Make his father happy with the gift of a grandson who would bear his name.

It was the way it had been done for a thousand years. In his culture there was no concept of romantic love as there was in the West; marriage was a contract, something to be arranged for the mutual benefit of two families. His wife would be a woman he could respect. She would run his home, bear his children-sons who would bring him honour, daughters who would bring him joy.

His gaze was drawn back to the young woman sitting in front of him, the soft curve of her cheek glimpsed in the reflection of the driving mirror. The suggestion of a dimple.

She had the kind of face that would always be on the point of a smile, he suspected, smiling himself as he reran the range of her expressions-everything from horror as she’d let slip a word that was definitely not in the Polite Chauffeur’s Handbook, through blushing confusion, in-your-face take-it-or-leave-it cheek and finally, touchingly, concern.

Glass. For a child. What on earth had he been thinking? What had James been thinking?

That was the point. They hadn’t been. He’d just ordered the most expensive, the most desirable version of the child’s wish and James had, as always, delivered.

A wife wouldn’t have made that mistake.

Metcalfe wouldn’t have made that mistake.

Nor would she settle for a relationship based on respect, he suspected. Not with that smile. But then she came from a different world. Lived a life unknown to the young virgins from among whom his mother would look for a suitable bride.

Very different from the sophisticated high-achieving career women who he met in the line of business, who lived their lives more like men than women, although what she lacked in gloss, sophistication, she more than made up for in entertainment value.