Amara awoke to sunlight filtering through heavy velvet drapes. The room was vast, its lofty ceiling embellished with intricate plaster designs. She found herself surrounded by a four-poster bed, its frame intricately carved with delicate motifs. "This can't be real," she murmured, propping herself up and running her fingers through her hair. Her eyes landed on a golden artifact resting on the bedside table. Its soft glow had faded, yet it served as a poignant reminder of the events that had transpired. A sudden knock interrupted her thoughts. An older woman with a stern expression entered, her hands neatly clasped. "Good morning, miss. Lord Harrington requests your presence at breakfast." Amara followed her into the dining room, where James occupied the head of an expansive table. He epitomized aristocracy—his dark hair impeccably styled, and his tailored coat accentuating his broad frame. As Amara stepped into the dining room, she did so with caution, her eyes widening at the sheer scale of the space. The long mahogany table could easily accommodate twenty guests, yet only one chair was filled—James sat at the head, looking every bit the nobleman, his dark coat fitting him perfectly, a hint of stubble gracing his jaw. His piercing gaze lifted from his plate to meet hers. "Good morning, Miss Blake," he greeted, his deep voice resonating through the room. "Good morning," she replied, forcing herself to hold his gaze despite the flutter of nerves in her chest. She felt acutely aware of how out of place she appeared in the borrowed dress, a simple gown that Mrs. Beecham had insisted she wear instead of her "strange" trousers. James motioned to a chair nearby, and she walked over, her footsteps resonating on the polished wooden floor. A servant appeared quietly at her side, pulling the chair out for her. Amara offered a soft thank-you and sat down, maintaining a straight posture despite the discomfort of the corset beneath her gown. The table was overflowing with food—plates of eggs, slices of ham, freshly baked bread, and bowls of fruit. It resembled a feast fit for royalty, yet James seemed completely unfazed as he sipped his tea and gestured for her to help herself. Amara hesitated, her eyes scanning the table. She reached for a piece of bread, only to realize she was unsure which utensil to use for buttering it. There were at least three knives beside her plate, and none looked particularly inviting. "Is the selection not to your taste?" James inquired, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "No, it's…" She paused, mentally chiding herself for her modern ignorance. "It's lovely. Just… a bit much." He set down his teacup, observing her with a blend of curiosity and amusement. "The utensils have you puzzled, I see?" Amara shot him a sharp glance, her cheeks flushing. "Not everyone dines with half the cutlery in England, you know." James chuckled softly. "I understand. Perhaps a lesson in etiquette would be beneficial." "I'll pass, thanks," she retorted, though a smile tugged at her lips despite herself. She reached for a spoon to serve herself some fruit, but her movement accidentally knocked over a small dish of jam, sending it spilling onto the pristine white tablecloth. "Damn it!" she muttered, grabbing a napkin to clean it up. The servant at her side rushed forward, but James raised a hand to stop him. "Leave it," James said, his gaze still fixed on Amara. "Miss Blake can manage just fine." Amara's eyes darted to him, her cheeks burning. There was no ill intent in his voice, yet the way he spoke made her feel as if she were under scrutiny. She hurriedly dabbed at the spill, her movements rigid with embarrassment. "Does this happen to you often?" he inquired, his tone now playful. "Spilling things?" She placed the napkin down and shot him a pointed glance. "No. Being critiqued over breakfast? That's a first." James reclined in his chair, a smirk spreading across his face. "I beg your pardon, Miss Blake. I'm merely trying to get to know you better." "Good luck with that," she muttered quietly, prompting another soft laugh from him. The remainder of the meal was uneventful, though Amara could sense James's eyes on her intermittently. He was observing her, dissecting her with those intense eyes, which made her feel uneasy. She was torn between wanting to impress him and wanting to stand her ground. After breakfast, she excused herself, claiming a need for rest. In reality, she was eager to explore the estate. There was something about this place—and James—that felt intertwined with the artifact, though she couldn't quite place it. She wandered through the halls, captivated by the intricate decor and the palpable sense of history that lingered in the air. Eventually, her steps led her to the library. It was breathtaking, with towering shelves that reached the ceiling, crammed with books so ancient they seemed fragile to the touch. She traced her fingers along the spines, inhaling the musty aroma of parchment and leather. It was then that she spotted a small, leather-bound journal resting on a desk by the window. Her curiosity piqued, she opened it. The pages were filled with neat, meticulous handwriting. Her breath hitched as she turned a page and found a familiar image—a sketch of the golden artifact, labeled The Gateway of Time. Her hands shook as she read the notes below it. They detailed an ancient family secret, describing a device that could "bend the fabric of existence." "What are you concealing, Lord Harrington?" she whispered, her mind racing.
"Maybe you should just ask me outright." The deep voice startled her. She spun around to find James leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and an unreadable look on his face. His eyes, however, were piercing, as if he could see right through her. "Did you find something intriguing?" he inquired, his tone deceptively relaxed. Amara hastily shut the journal, her heart racing. "I was just… appreciating the collection." James moved closer, his eyes locked onto hers. "Oh really?" His politeness was overshadowed by the unmistakable doubt in his gaze. She managed a smile. "You have an impressive collection, Lord Harrington." He paused a few steps away, tilting his head slightly. "Yet you picked that specific book. Why is that?" She met his stare, determined not to back down. "It simply caught my attention." For a tense moment, they held each other's gaze, the atmosphere thick with unspoken words. Finally, James nodded, though the skepticism in his eyes lingered. "I advise you to be cautious about what you read, Miss Blake. Some secrets are best left hidden." With that, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone with the journal and an unsettling feeling growing within her.