Page 29 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

S elene places her hand lightly on Dorian’s arm as they step further into the ballroom.

Every element of the occasion is exactly how she remembers it—the gleaming white banners, the cascades of pink and cream flowers, the organza ribbons.

The buffet table is laid out as before, the small sequined heels clack against the marble floors, the same drinks are being offered.

Even the conversation around her seems the same.

“Yes, he keeps a mistress and child in the theatre district, so I’ve heard…”

“Wordsworth’s latest play is an absolute hit…”

“Lady Margaret is said to be in a very delicate condition—”

“Heavens, is that the Nightblooms? Quite the scandalous story…”

Well, maybe not everything. But is it possible that Selene’s the only one who’s really changed?

She scans through the guests. Notably absent are her parents, who attended the last time. Selene knows they aren’t here tonight because she is. They are still furious with her, and don’t want to risk a scene.

Selene tries not to let it bother her.

The music swells, the laughter and conversation blending into a pleasant hum.

Though she is accustomed to such gatherings, she can feel the tension in Dorian’s frame—as if he is walking through enemy territory rather than a room of nobles.

He moves with ease, his expression composed, but Selene still feels the tension in him, a tightness in his posture, in the way his fingers flex ever so slightly against the fabric of his coat. He does not like this.

She leans in slightly. “Would you rather we didn’t dance?”

Dorian exhales a quiet laugh. “Are you offering me an escape?”

“Perhaps.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Then what sort of husband would I be if I declined my wife’s kindness?”

Selene suppresses a laugh, drawing him towards the edge of the ballroom instead. A servant passes by with glasses of wine, and she plucks two from the tray, pressing one into Dorian’s hand. His fingers brush hers as he takes it.

“You are surprisingly thoughtful,” he says, raising the glass to his lips.

Selene tilts her head. “Surprising?”

“I took you for a woman who enjoys spectacle.”

She considers this, swirling the wine in her glass. “Oh, I do,” she admits, glancing towards the dance floor. “But not at your expense.”

Dorian hums, watching her over the rim of his glass. There is something unreadable in his gaze, something that makes warmth curl in her stomach. She resists the urge to look away.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks.

Her lips quirk at the corner. “Would you?”

She has always loved dancing, but she doesn’t think she would enjoy it if he didn’t.

“Yes,” he admits. “But only if you’re my partner.”

Selene feels her cheeks heat, increasing rapidly when he leads her onto the floor with easy grace, despite his earlier stiffness.

Selene places one hand on his shoulder, the other in his, and allows herself to be guided into the dance.

The moment they begin to move, she realises that Dorian is an excellent dancer.

His steps are smooth, confident, with none of the discomfort he’d shown before.

“You dislike crowds but not dancing?” she murmurs.

“I dislike having to speak to people I do not care for,” he replies. “Dancing requires little conversation.”

Selene finds herself smiling again, this time without thinking. The music carries them in slow, sweeping turns, and the rest of the ballroom begins to fade. For a moment, it is only them—the gliding of their feet, the warmth of his hand against hers, the soft rustle of fabric as they move.

The music slows, the dance nearing its end. Dorian releases her with the same care he had taken in holding her.

“We should dance more often,” he concludes.

Selene smiles. “We have all night.”

It occurs to Selene that she doesn’t think she’s ever danced with Dorian before—certainly not at a ball. She is sure she would remember a dance like that. She might have danced with him during their school days, but she has no recollection.

Dorian might.

“Have we ever danced together before?” she asks him .

Dorian winces. “Once or twice at school, while we were still learning,” he admits. “You used to step on my toes.”

That wasn’t quite the romantic image she was hoping for. She wants to tease him— “And you used to like me?” —but she recalls that he asked her not to bring that up again, so she doesn’t.

Someone is waving at her from the corner of the ballroom. Isabel, surrounded by the rest of Selene’s friends, their bright dresses and easy laughter standing out in the sea of noble decorum. Ophelia catches her eye too, grinning and waving her over.

Selene glances up at Dorian, not quite asking permission but checking if he is all right to be left alone. His gaze flickers toward the group, then back to her. A small, almost imperceptible nod.

That is all she needs. She releases his arm and hurries toward them, skirts swishing around her ankles.

Cecily looks resplendent in the same crimson gown Selene remembers from the first time she came to the ball.

Ophelia’s wearing another creamy creation, less frilly than the one she wore earlier.

Isabel is wearing deep blue this time, however—last year, she wore green.

Selene casts a look over the rest of the party.

Most people seem to be wearing the same clothes as before, but a few have made different choices.

She isn’t sure what to make of that, but she mentally kicks herself for remembering details about clothing and not about important events.

The interrogation begins the moment she arrives.

“You look well,” Ophelia says, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Selene arches a brow. “Thank you?”

“Married life must suit you,” Cecily adds. “You seem—”

“ Glowing ,” Isabel chimes in. “Not keeping a secret, are you, dear? ”

Not the one you’re thinking of, Selene thinks. “I am happy,” she tells them, surprising herself with how easily that lie comes. “But I’m not in a delicate condition.”

The girls giggle. “Yet,” adds Ophelia.

Selene’s face falls, but she recovers quickly.

How often had her friends asked her these questions before, when she was married to the Duke?

How often did she have to tell them, no, not yet, and have them respond with “ I’m sure it will be soon ”?

The emptiness inside her grew larger with every question, until she felt it could fill a room.

She does not feel that emptiness now. Yes, someday, she would like children. But with the right person, in her own time.

“Well, Lord Nightbloom looks quite handsome tonight,” Isabel remarks, casting a not-so-subtle glance in his direction.

“It’s love!” Ophelia declares, clasping her hands together dramatically. “Love makes everyone more handsome!”

Selene rolls her eyes but cannot quite suppress the tiny smile that tugs at her lips. She shakes her head, plucking a flower from a vase on the dresser beside them, more to distract herself than anything else.

The laughter of her friends fades into the background as a shadow moves across the ballroom floor.

Selene doesn’t need to look up to know who it belongs to.

“Lady Selene,” comes the deep, familiar voice.

Her fingers tighten around the flower’s stem. The scent turns sickly. She inhales sharply before raising her gaze.

Duke Edmund Drakefell stands before her, broad-shouldered and imposing, dressed in midnight-blue with silver embroidery at the cuffs.

He is tall—taller than she remembers—and holds himself with the effortless command of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

His dark hair is neatly combed, a touch of silver at the temples, and his sharp grey eyes study her like a specimen.

She had once thought him handsome. The strong jaw, the regal posture, the way he carried himself like a knight from some old tale. But now, standing before him again, he is less a man and more a mountain—immovable, unyielding.

“May I have this dance?” he asks.

A hush falls over their little circle. Ophelia’s eyes widen in delight. Cecily bites her lip. Isabel nudges Selene’s arm, silently urging her to accept.

Selene cannot refuse him. Not here, not now, not with all these eyes upon her. So she places her hand in his, the touch a ghost of a memory, and allows herself to be led onto the dance floor.

The music swells. The room spins.

She tells herself she is ready for this. That it’s just a dance. That it means nothing.

And yet, as his hand settles against her waist, as his grip tightens ever so slightly, anchoring her in place, she feels the past pressing down upon her.

She remembers this body on hers in the night, remembers how these hands would yank at her and pull her into place like a child might pull the limbs of a doll. He would put her wherever he wanted.

He has no power over me, she reminds herself. She isn’t his wife. Not now. Not ever again. She’s free from him, free from everything he did to her—

“You are well, I trust?” His voice is smooth, measured, but the weight of his gaze on her is oppressive.

Selene forces a polite smile. “Yes, quite well, thank you.”

His lips curve in something that might be mistaken for warmth. “I must admit, I was surprised when I heard the news. Your sudden marriage—how unexpected.”

He twirls her, and she allows it. She is no stranger to courtly dances, but there is an unsettling familiarity in the way his fingers press into her waist, guiding her as if she is still his to command.

He continues, his tone easy, conversational. “Of course, there were no formal promises between us.” A pause, just long enough to let the words linger. “Still, I had thought…”

Selene stiffens. The room around them blurs, candlelight flickering like a distant dream.

“…Well.” His smile does not reach his eyes. “I suppose it does not matter now.”