Free The Duke’s Obsession Bundle by Grace Burrowes

speechless as the earl whisked his coat across his arm and strode from his room. The door slammed shut behind him as he yelled for Lord Valentine to meet him in the mews immediately or suffer a walk in the afternoon’s heat.
    Dumbstruck, Anna sat on the stool the earl had used for his trimming. He had a backward sort of charm to him, Anna thought, her fingers drifting over her cheek. After four days of barking orders, hurling thunderbolts, and scribbling lists at her in Tolliver’s absence, he thanked her with a lovely little kiss.
    She should have chided him—might have, if he’d held still long enough—but he’d caught her unawares, just as when he’d frowned at her hand and seen she had no wedding ring.
    Her pleasure at the earl’s kiss evaporating, Anna looked at her left hand. Why hadn’t she thought of this detail, for pity’s sake? Dress the part, she reminded herself.
    She hung up some discarded ensembles of court-worthy attire, straightened up both the escritoire and the earl’s bureau, which looked as if a strong wind had blown all into disarray. When she opened his wardrobe, she unashamedly leaned in and took a big whiff of the expensive, masculine scent of him while running her hand along the sleeve of a finely tailored dark green riding jacket.
    He was a handsome man, but he was also a very astute man, one who would continue to spot details and put together facts, until he began to see throughher to the lies and deceptions. Before then, of course, she would be gone.

    When he finally returned to his townhouse that evening, the earl handed his hat, gloves, and cane to a footman then made his way through the dark house to the kitchens, wanting nothing so much as a tall, cold glass of sweetened lemonade. He could summon a servant to fetch it but was too restless and keyed up to wait.
    “My lord?” Mrs. Seaton sat at the long wooden table in the kitchen, shelling peas into a wooden bowl, but stood as he entered the room.
    “Don’t get up. I’m only here to filch myself some cold lemonade.”
    “Lord Valentine sent word you’d both be missing dinner.” She went to the dry sink and retrieved the pitcher. The earl rummaged in the cupboards and found two glasses, which he set down on the table. Anna glanced at him curiously but filled both, then brought the sugar bowl to the table.
    Westhaven watched her as she stirred sugar into his glass, his eyebrows rising in consternation.
    “I take that much sugar?”
    Anna put the lid back on the sugar bowl. “Either that, or you curse and make odd faces and scowl thunderously at all and sundry.” She pushed his glass over to him, and took a sip out of hers.
    “You don’t put any in yours?” he asked, taking a satisfying swallow of his own. God above, he’d been craving this exact cold, sweet, bracing libation.
    “I’ve learned not to use much,” Anna said, sipping again. “Sugar is dear.”
    “Here.” He held up his glass. “If you enjoy it, then you should have it.”
    Anna leaned back against the sink and eyed him. “And where is that sentiment in application to yourself?”
    He blinked and cocked his head. “It’s too late in the day for philosophical digressions.”
    “Have you even eaten, my lord?”
    “It appears I have not.”
    “Well, that much of the world’s injustices I can remedy,” she said as she rinsed their glasses. “If you’d like to go change out of those clothes, I can bring you up a tray in a few minutes.”
    “If you would just get me out of this damned cravat?” He went to stand near her at the sink, waiting while she dried her hands on a towel then nudged his chin up.
    “The cravat is still spotless,” she informed him, wiggling at the clasp on the stickpin, “though your beautiful shirt is a trifle dusty and wilted. Hold still .” She wiggled a little more but still couldn’t undo the tiny mechanism. “Let’s sit you back down at the table, my lord.”
    He obligingly sat on the long bench at the table,