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Praise for the novels of
CANDACE CAMP

“Camp has again produced a fast-paced plot brimming with lively conflict among family, lovers and enemies.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Dangerous Man

“Romance, humor, adventure, Incan treasure, dreams, murder, psychics—the latest addition to Camp’s Mad Moreland series has it all.”

—Booklist on An Unexpected Pleasure

“Entertaining, well-written Victorian romantic mystery.”

—The Best Reviews on An Unexpected Pleasure

“A smart, fun-filled romp.”

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

“Camp brings the dark Victorian world to life. Her strong characters and perfect pacing keep you turning the pages of this chilling mystery.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Winterset

“From its delicious beginning to its satisfying ending, [Mesmerized] offers a double helping of romance.”

—Booklist

A Stolen Heart
Candace Camp

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Stolen Heart

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Paris, 1789

LADY CHILTON PUSHED BACK THE draperies of her bedroom window and peered out into the night. In the distance she could see fire leaping up, and she shivered. It was the Mob. She was sure of it; she had heard their howls the day before, seen them pushing through the streets like some great amorphous beast, hungry for blood.

She stepped back from the window, her hands twining together nervously. Emerson was certain that the Mob would not turn on them. Her husband had that careless, casual confidence of the English that no harm would dare come to them. Simone was not so sure. She was, after all, French, and a member of that aristocracy whom the Mob was so eager to destroy. The fact that she was married to an Englishman might not be enough to save her if the Mob came here—indeed, she feared that her French identity might destroy her husband, as well.

And the children.

It was that thought that made her sick with fear. What would happen to her little ones if the sans-culottes came to their house?

She stood for a moment indecisively, a beautiful woman with liquid brown eyes and clouds of dark hair, dressed in the finest clothes that Paris had to offer, her neck circled with precious gems, yet paper-white with fear, her huge eyes haunted.

Finally, with a little sob, she went over to her dressing table and pulled out her jewelry case. Quickly she took out her jewelry, glittering gold studded with diamonds, rubies and emeralds, satiny pearls strung together or dangling from ear studs. Some were family heirlooms, others gifts from an adoring and wealthy husband. Simone was a woman who loved decoration, and her vivid dark coloring and white skin were perfect foils for the richly colored jewels.

She stuffed the pieces into a velvet bag, paying little attention to the sparkling gems. Last, she reached up and removed the emerald drops that hung from her ears, then the matching emerald pendant that had been a wedding present from Lord Chilton eight and a half years before. Her hand closed around it for a moment; it was still warm from the heat of her skin. Then, with a little sigh, she slipped it, too, into the bag.

Her friend could be trusted; after all, she was trusting her with her children, far more important than any jewelry. If she survived, she would be reunited with them all.

She opened the false bottom of the jewelry case and took out three small items. Though relatively inexpensive, they were the most precious, for they belonged to her children. There were two lockets that opened up to reveal miniature portraits of herself and Emerson. The Countess had given them to the girls last year at Christmas. The third object was a plain, bulky ring, far too large for her son’s finger. She strung it on a piece of string so that he could wear it around his neck. The ring was ordinary looking, flat-topped with an odd design. But it was hundreds of years old, the family ring of the Earls of Exmoor. Only heirs to the title were allowed to wear it. Emerson owned it now, though he did not wear it. One day it would be his son’s.

Simone went to her desk and took the quill from the inkwell and began to scratch out a note. She was never the best of letter writers, and this note was disjointed and almost illegible. But it would at least let the Earl and the Countess know what had happened. She stuffed it into the bag with the jewels.

Clutching the velvet bag and the three small pieces of jewelry, Simone left her bedroom and started up the stairs to the nursery. Downstairs, she could hear Emerson’s voice, growing impatient as he tried to explain to her parents why they had to leave Paris as soon as possible. Simone shook her head. Her parents were frozen by fear, so much in shock from the upheaval of their world that all they seemed capable of doing was staying still and saying no. Simone and Emerson could hardly leave them behind; it was why they had not left already. But she refused to let her children die because her parents were too stubborn or too silly to do what they ought to.

That was why she was sending the children away. She would entrust their lives to her dearest friend here, who was leaving for England and its safety tomorrow. She had not asked yet, but she was sure that her friend would do it. Childless herself, she had always doted on Simone’s children, especially the youngest. Simone would get them away to England, and the jewels would help pay their expenses, if necessary. Once they were safe, if Simone did not make it, they would be her last present to her children.

Simone reached up to dash the tears from her eyes. She could not let the children see her crying; that would frighten them even further. So she pasted a smile on her face before she opened the door to the nursery and went inside. The French nurse was already putting them to bed. Simone dismissed her, saying that she would tuck the children in herself.

Once the maid had left, she turned to the three children. For a long moment she let herself look at them, the lump in her throat swelling as she faced the thought that perhaps she would never see them again. There was John, with the thick, dark hair he had inherited from her and her own dark brown, almost black eyes. A sturdy boy of seven, he had his father’s long bones and mischievous smile, and Simone had not met a woman yet, of any age, who did not succumb to his charms. She bent to kiss his forehead, then moved on to kiss Marie Anne’s cheek. Marie Anne had her father’s eyes—deep blue, guileless orbs—and the bright red curls that had surprised them both, coming as she did from his blondness and Simone’s black hair. But the Countess had nodded wisely and said that red hair cropped up periodically among the Montfords.

She had to swallow hard as she moved on to Alexandra, the baby. Only two, she was a delight; chubby and sunny of spirit, it seemed she was always laughing or babbling. She was, Simone’s mama said, the very image of Simone when she was a toddler, with black curls and merry dark brown eyes and a laugh that made everyone who heard it smile. Simone picked Alexandra up and hugged her, then sat on the floor with the children and put Alexandra in her lap.

“I’ve come to tell you that you are going on a trip,” she said lightly, hoping that her voice displayed none of her anxiety. “You’re going home to England to see your grandmama and grandpapa.”

She told them about her friend, whom they knew and liked, and how they must go with her by themselves, but that Mama and Papa would be joining them later. Though she usually spoke French with her children, who were as fluent in it as in English, she used English with them now.

“You must only speak English,” she cautioned them. “Not French, because you are going to pretend to be her children, not mine. Won’t that be a fun game?”

John regarded her solemnly. “It’s because of the Mob, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Simone admitted. “That is why I am sending you this way. It will be less danger to you. So watch out for the girls, John, and make sure that they don’t get into trouble. Don’t let them speak French, even when you are alone. Can I rely on you?”

He nodded. “I’ll take care of them.”

“Good. That’s my little man. Now, here are some things you must wear. Don’t take them off—even Alexandra. John, you make sure of it.”

She hung the ring on its rough string around his neck and tucked it under his shirt so it did not show. She did the same with each of the girls, stuffing the lockets down the necks of their dresses.

The children were dressed fairly plainly, in the clothes they wore to play in. That was the best that she could do, Simone thought, to hide their aristocratic backgrounds. Quickly she placed a few more changes of play clothes, nothing with lace or velvet, in their little cloaks and tied them up into bundles.

“Now we must go very quietly down the stairs,” she told them.

“Can’t we say goodbye to Papa?” Marie Anne asked, bewildered and looking about ready to cry.

“No, he is talking to Grandmère and Grandpère. We must not disturb them.”

She knew that Emerson would be furious with her for sneaking the children away without telling him. But she could not risk letting them say goodbye to him. His confidence in his indestructibility was too great. She was afraid he would forbid her to send them away, sure that they would be safest with him.

Simone gave them all a shaky smile and stood, picking up Alexandra to hold her in one arm and carrying Alexandra’s little bundle in the other. “Now, children, pick up your bundles of clothes. Stay close. Hold on to my skirts and don’t let go, no matter what happens. And be very quiet—like little mice.”

John and Marie Anne nodded, though she could see the uncertainty in their faces. They walked quietly out of the room and tiptoed down the stairs. Simone did not go out the tall front door, but led them to the side door. She paused, her hand on the knob, taking a deep breath. John and Marie Anne clutched her skirt.

Simone opened the door, and they scurried into the night.

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1811

ALEXANDRA WARD GLANCED AT HER companion in the carriage. He looked as if he were about to fall into a swoon. His face was a pasty white, and sweat dotted his upper lip. Alexandra suppressed a sigh. Englishmen, she was discovering, seemed to be a curiously poor-spirited lot, always gaping and staring and sputtering about how something could not be done. It was a wonder that the country had ever achieved its place in the world, either politically or financially.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jones,” she said in a pleasant tone, trying to ease the man’s fears. “I am sure that your employer will be quite amenable to seeing us.”

Lyman Jones closed his eyes as he let out a small moan. “You don’t know Lord Thorpe. He is a…a very private sort of man.”

“So are many men, but that doesn’t make them poor businessmen. I cannot imagine why a man would not be interested in meeting someone who had just signed a quite lucrative contract to ship his company’s tea to America.” Frankly, Alexandra had been amazed that Thorpe had not been at the office to meet her and sign the contract this morning. He had not even attended any of her meetings with his agent, Lyman Jones. It seemed foolish in the extreme to turn over so much of one’s business to another without supervising him. She herself had many employees on whom she depended, but she would never think of not joining them in an important meeting with a client. However, she refrained from pointing this fact out to Mr. Jones, who seemed too upset as it was.

“I—I don’t know how it is in America, Miss Ward,” Mr. Jones said carefully, “but here, well, gentlemen don’t generally engage actively in business affairs.”

“How do they get any business done, then?” Alexandra asked in amazement. “Someone must be engaging in business affairs. How else can England be so prosperous?”

“Well, of course, men engage in business affairs. It is gentlemen, men like Lord Thorpe, that I’m talking about.”

“Oh. You’re talking about the nobility?” She appeared to consider the idea.

“Yes.” Mr. Jones looked relieved. He had had a rather difficult time talking to Miss Ward through the negotiations. It had seemed most bizarre to even be discussing business dealings with a woman, much less bargaining with one—especially one who looked like Alexandra Ward. Lyman Jones would never have imagined a woman running a business, as Miss Ward seemed to, so he would have been hard put to say exactly what he thought such a woman would look like. But he knew that she would not have been a tall, statuesque woman with a cloud of thick black hair. Nor would she have had Alexandra’s strawberries-and-cream complexion and large, expressive brown eyes, eyes so dark that they were almost black.

But then, Alexandra Ward was unlike any other woman Lyman Jones had ever met. Perhaps it came from her being American; he wasn’t sure. But she spoke in a blunt, decisive manner and left no room for disagreement, sweeping everyone before her in a way that was almost impossible to resist. After a session with her, he usually found himself exhausted and unsure exactly how he had been talked into something. He was feeling that way now. He wondered sinkingly if Lord Thorpe would end his employment for this.

“I am afraid I’m not used to such distinctions,” Alexandra admitted. “In the United States, a gentleman is determined more on the basis of his actions, I believe, than on his birth.” She paused, then asked curiously, “This Thorpe is a feckless sort? I suppose he must have inherited his wealth. Still, one wonders how he has managed to hang on to it.”

“Oh, no, miss,” Jones protested hastily. “I didn’t mean that. It’s not that his lordship doesn’t know or care about the business. He does. What I meant was that a gentleman wouldn’t be, well, seen in the day-to-day running of it.”

“I see. It is a matter of appearance, then.” Alexandra thought that Thorpe sounded more and more foolish.

“I suppose.” Jones frowned. He didn’t like the way that sounded. “I mean, well, it just isn’t done.” He hastened to add, “Lord Thorpe is an excellent businessman. He made most of his money himself, actually, in India.”

“Ah.” Alexandra’s dark eyes sparkled with interest, all thoughts about Lord Thorpe’s business acumen fleeing. “That is precisely why I am so eager to meet the man. His collection of Indian treasures is well-known, and I am rather a devotee of the subject myself. I have even corresponded with Mr. Thorpe, I mean, Lord Thorpe, on the subject.”

Alexandra thought it prudent not to mention that she had asked Lord Thorpe about seeing his collection when she was in England this year and had been turned down flat. That was, actually, why she had settled on the Burchings Tea Company with which to negotiate a contract. The company had an excellent reputation, of course; Alexandra would never have made a bad business decision just to satisfy a personal whim. However, the fact that the Burchings Tea Company was owned by the same Lord Thorpe whose collection she so wished to see was a very pleasant bonus. She had been sure that she would meet the man—who, she presumed from the tone of his letter, was a crotchety old fellow—during her business dealings with his company.

“I understand that his collection is quite impressive,” Mr. Jones replied. “I, of course, have never seen it.”

“Never? None of it?” Alexandra looked at him in surprise.

Jones gazed at her with a slightly puzzled expression. “No. I mean, I have, of course, sometimes brought something to his lordship at his home, and I have seen some objects in his foyer, but generally, Lord Thorpe comes to the office to discuss his business.”

It seemed odd to Alexandra, whose family had always held open house every year at Christmas for their employees, that one’s highest-ranking employee would not have spent time inside one’s house. She felt a close, almost familial bond with many of her employees. Indeed, some of them were related to her. But, she supposed, it was simply another example of how the British—or perhaps it was just the nobility—were different.

The carriage pulled up in front of an impressive white stone edifice and stopped. Lyman Jones looked out the window and said in a stifled voice, “We’re here.”

He turned to Alexandra with an almost pleading look on his face. “Are you sure you wish to do this, Miss Ward? Lord Thorpe is—he’s a bit of a recluse. He truly does not appreciate visitors. I—it’s quite likely that he will refuse even to see us.”

“Then we shall have to leave, won’t we?” Alexandra returned lightly.

“On the other hand, he might very well agree to see us just to tell us what he thinks of such impertinence.” Jones felt slightly sick at the thought.

“Buck up, Mr. Jones,” Alexandra said, trying to instill some spirit in the poor man. “I promise you I have dealt with many an old grump, and I generally handle them rather well.”

“But he’s not an—”

“Whatever he is, I feel sure that I shall be able to deal with him.”

Mr. Jones subsided, reflecting that perhaps she would be able to sweep Lord Thorpe before her, just as she had him.

“Don’t worry,” Alexandra went on. “If he rings a peal over your head, I shall tell him that it was all my fault.”

Jones doubted that such a statement would change his employer’s opinion about his intruding on him this way, but he said nothing. He was almost resigned to the berating he would doubtless receive. He opened the door and stepped from the carriage, turning and reaching to help Alexandra.

Alexandra politely took his hand and stepped down, turning to look at the graceful white stone house in the Georgian style. It was built close to the street, as so many houses in London were, with a black wrought-iron fence stretching the length of it to separate it from the traffic. A set of six steps led from the street to the imposing front door, centered by a rather fierce-looking door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Her companion, gazing in the same direction, faltered, and Alexandra took his arm, gently pushing him in the direction of the door. She felt a little guilty at using the poor fellow so. However, she was determined to see Lord Thorpe’s collection of Indian treasures. She had read much about it in her correspondence with other aficionados of the style. Lord Thorpe’s collection was generally considered to be the finest in the world, and it had been one of the things she had been most looking forward to on her first trip to England. She was not about to let this man’s faint heart keep her from seeing it. Lord Thorpe himself would have to bar her from the door.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jones,” she said, to soothe the prickings of her conscience, “if Lord Thorpe lets you go for bringing me here, I shall employ you myself.”

Jones gave her a small smile. Miss Ward, for all her odd ways and bossy nature, was a kindhearted person. “Thank you, miss. I am sure that won’t be necessary.”

He wished he felt as confident as his words sounded. Though Lord Thorpe was a fair employer, there was a hard, implacable quality to him that made one leery about crossing him. He had made the bulk of his fortune in India, and there were many rumors, some of them unsavory, about how he had gone about doing so. Mr. Jones discounted most of them, but there were times, when Lord Thorpe’s face hardened and his eyes turned that flat, almost silvery color, that Jones wondered if at least some of the rumors were true.

Drawing a steadying breath, he took the ring of the knocker and brought it down heavily, sending a resounding thud through the house. A moment later, a liveried footman opened the door. He looked from Jones to Alexandra, then reluctantly stepped back and let them into the house.

“I am here to see Lord Thorpe,” Lyman said.

“Wait here,” the footman said shortly and left them standing in the foyer.

It was, Alexandra thought, rather rude behavior for a footman, but she did not dwell on it. She was too busy looking around her. At her feet the parquet floor was overlaid with a plush woven carpet of wine red depicting a hunting scene, with a turbanned man spearing a tiger. On one wall hung an elephant mask of beaten silver, and below it stood a wooden trunk, the top of which was intricately carved into a garden scene of two Indian maidens standing amidst drooping trees.

She was bent over, examining the trunk more closely, when there was a soft shuffle of footsteps and a man entered the foyer, followed by the footman. Alexandra raised her head and barely suppressed a gasp of pleasure. The man whom the footman had brought in was swarthy-skinned, with large, liquid dark eyes, and he was dressed all in white from the top of his turbanned head to the bottom of his soft-shoed feet. As Alexandra stared in fascination, he placed his hands together at chest level and bowed to them politely.

“Mr. Jones?” he said in a soft, accented voice. “Was Lord Thorpe expecting you today? I am most sorry. I have no knowledge of your visit.”

“No, uh…” Lyman Jones had spoken to Lord Thorpe’s butler many times, but he always found the event unnerving. He invariably stumbled over the man’s name, and his unswerving dark gaze made Jones uncomfortable. “Lord Thorpe does not know about it. I—it was quite unexpected. I had hoped to introduce Miss Ward to his lordship, although of course if this is an inopportune moment, we can—”

The butler’s eyes moved consideringly to Alexandra. She, seeing that Jones was making a mess of things, took over in her usual way. “I am Alexandra Ward, Mr….”

“Punwati is my name, miss.”

“Mr. Punwati. I have business dealings with the Burchings Tea Company, and I had hoped to meet Lord Thorpe while I was in London. I think it is very important to know exactly with whom one is dealing. Don’t you agree?”

There was a flicker of something—humor, perhaps—in Punwati’s dark eyes as he said, “Oh, yes, miss.”

“So Mr. Jones kindly agreed to introduce me to Lord Thorpe. I do hope it is not too much of an inconvenience.”

“I am sure that Lord Thorpe will be most interested to hear of your visit, Miss Ward,” the servant said, bowing slightly. “I shall tell him that you are here and see if he is receiving guests this afternoon.”

“Thank you.” Alexandra rewarded the man with a smile that had dazzled more than one man into doing what she wanted.

After Punwati had left the foyer in the same quiet way in which he had entered, Mr. Jones smiled a little awkwardly. “As I told you, Lord Thorpe is a…trifle different. His servants are somewhat odd. The butler, as you saw, is foreign, and some of the servants look, frankly, as if they would be more at home among the criminal class. I am sorry if you were, um, taken aback.”

Alexandra cast him a puzzled glance. “What do you mean? There’s nothing to apologize for. This is wonderful! I have never before met a person from India. I have a thousand questions I would love to ask him, but I am sure it would be much too impolite. And did you see this exquisite elephant mask? And the rug…the chest!”

Alexandra’s eyes glowed with excitement, and her cheeks were delicately flushed. Jones, looking at her, realized that she was even more lovely than he had originally thought. He wondered if her beauty would soften Lord Thorpe, one of the most dedicated bachelors in London. But then, he doubted that Thorpe would ever even see Miss Ward. No doubt his Indian servant would reappear in a few moments with the news that his lordship was unable to receive them, and that would be that—except, of course, for whatever Thorpe decided to do because of Jones’s presumption in coming to his door unannounced, a visitor in tow.

So sunk was he in his gloomy thoughts that Jones did not notice someone had quietly entered the foyer from the opposite end until the man spoke. “Ah. Mr. Jones. Punwati tells me you have brought a guest with you.”

Mr. Jones jumped. “Lord Thorpe!”

Alexandra, who had been squatting beside the chest, tracing the intricate carvings, stood and turned toward the voice. It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping. From the moment she had received the letter from Lord Thorpe, she had envisioned him as a crotchety old man, averse to company and probably quite eccentric. She had been sure that once she met him, she could talk her way around his oddities and convince him to let her see his collection. But now, seeing him, she realized that she had been completely wrong.

The man standing at the other end of the foyer was in the prime of his life, no more than in his thirties. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with long, muscular legs, accentuated by close-fitting buff-colored pantaloons and rich, butter-soft brown boots. He was dressed well, but simply. He started toward them, and Alexandra realized with a funny jump of her stomach that Lord Thorpe was not only young, but also quite handsome. His hair was a thick, dark brown, cropped close to his head. He had a sculpted face, with high, jutting cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a squared jaw, the rather stern features softened by a wide, sensual mouth. His eyes were large and intelligent, gray in color and ringed by thick, black lashes that gave them a smoky look. His expression gave little away, but Alexandra thought she detected the faintest bit of humor in his eyes. When his gaze fell on her, the oddest feeling started up deep inside Alexandra, a strange, effervescent, tumultuous sensation she had never experienced before. All thoughts seemed to scatter.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Jones began awkwardly. “I should not have come here unasked, I know, but I—I was sure you would wish to meet Miss Ward.”

“One wonders why,” Lord Thorpe drawled, his words dipped in sarcasm.

Alexandra, seeing Jones pale at his employer’s words, shook off the peculiar feeling in her midsection and stepped forward, assuming a pleasant, confident smile. “Pray, do not blame Mr. Jones, Lord Thorpe. It is all my fault. He did not wish to bring me at all. It was I who insisted.”

“Indeed?” Thorpe arched one black brow in an expression of polite disdain that had intimidated more than a few people.

Alexandra scarcely noticed. She was far more aware of the fact that his eyes were so light a gray they were almost silver, and that her knees had begun to tremble in a most unaccustomed manner.

“Yes. You see, I believe in meeting the people with whom I do business.”

“Business?” Thorpe looked genuinely puzzled, and he turned inquiringly toward his employee. “I don’t understand.”

“It is Miss Ward with whom I have been negotiating a contract this week—I believe I mentioned it. With Ward Shipping, to transport Burchings Tea to the United States.”

Thorpe looked at Alexandra blankly. “You work for Ward Shipping?”

“Mm. My family owns it, actually. Unlike you, I prefer to keep an active hand in my businesses. While I have found Mr. Jones to be both agreeable and acute, still, I feel that I get a better impression of a company from meeting the owner. Ultimately, all decisions come back to you. Or do I have that wrong?”

“No. I am in charge of my company,” he answered a little wryly. “You, I take it, do not approve of the way I run my business.”

“Well, it is your business, and you may do as you choose,” Alexandra began.

“How kind of you.” Thorpe sketched a satiric bow in her direction.

Alexandra cast him a quelling look and continued. “However, I have always felt, as have my managers, that a business runs more smoothly if the owner takes an active role in it—unless, of course,” she added smoothly, “the owner is not competent to run it.” She ended on a slightly questioning note, casting Thorpe a sideways glance that contained more than a little challenge. She was not sure exactly why—whether it was Thorpe’s arrogant air or a dislike of the unaccustomed response he had aroused in her—but she felt a certain need to set Lord Thorpe in his place.

To her surprise, he let out a short bark of laughter. “And that, I presume, is what you are suggesting about me? That I am incapable of running a business?”

Lyman Jones let out a small groan and closed his eyes.

“Ah,” Thorpe went on, a faint smile hovering about his mouth. “Mr. Jones brought you here so that you could see that at least I am not drooling or locked in a cage in the attic?”

“My lord!” Mr. Jones exclaimed, shocked. “No, nothing like that was ever suggested. I swear to you, it was—”

“Stop teasing Mr. Jones,” Alexandra retorted bluntly. “You know as well as I that Mr. Jones had no wish to bring me here. I was the one who insisted on it. I was not worried that you were completely incompetent. But I do think one can tell a lot about a company by the owner’s personality.”

“And what can you tell about Burchings Tea, Miss Ward?” he asked, the faint smile lingering on his lips. “Now that you have met me?”

“For one thing,” Alexandra said tartly, “I have a better understanding of why your employees are scared of you.”

“Scared of me!” The smile disappeared at her words, and he looked nonplussed.

Lyman Jones covered his face with his hands, certain that all was lost, so he did not see the short, considering glance Lord Thorpe shot at him.

“Yes. Oh, they do not tremble at your name, but Mr. Jones’s reluctance to bring me over here was quite obvious. Why? I wondered.”

“I think I can answer that,” Thorpe replied coldly.

Sebastian, Lord Thorpe, had been amazed when Punwati had told him that his business agent was at the door with a young woman in tow, and he had been sufficiently intrigued that he had decided to see them. He had not known what to expect, but it had certainly not been to find this tall, black-haired beauty in his entryway examining his property. Even more unexpected had been the sudden, hard jolt of desire that had shot through him at the sight of her. She was dressed in a demure sprig muslin day dress, but its high waist emphasized the voluptuous curve of her breasts, and its soft folds could not conceal the long, slender legs beneath it. Her skin was touchably soft and smooth, and her full lower lip fairly cried out to be kissed. Thorpe was not a man who was immune to feminine charms, but he had learned his lessons early and hard, and his passions were usually kept under strict control. It had been some time since he had felt such a swift and deep response to a woman.

As he listened to her speak, he had been by turns amused, bemused and irritated, and underneath it all had lain the hot, heavy thrum of arousal. Miss Ward was unlike any woman he had ever met, and Thorpe was a man who appreciated the unusual. But now, with her last statement, she had decisively pushed him over the line into the realm of anger. How dare this upstart American question his running of his business or imply that he terrorized his employees?

“Mr. Jones is well aware that I value my privacy,” he said, his jaw set and his eyes flashing silver. “I am not accustomed to every person who does business with my company showing up at my home.”

“Mm. Yes, I can see that you believe yourself superior to the rest of us humans.”

“I beg your pardon.” Thorpe stared. Each statement this woman made was more outrageous than the last.

“That quality generally does not make one a pleasant companion,” Alexandra said blithely, ignoring the thunder beginning to grow in his face. “However, as you know, that is not my primary concern. My concern, of course, is how does this attitude affect Burchings Tea?”

“Ah, yes, Burchings. For a moment there I thought we had wandered far afield.”

“I am inclined to think that your belief in your superiority would carry over into your company, that you would not allow an inferior product or any sort of base dealing that would reflect badly upon you,” Alexandra decided.

“Thank you,” he responded sardonically. “I think.”

“Also, the awe and even fear in which your employees regard you would ensure that they pay careful attention to the details so as not to incur your displeasure. Sometimes such fear can be so extreme that it has the opposite effect—people are so worried that they make more mistakes than they would normally. However, having seen that you are more sarcastic and biting than in a rage over Mr. Jones having invaded your privacy, along with the fact that Mr. Jones was willing to try what I asked even though he thought you would not like it, leads me to think that your wrath is not such that it renders your employees terrified and therefore useless.”

“Then you approve of my business?” he asked, tight-lipped. “I am indeed honored at the encomium.”

“I am sure you are being sarcastic,” Alexandra replied. “However, the truth is that you should be pleased. There are those who value my opinion in business.”

“The United States must be quite different.”

“Yes, it is. I believe we are more inclined to value honesty.”

“Bluntness, I would say. A lack of tact, even.”

“I find that tact is generally not a valuable commodity in doing business. I would much rather know where I stand. You, I take it, prefer to remain in the dark?”

For a moment Lord Thorpe simply stared at her. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “My dear Miss Ward, you almost leave me speechless. Do you conduct all of your business in this fashion? I am surprised that you have any customers.”

Alexandra smiled back at him, finding it difficult not to respond to the softening of his face. “No,” she replied frankly. “You seem to raise my hackles more than most. However, I do find that, being a woman in business, I have to spend an inordinate amount of time arguing with men before they will accept me on equal terms.”

“Equal?” His lips curved up. “I would think that would be too paltry for you. I would imagine utter subjugation would be your goal.”

“Oh, no,” Alexandra retorted blithely. “I, you see, have no inclination toward arrogance.”

“A direct hit,” Thorpe murmured. It occurred to him that the purpose of this odd American’s visit had been accomplished, and that the interview should be at an end. But he found himself curiously reluctant to send her on her way. He wasn’t sure whether she more annoyed or aroused him, but he realized that he wanted her to stay.

He hesitated for an instant, then said, “Now that we have met, Miss Ward, perhaps you would care to have a cup of tea with me.” He turned a bland gaze toward Lyman Jones’s astonished face. “You, too, of course, Jones—unless you have pressing matters at the office?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Jones replied, blushing with pleasure at the honor of taking tea with his lordship. “That is,” he added hastily, realizing that his words might sound wrong, “of course I have things to do. There are always things to do at the office. What I meant was that today I think everything will run quite well without me for an hour or so. I’m ever so grateful—it is such an honor—if you’re sure, of course.” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Of course he is sure,” Alexandra said firmly, coming to the floundering man’s rescue. “I doubt that Lord Thorpe is ever anything but sure.” She turned to Thorpe. “Thank you, my lord. Tea would be most welcome.”

Thorpe rang for his butler and ordered tea in the blue saloon, then led his visitors down the hall and into a gracious room, the walls of which were decorated in a delicate blue-and-white wallpaper above the wainscoting. It was an airy room, the heavy drapes pushed aside to let in the afternoon sun, and it was furnished not in the heavy, dark woods that Alexandra had found common in London, but in a wickerwork that gave the room a look both informal and exotic. The foreign air was heightened by the lush carpet in a design of stylized flowers and vines, and the rich, jewel-tone patterns of the chair cushions. A trumpeting elephant carved out of ivory stood on a small table, and on the wall hung a series of small, colorful paintings.

Alexandra drew in her breath and went to the paintings. “Are these Rajput?” she asked, referring to a kind of manuscript illustration of Hindu epics that had flourished in India in earlier times.

Mr. Jones looked blank, and Lord Thorpe’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Why, yes, I started collecting them when I lived in India. Do you know Indian art?”

“I have seen very little of it,” Alexandra confessed, “but I am quite interested in it. I have read descriptions, of course, of the bright colors and the patterns, and I have seen some drawings made from them, but never the actual thing.”

At first she studied the paintings intently, unaware of Thorpe’s gaze lingering on her. Then she turned and caught him watching her, and she flushed. There was something about the look in his eyes that made her feel suddenly warm all over. She glanced away quickly, casting about for something to say to cover her reaction. “I, ah, have purchased a few things—a small jade Buddha and, um, a Paisley shawl, of course, and a few ivory carvings, but Indian things are somewhat rare in the United States.”

“Perhaps, after tea, you would like to see some of my collection?”

Alexandra’s face lit up, causing Thorpe to draw in his breath sharply. “Oh, yes, I would like that more than anything else.” She sat as the butler entered with the tea tray and set it on a low table, but she continued to talk excitedly. “I have a confession to make. That was one of the reasons I bullied Mr. Jones into bringing me here today. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of some of your Indian treasures. I have heard so much about your collection….”

“Indeed?” Thorpe studied Alexandra, wondering what bizarre thing would come out of her mouth next. He had never met a woman who enthused over his Indian objects, except perhaps for a luxurious Paisley shawl or a spectacular piece of jewelry.

“Oh, yes, I wrote you, in fact, a few months ago, when I knew I was going to be in London, asking you if I could see your collection, but you turned me down flat.”

“I did? How rude of me.” He frowned. “But I don’t remember…. No, wait, there was a letter from some fellow in the United States, but I thought—wasn’t it Alexander Ward?”

“Alexandra. People often make the mistake. They don’t expect an enthusiast of art objects to be a woman.”

“At least not to be writing letters to strange men and trying to set up appointments.”

“And what would you have me do?” Alexandra asked, her dark eyes firing up. “Ask my uncle or cousin to write a letter for me, as if I were incapable of writing a coherent letter myself?”

“It is not a question of your competence, Miss Ward, but a matter of taking care of, of protecting, a woman.”

“From what? The rudeness of a letter such as yours, denying me admittance?” She chuckled. “I was not pleased, of course, but it did not send me to my bed in a state of despair and shame. I have been told no before, I assure you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Thorpe retorted, grinning. “Well, please allow me to make up for my rudeness by showing you as much as you would like to see.”

“That would be the entirety, I’m sure.”

They talked a little while they drank their tea and ate the small cakes and biscuits that accompanied it. It was general talk, about the weather and London and the state of Massachusetts, where Alexandra lived. He inquired how she was enjoying her visit, hoping that it was not all business, and she dutifully related the sights she had seen and the things she had done. They spoke of Burchings Tea and of her own company, though Alexandra could see in Thorpe’s face that he found it odd to speak of such things with a woman. She wondered if he usually talked to women only about the weather and such and concluded that he must find it dull, indeed.

Mr. Jones returned to his office soon after tea was finished, assured by Lord Thorpe that he would see Miss Ward home in his own carriage. Thorpe offered his arm to Alexandra, a faint, almost challenging smile on his lips. Alexandra slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and tilted up her chin, tossing back the challenge, although she was not entirely sure what it was.

“You know,” Thorpe said in a low, conversational tone, “your staying and walking through these rooms with me by yourself is not recommended behavior for a young lady.”

“Oh?” Alexandra rounded her eyes into a look of great innocence. “Are you in the habit, then, of attacking defenseless young women in your home?”

“Of course not. Although I would hardly call you defenseless.”

“Then I have nothing to fear, have I?” Alexandra went on coolly, “You, being a gentleman and so concerned about protecting women, will doubtless see that no harm comes to me.”

“You’ve the tongue of an adder, my dear Miss Ward.”

“Why, what have I said, my lord?”

He cast her a look heavy with irony and abruptly turned into a room, pulling her in with him. Gripping her upper arms, he looked into her eyes, so close to her that his face filled her startled vision. His bright silvery eyes bored into hers, and she could feel the heat of his body, the power of his hands on her arms. She was intensely aware of his mobile mouth hovering only inches above hers. She could not move.

“You know, sometimes even a gentleman can be pushed beyond his control by a beautiful young woman.”

Alexandra had the wild thought that he was going to kiss her right there, and she realized with a start of amazement that the thought was more exciting than scary. “But I am sure that you never lose control,” she replied, annoyed at the shakiness of her voice.

“It would be foolish to count on that. If you had talked to the good ladies of London, you would know that I am considered capable of almost anything. I am, my dear naïve Miss Ward, the black sheep of my family. Not one to be trusted alone around young ladies.”

“Then it is a good thing that I am not a young English lady, but an American woman who learned early on how to discourage unwelcome attentions, is it not?”

“Indeed.” He leaned a little closer. “And would my attentions be unwelcome?”

Alexandra drew in her breath sharply, her heart hammering within her chest. She found it difficult to think, with his eyes staring into hers.

“No.” The word came out breathily as she swayed toward him.

CHAPTER TWO

“NO!” ALEXANDRA REPEATED, HORRIFIED at what she had been about to do. She jerked away from Lord Thorpe, moving farther into the room as she tried to bring her rapid breathing back to normal. “What—what nonsense you talk!”

Thorpe followed her into the room, but he did not touch her again, as she had feared. She felt curiously let down. Sternly, she tried to focus on the room. It was large and furnished entirely in teak. From the desk and the shelves of books behind it, Alexandra identified it as Lord Thorpe’s study. An ornately engraved rifle hung on one wall, and below it hung a sword with a wide hilt made of ebony and steel, also engraved. In one corner stood an unusual shirt of chain mail armor with metal plates across the chest and a long mail neck guard hanging down around the helmet on three sides. The edge of the neck guard was bordered in red velvet, and gold inlay was worked across the chest plates.

“Indian armor?” Alexandra asked with real interest, going over to study it. She tried not to think about how his hands had felt on her arms or the way she had yearned to press herself against him.

“Yes. It belonged to a Mogul officer from the last century.” Lord Thorpe’s voice was as calm as if the moment in the doorway had never happened. “The rifle was a present to me from a rajah.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I happened to be with him on a hunt and shot a tiger that had him targeted for lunch. He gave me the rifle and several trinkets in gratitude. The trinkets turned out to be sapphires and rubies.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. I sold them and bought my first piece of land.”

“A tea plantation?”

Thorpe nodded, somewhat surprised to find himself telling Alexandra the story of his early years in India. He had told very few people anything about what happened to him there. But, somehow, looking into Alexandra’s huge brown eyes, alive with interest, he felt little hesitation. She might know as little about the place or people as any of the other young ladies he knew, but one thing he was certain of was that her interest was genuine. It occurred to him that perhaps there was something to be said for Miss Ward’s policy of frankness. “I spent every bit of profit I made investing in land. Eventually I bought a piece that connected the rest of my plantation to the sea. It had a lovely white beach. I was walking along it one day and stepped on this dull round stone, but when I lifted it up, I saw that it wasn’t like other stones. It was an unpolished ruby.”

“On the sand?” Alexandra asked in astonishment.

He nodded. “Yes. About the size of a gold sovereign. I’ve never been so shocked in my life.” He smiled faintly, remembering the heat of the sun on his shoulders, the sound of the surf crashing nearby, the pounding excitement in his heart as he had stared at the stone. “A stream ran through there, joining the sea, and it had washed the ruby and several other stones down, depositing them on the beach. I found some other small rubies and a number of sapphires. So I started mining the stream and the area around it. And that is how the tea plantation became my secondary business.”

“So you own a ruby mine?”

“Mostly sapphires. But I sold it before I moved back to England. I kept the plantation because I had a very good manager, but the mine—well, I find, like you, that things don’t run very well without one’s personal effort.” He shot her an amused glance.

“You have lived a very exciting life.” It was no wonder, she thought, that a dangerous air clung to him.

Thorpe shrugged. “I have done what I had to do.”

Alexandra raised a brow. “You have to admit that you have done things few of the rest of us have—lived in exotic lands, shot tigers, found gemstones littering the sands….”

He chuckled. “It sounds more exciting than it seemed at the time. Then it mostly seemed like heat and sweat and trying to escape death.”

“That is what my uncle says about the War. He says everyone always wants to think of it as romantic and brave and daring, but mostly it was dirt and sweat and fear.”

“The War?”

“Yes. You know. That small war thirty-odd years ago in America…”

“Ah, yes.” He quirked a smile. “The conflict in the colonies. Fortunately, I wasn’t in the tea business at the time.”

Alexandra chuckled. “You take, I see, a large view of world affairs.”

Thorpe went to his safe, unlocked it and took out two packets of soft cloth. He laid them on his desk and unwrapped the first one. On the velvet lay an old necklace. Seven separate pieces of enameled gold dangled from the circlet by separate strings of emerald beads.

“It’s beautiful. It looks quite old.” Alexandra leaned closer.

“It is. It’s called a satratana. Each of these sections represents a planet in the Indian astrological system.”

“Fascinating,” Alexandra murmured. “It is such beautiful workmanship.”

He unrolled the other cloth, revealing a necklace of startling beauty made of sapphires and diamonds, with a large sapphire pendant hanging from the center.

“Are these from your mine?” Alexandra asked.

Thorpe suppressed a smile. Every other woman who had seen the necklace had practically salivated over it, caressing the jewels and holding it up to her throat. He supposed it should not surprise him that Miss Ward seemed more interested in the background of the jewels.

“Yes.” Perversely, he found himself wanting to see the jewels around her neck, though she had not asked.

“Was this a gift to your wife?”

“I have no wife. I intended this piece for no one,” he answered harshly, pushing aside the memory of the woman whose neck he had envisioned it on, knowing even as he did so that he would never see it.

He began to roll the necklace up in its velvet, then paused and looked at her consideringly. “Did you think I had a wife and yet was—” He glanced toward the doorway.

“Making advances to me?”

“Yes, making advances to you in my own wife’s home. You must think me a very low creature.”

Alexandra shrugged. “I know nothing about you, sir. I mean, my lord. You were, after all, intimating that I was putting myself in danger by being alone with you. If you are the sort to take advantage of a woman alone, I would suppose the fact of a wife would not stop you.”

He winced. “You don’t pull your punches, do you?”

“I try not to.” Alexandra softened her words with a smile, a dimple peeking in one cheek. “Actually, I did not think you were the sort. But I have always found it best not to assume too much.”

“Mm.” He wrapped the other necklace and returned them to the safe.

“Where is the original ruby?” Alexandra asked. “Did you keep it?”

He smiled at her intuition. “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much—if you don’t mind showing it to me.”

He reached into the safe again and pulled out a small pouch. Bringing it to where Alexandra stood, he opened the pouch and turned it upside down. The uncut ruby rolled into his hand. “I’m afraid it’s not as impressive as the necklace. It’s not polished or cut. I left it as it was.”

Alexandra smiled with something like approval. “That is exactly what I would have done.”

He held it out to her, and she took it, holding it in her palm and looking at it from this angle, then that, and finally handed it back to him. He replaced the ruby in its bag and closed it up in the safe. He turned to her. Normally he would have shown a visitor no more than what he already had, if that much. But he found himself wanting to show her more. He took her arm.

“Come upstairs. I will show you the India room.”

They climbed the wide, curving staircase to the next floor. Alexandra knew that this must be the floor on which the family bedrooms and more private sitting rooms lay, and it made her feel a little odd to be here alone with him. But she put the thought aside; she was not going to allow proprieties to spoil her enjoyment of this day. She had waited for years, it seemed, for a chance to view the kind of things Lord Thorpe was showing her.

Thorpe ushered her into a room, and Alexandra let out an exclamation of pleasure. The entire room had been given over to India. Huge jewel-toned cushions were scattered around the floor, which was softened by a wine-colored rug in the stylized Mogul fashion. Precisely realistic portraits of men in Indian dress hung on the walls, along with two more ornate swords. A chest of beaten brass, a low, round table of intricately carved wood and several pedestals and shelves held more treasures. There was a large head of Buddha made from gold and decorated with jewels. A vase of obvious antiquity filled with long, lovely peacock feathers stood on the floor, and several other pieces of pottery, some painted or gilded, others glazed, sat atop pedestals. There were ivory and jade statues of various animals, from elephants to tigers to coiling cobras, as well as figures of Hindu gods and goddesses and legendary heroes. Alexandra could not resist picking up first this one, then that, running her finger over the delicate carving.

“They’re beautiful,” she breathed. “Look at this knife.” She picked up a small, curved knife with an ivory hilt carved into the figure of a tiger, smoothing her finger over the hilt. “It seems odd that there would be such beauty expended on a thing of destruction.”

Thorpe watched her as she examined the things in the cabinet. Her face glowed as if lit from within, making her even more beautiful. He wondered if she would glow like that, her eyes soft and lambent, when she was making love. He knew, with a heat low in his abdomen, that it was something he would like to discover. Her fingers moved over the objects sensually, as though she gained as much enjoyment from touching them as from looking at them. Thorpe imagined the cool, smooth feel of the jade and ivory beneath her skin. He imagined, too, the warmth of Alexandra’s skin as she touched them, the softness and the faint texture, and the fire deep in his loins grew. This was a woman who used and enjoyed her senses, a woman who could dwell in the physical plane as easily as the intellectual. Nor did she try to hide her pleasure behind a cool mask of sophistication. She would be a passionate lover, he thought, as uninhibited in bed as she was in her speech, as eager to taste all the pleasures of lovemaking as she was to enjoy the beauty of his works of art.

Was she experienced? She was a woman of some wealth and position, at least in her country, and she was not married. Normally he would assume that she was, indeed, a virgin. But there was little that was normal about Miss Ward, he knew, and therefore he wondered if in this regard she flouted convention, also. It would be an interesting topic to pursue.

Alexandra laid the knife down with a sigh and looked around her one more time. “They are all exquisite. Thank you so much, Lord Thorpe, for allowing me to see them.” She smiled. “I realize that I pushed myself on you quite rudely. I have no excuse except my intense desire to see your treasures for myself. You have acted in a most generous manner.”

“It was a pleasure,” he responded truthfully.

“Thank you. I should be leaving now. My aunt and mother will be expecting me.”

“You are visiting London with them?” he asked, strolling with her out of the room and down the stairs.

“Yes. Mama was somewhat reluctant to come, but I could not leave her behind. And Aunt Hortense would never have forgiven me if I had come here without bringing her, too. Besides, even in America, we have rules about what a young lady may or may not do, and generally I find it easier to obey them. Traveling by oneself is not one of the things one may do.”

“Miss Ward…” They were approaching his front door, and Thorpe found himself filling up with an odd feeling of loneliness. “Would you—that is, I would be most honored if you would accompany me to a ball this evening.”

“What?” Alexandra stared at him. The last thing she would have expected from him was this. He had been quite forward, of course, in the doorway of his study, but once she had made it clear that she was not a loose sort, she had assumed he would have no interest in seeing her again.

“I am asking you to a dance.” He had not planned on going to one, but he felt sure that he could pull an invitation to one ball or another out of the pile of invitations on his desk.

“But I—” She realized that she wanted very much to go. She had little interest in London society, but the thought of dancing with Lord Thorpe set up a jittery, excited feeling in the pit of her stomach. “But surely your hostess would not wish you to bring a stranger to her party. Someone uninvited.”

A cynical smile touched his mouth. “My dear Miss Ward, no hostess would object to my bringing whomever or whatever I wanted to a ball, provided it meant she was able to score the coup of having me there.”

“My,” Alexandra said mockingly, “it must be marvelous to be so important.”

He let out a short laugh. “You think me arrogant again. Let me assure you it is not self-importance, only an acquaintance with London Society. I am a hostess’s prize for two reasons only.” He held up his hand, ticking off the points. “One, I never go to parties, therefore it is considered an accomplishment of the hostess to get me to come. Two, I am a prime candidate on the marriage mart, being both titled and wealthy. It matters not at all that very few of these same hostesses have any liking for or knowledge of me. In fact, I am considered something of a bad apple, but that is overlooked for the sake of my fortune.”

“Goodness. I don’t know which is worse, your arrogance or your cynical view of the world.”

“No doubt that is why I am not a well-liked guest.”

Alexandra had to laugh. “No doubt.” She hesitated, then gave a little nod. “Yes. Yes, I would like to go.”

ALEXANDRA LEANED BACK AGAINST THE cushioned seat of Lord Thorpe’s carriage, a small smile playing about her lips. She could imagine the look on her aunt’s face when she told her she was going with a lord to a London ball. Aunt Hortense, who had grown up during the war with England and the incendiary time period before that, had a deep-seated suspicion of Britain and all things British. Her dislike had only been strengthened during the last few years, when the British, in the midst of their war with Napoléon Bonaparte, had been stopping and impressing American sailors and impounding ships that were bound for France. Ward Shipping had lost a number of men and two ships that way. Aunt Hortense had been insistent upon accompanying Alexandra to London, stating flatly that she had to protect and help Alexandra, who would, in her words, be “like a lamb among the wolves.”

Of course, her dislike of the British was not as unswerving as that of Alexandra’s mother, who had argued steadfastly against her making the trip. Alexandra sighed. She didn’t want to think about her mother right now. She turned her mind to what gown she would wear tonight.

When she stepped inside the front door, however, all such pleasant thoughts fled. One of the maids was standing on the stairs, crying, with another maid trying vainly to soothe her, while her mother’s companion Nancy Turner stood apart from them, looking disgusted, her hands on her hips. From upstairs came the sound of pounding, punctuated by her aunt’s voice, calling, “Rhea? Rhea? Let me in!”

“Mercy’s sake, child, stop all that blubbering!” Nancy Turner exclaimed, her voice filled with exasperation. “You’d think nobody’d ever gotten mad at you before.”

The girl’s only response was to cry harder, and her companion said sharply to Nancy, “None of her employers has thrown a teapot at her head before! It’s not her fault. It’s you and your heathen American ways, all of you.”

“Exactly what heathen American ways are those, Doris?” Alexandra inquired icily.

Doris gasped and whirled around. When she saw Alexandra, she blushed to the roots of her hair and bobbed a curtsey. “Oh, miss, begging your pardon. I was—that is, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’m that distracted. I didn’t mean—well…” She wound down lamely in the face of Alexandra’s coolly inquiring expression. “It ain’t what we’re used to, and that’s a fact!” she declared defiantly.

“Presumably not, if it involves flying teapots. That’s not exactly accepted behavior in the United States, either.” Alexandra turned toward her mother’s companion, a sturdy American servant they had brought with them and who had worked for their family for years. “Nancy?”

“Mrs. Ward didn’t want her tea, miss, and she, well, flung it, but I’m sure she wasn’t aiming at the girl. You know Mrs. Ward couldn’t aim that well.” Nancy sent the snuffling maid a hard look. “It wasn’t even hot—and I must say, I don’t know what she expects when she brings a pot of barely warm tea to the missus.”