“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?”