Chapter One
The sex was killing him! Channing Deveril shifted carefully, so as not to wake the brunette asleep against his shoulder, and sighed. There, that was better. He hadn’t slept in his own bed for the last seven nights and he was sorely missing the luxury of a big bed all to himself where his long limbs could spread out at will.
It was a sentiment that would surprise a certain population in London who believed Channing Deveril was the luckiest man alive. While they strutted and postured their way through boring musicales and tedious outings to the park, and dedicated their nights to dancing at Almack’s without the benefit of strong drink, all in the effort of competing for the few true prizes on the marriage mart, Channing had women competing for him. Not just any women, but the best sort of women, the sort one could bed and not have to marry—the rich ones looking for exciting bed sport. And if rumour was to be believed, they even paid him for his presence in their beds. It was something else that a certain population’s pride would never admit to, but who couldn’t do with a little extra blunt and who wouldn’t mind earning it that way? In their opinion, Channing Deveril was living the dream; all the sex and money he could manage.
Right now he wasn’t managing the dream very well. That certain population would also be surprised to note that his first thought upon waking, other than the sex was wearing him out, was a calculation of the odds: what were his chances of getting out of Lady Bixley’s lavender-scented sheets and to the door before she woke up? Marianne Bixley had been a tigress. Nothing had slowed her down—not the ropes, not the blindfold, not even the extra shot of brandy.
This was closely followed by the third thought: he just wanted to go home. The ‘luckiest man in London’ was tired, his mouth tasted like stale liquor and he wanted a few hours’ sleep in his own bed before it began all over again. Channing blew out a breath and tried an experimental move. Marianne Bixley murmured, but didn’t move. His arm was free. Now all he had to do was wait a few moments and roll.
How was he going to last the Season if he was this tired already? The Season hadn’t even started. These last two weeks had merely been the preamble. The Easter break was coming and then the Season would begin in earnest. Already, the agency, his very popular League of Discreet Gentlemen, was struggling to keep up with demand.
The League of Discreet Gentlemen had become such a success he was having difficulty scheduling his men to fill the requested appointments while still keeping the League discreet, as its name suggested. The latter had been a problem ever since the previous year when Nicholas D’Arcy, one of his top men, had almost been caught tupping a lord’s wife in the lord’s town house, an episode that had done much for the League’s popular notoriety and little for preserving the secrecy Channing preferred.
Providing a woman’s pleasure was not a topic for public purvey in his opinion and he rather liked the idea that most of London’s ton hadn’t originally been sure if the existence of the League was fact or fiction. These days, it was becoming harder to preserve the mystique of the unknown. Everything was becoming harder.
But that wasn’t why he’d stepped in to take on a few additional assignments. Usually, most of his days were spent administering the programme and that was work enough. He could rationalise the decision to step back into the role of full-time escort as the business’s booming need, but he knew his motives were more selfish than that. Lady Marianne Bixley was supposed to be the cure for what ailed him. So far, he didn’t think it was working.
Beside him, Lady Marianne gave a soft moan. It was working for her, however. He’d done his job well last night. He’d be doing it again, too, if he didn’t extricate himself from her sheets quickly. Just the thought that he wanted to get out of a beautiful woman’s warm bed was testament to the cure’s failure. Not even the persuasion of a morning erection and the warm comfort of Lady Bixley’s lush curves could compel him to stay.
Channing lifted the sheets and rolled out of bed. He held his breath as Lady Marianne stirred briefly, then settled. He began to dress, quickly, quietly. Since when had sex not cured everything for him? From boredom to loneliness to physical satisfaction, sex had been his go-to antidote since he’d turned sixteen, his constant companion. Now, it was letting him down most thoroughly. The past year and a half had been peppered with disappointment in that regard.
Channing reached for his boots. He was almost free! He would put them on in the hall to avoid making additional noise. It wasn’t that he couldn’t perform. Lady Marianne was proof enough that he could please even the most demanding of sensual appetites. He gathered up the remaining package of French letters on the nightstand and stuffed them into his coat pocket. Leaving them behind might give her the idea he was hoping for a repeat engagement. He made for the door with stealthy footsteps.
He was almost out when her voice, sultry with sleep, caught him, his hand on the knob. ‘Leaving so soon? Come back to bed.’
Channing turned, pasting a regretful smile on his face. ‘I wish I could. Unfortunately, I have an appointment I need to prepare for.’ It was true. Amery DeHart, one of his up-and-coming new escorts, had requested a meeting, but that wasn’t until later this morning. He could see from the pouting frown on Lady Marianne’s lips she thought it was another woman.
‘I’m sure I’m more exciting,’ she purred, letting the sheet drop a bit to reveal the swell of full breasts. Her eyes lowered to his trousers where his morning glory still flowered heavily against the fabric. ‘Your cock certainly thinks so.’
‘I’m sure you are, but business is business.’ Channing made her a small bow and took the chance to exit while she unravelled his comment. She was a smart woman, she would understand the reference and, when she did, she would be none too pleased to be categorised as an appointment. Appointments with the likes of Amery DeHart were business, but appointments with the likes of Lady Marianne were business, too, even if they were conducted at night. The sun had come up and it was time to move on with his day.
* * *
Channing was finding it hard to move on three hours later even after a bath and a change of clothes. He’d had to forgo the nap and it had left him struggling to focus. Channing pushed a hand through his hair, trying hard to concentrate on whatever it was Amery DeHart was saying. His thoughts kept returning to the question that had taunted him this morning: when had sex failed to meet his needs? Maybe his dissatisfaction with the act was a sign he should retire, close up shop altogether or hand the business over to someone else who had an appetite for it the way he had when he’d started the whole affair. Either way, perhaps it was time for him to get out.
‘I think it’s time for me to get out.’
Channing didn’t hear the rest. Amery’s words roughly jerked Channing’s attention front and centre. For a moment he worried he’d spoken his own thoughts out loud. ‘I beg your