Page 30 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

She should let the remark pass unanswered. She should play the part of the gracious noblewoman and glide through the dance without incident. But something about the way he holds her—the way his fingers dig into her side, just a fraction too hard—unsettles her.

“You were disappointed,” she says. It isn’t a question.

A soft chuckle. “A little, perhaps. But we must not dwell on the past, must we?”

His grip tightens, and her stomach twists.

Selene knows this dance, but she is not the same woman she was before. She does not have to let him lead.

So she meets his gaze, lifts her chin ever so slightly, and says, “No, we mustn’t.”

And then, before he can turn her again, before he can dictate the next step, she deliberately missteps—just enough to shift their balance, just enough to remind him that she is no longer something to be placed, to be positioned, to be moved.

She sees it then. That flicker beneath his polished mask. Not anger. Not yet. But something close.

Good.

“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Dorian appears at the Duke’s elbow. “But I would like another dance with my wife.”

The Duke glares at Selene, as if this interruption is all her fault. “I am not yet finished. ”

Dorian’s eyes darken. “Let me be clear, Your Grace, ” he says. “Unhand my wife, or I shall unhand you. I am not afraid of making a scene. You, I imagine, have a lot more to lose that I… and a vested interest in keeping your hands attached to your body.”

Selene flinches. Did Dorian honestly just say that?

“Bold words for a beanpole,” the Duke returns, still not looking at him, still looking at Selene like she’s a meal to be devoured. “I could snap you like a twig.”

Dorian tightens his grip on the Duke’s arm. “I’d like to see you try.”

Selene inhales sharply. This is escalating too quickly. The last thing she wants is a scene—at least, not one she can’t control.

She lets out a soft gasp, swaying in the Duke’s arms. Her body slackens, her knees trembling as if about to give way.

“Selene?” Dorian’s voice sharpens with concern.

The Duke’s fingers tighten instinctively, holding her upright, but she lets her weight drop further. If there’s one thing she learned in her past life, it’s how to feign frailty when necessary.

“My apologies,” she murmurs faintly. “I feel quite lightheaded…”

Immediately, Dorian moves in, prying her from the Duke’s grasp. “Enough dancing for one night,” he declares, sliding a steadying arm around her waist. “Come, my dear, let’s get you some air.”

The Duke hesitates. His fingers flex at his sides as if resisting the urge to snatch her back. But what can he do? Protest that she isn’t truly unwell? Demand she remain in his arms?

He forces a smile, but his eyes betray his irritation. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “Perhaps another dance another time. ”

Selene doesn’t answer. She simply leans into Dorian as he guides her off the dance floor, his touch warm, solid, safe.

Once they are out of earshot, Dorian exhales sharply. “That was quick thinking,” he murmurs. “Though next time, warn me before you decide to swoon.”

She peeks up at him. “Would you have caught me if it were real?”

His lips twitch. “Obviously. What kind of husband would I be if I let my wife collapse in the middle of a ball?”

The word wife shouldn’t affect her, not when their marriage is just a matter of convenience. But after standing in the Duke’s suffocating shadow, hearing Dorian say it so lightly feels like stepping into the sun.

He leads her toward a quiet alcove, where a servant is already setting a glass of cool water on a tray. Dorian hands it to her, his fingers brushing hers.

“Are you all right?” he asks, voice softer now.

She takes a sip, then nods. “Yes. Thank you.”

His gaze lingers on her, searching. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”

Selene exhales. She should insist she’s fine. That the Duke means nothing to her anymore. But Dorian isn’t an idiot. He saw the way Drakefell looked at her.

But she doesn’t know how to explain it to him in a way that makes sense.

Her friends interrupt them before she has to come up with a response.

“Selene! Darling!” Isabel croons. “Are you quite all right? You’re very pale.”

“Are you sure you aren’t with child?” Cecily whispers, as if discussing some sordid secret.

At this, Dorian goes very pale, and immediately walks away from them .

Selene assures them that she is not. She is simply too warm. They twitter around her for a short while, and then decide to take her out onto the terrace for a little fresh air. They soon forget about her, turning instead to gawk over the beautiful gardens, and gush about the beauty of the night.

Selene remembers this conversation, almost word-for-word, like tracing paper over a story. It’s like she’s turned the page of a book to find it printed just like the last one.

Odd. Strange. Unsettling.

Last time they came out here onto the terrace, she marvelled at the moon, too. She was newly married to the Duke, then. She’d wanted him to join her out here and admire it with her. He’d been too busy.

She does not want him to come to her now. But she doesn’t think she’d mind if Dorian came to her instead.

She has little interest in the moon tonight. Her gaze skips across the sky to a small figure standing in the corner of the terrace.

Lord Everton, staring straight at Ophelia.

Selene smiles, inspired by a sudden idea. What if she can change the future—just in a small way? One little thing to spare her friend a month of frustration?

Carefully, she tugs Isabel’s sleeve, pointing at the young lord with as much subtlety as she can muster. Isabel smiles, whispering something to Cecily.

The three girls step back, retreating into the ballroom, leaving Ophelia staring at the moon.

Lord Everton inches closer. He looks at the doors—either checking to see whether or not the women will be returning, or looking for an escape route, Selene isn’t sure.

She jerks her head towards Ophelia. An unladylike gesture, to be sure, but a highly necessary one.

Gather your courage, man !

The three women close the door, giving the couple the illusion of privacy. They can still see everything, of course.

Lord Everton hesitates, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket, before taking a final, bracing breath. Then, at last, he moves toward Ophelia.

Selene presses her fingertips against the glass, anticipation thrumming in her chest. This is it.

Ophelia, oblivious to the audience she has just lost, tilts her head as she senses movement behind her. When she turns, her brows lift in mild surprise.

Everton clears his throat. A silence stretches between them.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Isabel mutters.

Cecily grips Selene’s arm. “Give him a moment!”

Ophelia folds her hands before her, ever patient, waiting. Selene knows her friend well—knows the subtle tilt of her head, the way she’s resisting the urge to prompt him into speaking.

Finally, Lord Everton does. They can’t make out what he’s saying, but Ophelia’s lips part.

Lord Everton carries on speaking, running a hand through his hair. He exhales. Ophelia opens her mouth—

Selene holds her breath.

Ophelia launches herself at Lord Everton, almost knocking him off his feet. She kisses him in a way that makes Cecily cry “scandalous!” and Isabel swoon.

Selene smiles. She’s happy for her friend, but something aches there, too.

It has been a long time since she’s enjoyed being kissed.

The girls can no longer contain themselves. They burst back onto the terrace, throwing themselves at Ophelia and covering her in kisses. Lord Everton sneaks away with a huge grin on his face, no doubt to talk to Ophelia’s parents .

The night carries on in a blissful blur. The engagement is announced, the ballroom erupts into cheers, and Ophelia is radiant with happiness. Lord Everton wears the look of a man who has just won a duel with fate.

Glasses are raised, toasts are made, and laughter spills through the gilded hall like champagne overflowing from crystal flutes.

The musicians strike up a lively tune, and before long, the guests launch into a Rosavante , the traditional engagement dance.

It is a sweeping, whirling thing, full of quick steps and stolen glances, where partners trade places in a flurry of silk and brocade.

The dance is meant to symbolise the joy of love and the ever-changing nature of fate, and Selene watches with delight as Ophelia and Lord Everton take the floor, twirling through the crowd with breathless, giddy smiles.

Selene almost forgets about the Duke. Almost.

He is still there, lurking at the edges of the revelry, watching from the shadows with an expression she cannot quite name. Not anger—no, he is too disciplined for that. But something sharp and knowing gleams in his gaze whenever it lands on her. A reminder that he is not so easily dismissed.

She turns away from him, willing herself not to let him ruin this night.

But Dorian—Dorian is another matter entirely.

She scans the ballroom, searching for him amid the swirling dancers and laughing courtiers, but he is nowhere to be found. Hadn’t he been by her side just moments ago? A strange, unfamiliar sensation settles in her chest. Not quite worry, not quite longing—something in between.

Where has he gone?

Finally, the numbers in the ballroom start to thin. Guests retire to their chambers or to their carriages. Selene is no stranger to being the last at a party. She is not ready for it to end .

She steps once more onto the terrace, and stares up at the moon. It really is a beautiful thing. The shadows stretch across the lawns, silvery and stark. The moment could be wrapped up into a bauble.

“Happy with your meddling?” says a voice behind her.

Selene turns. Dorian appears at her elbow, clinking his champagne glass against hers.

She smirks. “Exceptionally.”

Dorian watches her for a long moment. “You’re different tonight.”

She tilts her head. “How so?”

He leans in, just enough that his voice is for her ears alone. “Lighter.”

Lighter.

She glances back at the ballroom—at Ophelia and Everton, now alone on the dancefloor—at the future that is no longer so set in stone.

Perhaps she is.

Dorian’s voice sobers. “About earlier,” he begins. “I have to ask… Duke Drakefell. Did he ever… did he ever touch you in ways you didn’t want to be touched?”

Selene ponders this question. It is not as simple for her as it ought to be. Yes, yes he did, but never, technically, without her consent.

She still doesn’t think it was right.

“No,” she tells Dorian. “He did not.”

Dorian breathes a sigh of relief.

“What would you have done if I’d said yes?”

“I don’t know. Probably something foolish.”

“For my sake?” Selene teases.

Dorian doesn’t reply.

A breeze stirs the night air, and for a moment, everything is still—the party, the laughter drifting from within, the world itself.

It is just them and the moon. Dorian is close, closer than he should be, and his gaze is steady on hers.

He has never looked at her like this before.

Or perhaps he has, and she was simply too afraid to see it.

Her breath catches.

Then, with a violent thwip , a bolt tears across the lawn.

A champagne glass shatters, followed by another. Dorian jerks back, a sharp hiss escaping his lips. A beat later, red blooms against the fabric of his sleeve.

Selene stares at it, uncomprehending. Then she screams.