Free Written on Your Skin by Meredith Duran Page B

Shine. Leave it to the Americans to demand a crown for a bit of soap. He glanced to the next sheet.
    Everything in him went still.
    “…Sir?”
    It had only been a matter of time. There was nothing to be surprised about. And in fact, he wasn’t surprised. He simply felt—suspended. Like a figure in a flipbook, halted by a forceful thumb. He forced his attention upward. “Yes,” he said.
    Fretgoose held up a jacket. “Will this serve, sir?”
    He nodded once, absently, and then, gathering his thoughts, said, “Tell Gorman to cancel my appointments for tomorrow.” He would need to pay his respects to the bereaved.

    Phin set out for Eton at nine the next morning. It was a short journey by train, but he chose to travel by carriage. They had improved the roads since last he’d traveled them. It did not take as long as he’d calculated. When the coach pulled up outside the modest cottage, it wasn’t yet noon.
    He remained in the vehicle, studying the house. It looked no different from what he remembered. The wooden gate had a fresh coat of white paint, and the rosebushes flanking the path seemed tamer. Otherwise, he might have been seventeen. The red gingham curtains in the front parlor stood open. Deliberately, he called to mind the arguments these curtains had occasioned. Mr. Sheldrake liked a great deal of light—any mapmaker would. Mrs. Sheldrake had protested; the sunshine bleached the upholstery, she complained. The war over the curtains had become an ongoing joke, and he should smile at the memory.
    He forced himself to smile.
    A maid came trotting by with a basket on her arm. As she passed, she craned to peer into his window. Well. A large, glossy coach bearing a coat of arms did tend to draw attention. He should have taken a brougham. But he was going to pay his respects to Sheldrake. If he had to do it as the man he’d become, then he would present himself in every aspect. Would it have mattered to Sheldrake that he’d come into the title? He doubted it. But it would have been a far more cheering piece of news than all the others Phin might have shared.
    He stepped out of the coach and waved off the footman who had been riding on the box seat and now wanted so very desperately to open the gate for him. God forbid a nob should break a fingernail working a latch. There was a trick to unfastening it so as not to make any noise; his fingers remembered it before his mind did, and the gate swung open soundlessly before him. He saw his feet moving along the path. The number of steps to the door, the door itself, the whole house seemed so small. A surreal feeling took hold of him. He’d been at his full height during his last visit, hadn’t he? It made no sense that everything should look so much smaller.
    The door opened almost instantly at his knock. Expecting to see the maid, Alys, Phin instead found himself staring into the face of Laura Sheldrake. Gone, the rounded cheeks of girlhood; in the scrappy tomboy’s place stood a pretty woman in her mid-twenties, her auburn hair rosy in the light. He had dreamed, once upon a time, of marrying her.
    For a moment she smiled at him blankly. Her eyes moved beyond him to the coach. And then she looked back to him, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Phin!”
    “Miss Sheldrake.” She wore no wedding ring, so he knew to say that much. From there, he was flying on nothing.
    She did not wait for formalities. Taking his arm, she drew him inside. The hall smelled of freshly baked bread and rosemary. He had never determined Laura’s stance on the curtains; in the spirit of diplomacy, she had maintained a neutral façade. Perhaps it was she who’d opened them today, in honor of her father. “Phin, I can’t believe it’s you! But—” The joy faded from her face. “Oh. Oh, dear. You have heard, haven’t you?”
    He removed his hat. He did not have to look for the peg. This was the one house in the world where he could reach out blindfolded to deposit his hat, and know