she finds she doesn’t mind.

Dorian is silent as he takes her in.

Selene swallows. “Well?”

Marta, still fussing with a final adjustment at Selene’s sleeve, makes a small, pleased noise. “He has forgotten how to speak.”

Dorian blinks, as if recalling himself. “You—” He exhales, shaking his head slightly, then offers his arm. “You look stunning.”

The warmth in his voice settles somewhere beneath her ribs .

Selene lets herself smile, just a little, and crosses the room. She picks a flower from the vase on the dresser.

“We match,” Dorian remarks.

“Well, ‘tis customary,” she says. “And we both do look exceptional in green.”

“Customarily, we’re supposed to wear the colours of my house for our first outing as a couple.”

Selene smiles, pinning the flower to his lapel. “We don’t have to be customary,” she tells him. “Or perhaps we shall just make our own customs.”

Dorian leans towards her, just a fraction. “I do like the sound of that…”

Soren coughs. Selene pulls away. She had forgotten that they had an audience.

Dorian offers her his arm. “Lady Nightbloom,” he says, “shall we?”