21. A Ball and a Bolt
A t the beginning of summer, Dorian and Selene, accompanied by Soren and Marta, went to a ball being hosted by the Fairmonts at their country estate, Kenwood Grange.
Dorian frequently visited the Fairmont’s residence in the capital, but the opportunity to visit their country place seldom presented itself.
He hadn’t been back in several cycles—not since Selene had been married to Reginald Fairmont in one timeline after the Duke had been removed from the picture.
She had been happier with Reginald, but not by much.
From what Luna had told him, this was the ball where her friend Ophelia had thought she would get engaged, only Lord Everton, the object of her affections, lost his nerve at the last minute and it took him another month before he could gather it again.
The two of them were sent to a shared chamber to get ready for the ball.
There was, naturally, only the one bed, for whilst the aristocracy were afforded separate rooms in their own homes, the limited number of bedrooms when abroad naturally meant that they were expected to share for the night.
Dorian made it clear to Selene that he would sleep in the chair, and then presented her with a gift.
It was a rather simple silver and pearl necklace in the shape of a flower, nothing ostentatious. It twinkled like a star on her neck.
“I don’t expect you to wear it tonight,” Dorian said. “I know it’s not the sort of thing you usually wear, I just—” I thought of you when I saw it.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
She didn’t take it off.
He was relieved to discover that, despite her threats, the suit he’d ordered for him was dark green rather than magenta. It went well with his hair. She adorned herself in a similar colour, looking like a goddess of spring. Marta teased his voicelessness.
He couldn’t take his eyes off Selene. He knew she wasn’t really his wife—not fully, not truly—but he couldn’t quite believe that she was here beside him, that she would be walking beside him.
They made their way down to the ballroom. Dorian pulled on a smile, but he couldn’t quite hide the stiffness in his posture. These gatherings had always felt more like enemy territory than a place of leisure.
Selene leaned in slightly. “Would you rather we didn’t dance?” she murmured.
He exhaled a quiet laugh. “Are you offering me an escape?”
“Perhaps.”
His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Then what sort of husband would I be if I declined my wife’s kindness?”
She suppressed a laugh, drawing him toward the edge of the ballroom instead. A servant passed with a tray of wine, and she plucked two glasses, pressing one into his hand. Her fingers brushed his as he took it.
He commented on her thoughtfulness, and they stood together for a short while, chatting amiably. He started to regret declining the dance. He wanted to have her in his arms, to touch her.
Won’t you dance with me? Luna had said.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
Her lips quirked. “Would you?”
More than anything. “Yes,” he admitted. “But only if you’re my partner.”
A faint flush coloured her cheeks. She looked almost… pleased. He offered his hand, and she took it, allowing him to lead her onto the floor.
The moment they began to move, something shifted. Gone was all the stiffness in him, all the tension. His steps were smooth, unthinking, and she followed with effortless grace. They were all wind and feathers. Born for this.
“You dislike crowds but not dancing?” she murmured.
“I dislike having to speak to people I do not care for,” he replied. “Dancing requires little conversation.”
A quiet smile crossed her lips, unguarded, sincere. The music carried them in slow, sweeping turns, the world narrowing around the gliding of their feet, the warmth of her hand in his, the soft rustle of fabric.
It was a different kind of intimacy. Not quite the one he longed for, but it would take it.
The music slowed, the dance drawing to an end. He released her with the same care he had taken in holding her.
“We should dance more often,” he said, almost absently. Please, please, dance with me again. Never stop.
Selene smiled. “We have all night.”
A pause rippled between them, not uncomfortable.
“Have we ever danced together before?” she asked him.
Not like that. “Once or twice at school, while we were still learning,” he admitted. “You used to step on my toes.”
She didn’t have time to respond. Someone was waving at her—a tall, dark-haired woman whose name Dorian couldn’t quite remember. One of Selene’s friends.
Selene glanced up at him. She did not ask permission, not exactly, but there was a quiet question in her expression, like she wanted to know he’d be all right without her .
Words whispered in the back of his mind: I am never all right without you.
But he nodded anyway. He did not need her to linger out of obligation.
Selene hurried over. He waited a moment to make sure she was happy, ignoring the giggling and the pointed looks that they kept casting in his direction. He didn’t enjoy being the topic of gossip, and he imagined that Selene’s friends had a lot to say about her choice of husband.
He was almost tempted to stay and try to overhear what she might say in his defence, but he wasn’t sure his heart could take anything cruel or indifferent coming from her mouth, so he left it be. It was an ideal time to investigate the Lord Fairmont’s study.
He stepped into a darkened corridor. Soren immediately appeared beside him.
“Found anything?” he asked.
Soren shook his head. “No interesting tidbits amongst the servants, I’m afraid.”
Dorian expected that, but it was still disappointing. They headed instead to Lord Fairmont’s study. Soren kept watch—his servant’s attire made him almost invisible—while Dorian stepped inside to search. He came up empty.
“Anything?” Soren asked.
Dorian shook his head.
“We could check the bedroom—”
Dorian knew he probably should, just to rule it out, but for the first time ever, he was eager to return to the ballroom. To Selene.
Soren groaned as if he could sense his thoughts. “Fine,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Go back to your pretty wife.”
Pretty was a thin word to describe Selene. It was like calling a snowstorm chilly, the sea damp, lava warm. Selene is beautiful and even Soren knew it.
“You don’t have to be so mean about her.”
“I said nothing—”
“Soren,” Dorian started testily, “why does she upset you so much? Are you jealous that I like someone more than you? ”
Soren fixed him with a disgusted look. “I’m not jealous, ” he insisted. “I’m concerned. You’ve literally died for this woman. Bled for her. Killed for her. And now that she’s around you all of the time…” His jaw tensed. “She can’t be worth it, Dorian.”
“She is.”
“She doesn’t even know who you are! She doesn’t even love—”
“Don’t,” Dorian warned him. “Because it doesn’t matter.”
He wouldn’t hear another word about it. What did it matter if she didn’t love him back, so long as she was worth loving? What did it matter, so long as she was safe? He could endure anything, as long as she lived. As long as he could save her.
He left Soren in the corridor and marched back to the ballroom…
Only to find Selene dancing with the Duke.
The man who’d killed her in another life. The man who’d killed their unborn child.
It was not the first time Dorian had had to watch the two of them together again over the years.
It hadn’t gotten easier. But for the first time, Selene looked uncomfortable in his grasp.
The Duke held her with the effortless arrogance of a man who believed everything in the world should bend to his will, including the people in it.
Selene followed his lead, her steps perfect, her posture impeccable.
Only the slightest twitch in her chin suggested her fear.
The Duke tried to turn her, but before he could dictate the next move, she deliberately misstepped—just enough to shift their balance, just enough to unsettle him.
Dorian saw it, the flicker beneath the Duke’s polished mask. Not anger. Not yet. But something close.
If you hurt her again, I’ll kill you.
Dorian stepped forward, coming to a halt at the Duke’s elbow. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” he said, voice measured, “but I would like another dance with my wife.”
The Duke’s glare snapped to Selene, as if this interruption was her doing. “I am not yet finished. ”
The fragmented remains of Dorian’s calm dissipated.
His voice dropped low. “Let me be clear, Your Grace. Unhand my wife, or I shall unhand you .” He tilted his head slightly, his grip tightening around the edge of his sleeve.
“I am not afraid of making a scene. You, I imagine, have a lot more to lose than I… and a vested interest in keeping your hands attached to your body.”
Selene flinched. Dorian supposed that was fair. He’d never given her any reason to suspect he was a man of violence. And he wasn’t, most of the time.
But for this man…
The Duke, however, barely spared him a glance. “Bold words for a beanpole,” he muttered, still looking at Selene like she was something to be consumed. “I could snap you like a twig.”
Dorian’s fingers curled around the Duke’s arm. “I’d like to see you try.”
He’d likely not win in a fistfight between the two of them, but with a sword between them, Dorian knew who’d end up on the end of it. He swore it.
Selene inhaled sharply. Her body swayed, her knees trembling as if she might give way.
“Selene?” Dorian’s irritation was eclipsed by immediate concern.
The Duke’s fingers tightened, an automatic reaction to keep her upright. But she let her weight drop further, and Dorian understood that she was faking, even if the Duke didn’t.
“My apologies,” she murmured faintly. “I feel quite lightheaded…”
Dorian moved at once, prying her from the Duke’s grasp. “Enough dancing for one night,” he said, sliding an arm around her waist, steady and sure. “Come, my dear, let’s get you some air.”