Read Online Written on Your Skin by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online Page B

energetically that she felt dizzy. It was very good to know that at least one gentleman existed who felt the need to consult with her before making decisions on her behalf. She stepped back as he came to his feet, hugging herself to keep the elation from bursting through her skin. Freedom.

    Phin came awake, his eyes still closed. A stranger was in his room. His body wanted him to know it.
    Air stirred by his cheek. “Good morning, dear.”
    He lunged up, his hand clamping around a throat. The man stumbled back. His head slammed into the wall. Gray eyes. Hands lifted in surrender, rings glittering. “Pax,” the viscount croaked.
    Christ. He’d done it again. His ears began to burn, but the irritation turned outward, staying his hand. Unexpected and disorderly entrances were Sanburne’s stock-in-trade; at university, he had once arranged to enter a lecture, late, in the escort of a rented llama. But they were not at Oxford anymore, and these boyish games grew tiring. “Pax?” His fingers tightened. “Let me consider it.”
    Sanburne lifted a brow and glanced past him. Abruptly he became aware of other, more familiar sounds, only now resuming: the faint scrape of the fire iron, the rustle of paper. His valet and a chambermaid were bearing witness to this idiocy. More proof, if they needed it, that the new earl was a madman.
    He dropped his hand and stepped back. The embarrassment felt reflexive, not even sharp enough to shorten his breath. Five months since his return, and he was growing near to resigned. Drugs did not dull this reflex. His logic could not rule it. He had no enemies in this city, save Ridland. But old habits did not die, and the slightest unfamiliar noise continued to wake him.
    Sanburne was studying him with a frown. “Coffee? And some light.” With a flourish of his gloved hand, he yanked open the drapes.
    The weak light of a murky London morning pricked Phin’s eyes as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Chimneys smoked in the early chill, and a stray bird wheeled against the gray clouds. He’d slept through the night. That was something, at least. “What time is it?”
    Sanburne cocked his head. “Too late? Or too early, maybe.” His tawny hair was bare, disheveled in a manner evoking scuffles in which hats got knocked away. From the smell of him, he’d breakfasted on alcohol, although the rumpled look of his jacket suggested he’d never gone to bed. “Eight o’clock,” he decided. “Somewhere thereabouts. How long does that make for you?”
    “Five hours.” Almost.
    Sanburne made a mocking tsk. He could not appreciate the magnitude of this achievement; he found the project itself misguided. Sleep as little or long as you like, he’d advised last week. The world will bend to suit you now. And to be fair, he was right; letter after letter proved as much. The solicitor would visit at whichever hour suited Phin best, dawn till midnight or shortly thereafter. The estate managers, the complaining tenants, the ambitious young men in search of a mentor, God help them—to a man, they assured him it would be a privilege to be answered at his leisure.
    At first, after so many years of taking orders, Phin had found these reassurances startling. He had saved the letters simply to reread them, to wonder if this could be true. He’d never tested it, though. He replied immediately, and held his meetings during the daylight; that was when normal men did business, and if there was some obscure point to delaying, or to demanding special accommodations, he’d missed it.
    It seemed possible he was missing a great deal. Sanburne seemed to think so; his regard, more and more of late, suggested that Phin was an object of deep concern. It grew irritating. “Why are you here?” he asked curtly.
    “You need a holiday.”
    The rest of his life was a bloody holiday now. “You have an idea, I take it.”
    Sanburne laughed. “The whole city has an idea. What, don’t you remember? Much ado at Epsom Downs,