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A dubious laugh. “That's a delightful notion. But I'm not impractical enough to expect it. No, I don't object to paying. Love isn't the issue.”
“Then what is?”
“Breeding. Breeding and chastity.” Silence.
“I see our discussion has reached an end,” Hibbert said, glancing over to give Maurelle a rueful smile. “I didn't mean to offend you. But you did ask. Now perhaps you'll understand why I didn't want to pursue the subject.”
“I'm not offended.” Maurelle caressed his fingers. “Just so I understand, monsieur, you're saying you'd prefer to buy one of my ladies for an indefinite period of time—if she's well-bred and untouched?”
“Nobly bred and untouched,” Hibbert corrected. “Any companion I acquired would have to be of the same class as I am. And, at the same time, young and beautiful.” The warmth left his face. “I hope you're not toying with me, Miss Le Joyau. I might be lonely, but I'm not stupid.”
“I'm not toying with you, my lord.”
“Then why are we pursuing this discussion?”
“Because I might be able to supply you with precisely the companion you want.” Maurelle withdrew her hand, suddenly all business. “For the right price, that is.”
“Do we understand each other?” Hibbert asked bluntly. “I'm referring to a noblewoman. A young lady born of the peerage. And a virgin. Someone who's never lain with a man before.”
“I know what a noblewoman is, my lord. Just as I know the definition of a virgin.”
“And why would I find either, much less both, in a brothel?”
“Because the young woman I'm thinking of just arrived, this week in fact. She has yet to entertain her first client.” Maurelle leaned forward, obviously sensing a windfall. “I would give you a guarantee, of course. I have my reputation to consider.”
Hibbert remained dubious. “Suppose I accept your guarantee. You've assured me of her innocence. What about her roots?”
The barest of pauses, as Maurelle adjusted her story ever so slightly. “She's English, like yourself. Her late father was a viscount. He died, leaving his family destitute. Until recently, she lived with her mother. Unfortunately, her mother died, too. The girl came to Paris, penniless and alone. I took her in.”
He permitted himself to appear hopeful—Wary, but hopeful. “What does she look like?”
“As luck would have it, she's just what you're seeking. She's lovely. Like the woman you came in search of, she, too, has pale hair and eyes. She's just eighteen. I was going to put her to work tonight, but...” Maurelle bit her lip thoughtfully. “I could change my mind— if I were properly persuaded.”
“You said she was alone.” Eagerness laced Hibbert's tone. “That means she has no ties. Could this arrangement be permanent?”
“As permanent as you wish.”
“Let me meet her.”
Maurelle hesitated, well aware she now had the upper hand. “We haven't agreed upon a price.”
“If she's all you say, you may name your price. I'll give you every pound in my pocket, and a signed note for the rest. I'll have my banker authorize the remaining funds the instant I return home. But first—I must meet hen”
Maurelle squeezed his hand, her own eyes glowing with the triumph of victory. “Naturellement. I'll bring her to you. You won't be disappointed.”
“I'm sure I won't be.”
Hibbert remained in his seat, glad for his own ability to remain unreadable. He felt a surge of relief, supplanted only by his deep-seated anger and disgust. He knew only too well who Maurelle would be bringing out to meet him. He also had an excellent idea of the state she'd be in. It was up to him to disregard that state, to keep her in the dark long enough to get her out that door with him—for her own sake.
After which, he'd tell her the truth, reassure her fears, and elicit her help.
And somehow convince her to be strong for a little while longer.
“Here we are, my lord.” Maurelle guided a lovely young woman into the room—a woman whose description perfectly matched the one Lord Royce had provided of Emma Martin. Her ashen complexion and terrified expression told Hibbert she'd been warned not to do anything to discourage her potential buyer—probably at the risk of physical harm, or worse.
“This is Emma,” Maurelle supplied. “Emma, please greet
Lord Hobson.”
