To Walk in the Sun (Wiggons' School for Elegant Young Ladies - Book 1)

by Charles, Jane

  Perhaps a trip to London was in order. Especially since this house had been invaded. The townhome in London offered blessed peace and quiet.

  Miss Crawford bent forward to look at the titles on the lower shelves. The robe tightened against her rounded bottom.

  Vincent groaned. This was not a sight he needed to see right now.

  Miss Crawford stiffened and turned to look around the room.

  Atwood covered his groan with a cough. She did not need to know the reaction she wrought in him.

  “You live a dangerous life, Miss Crawford,”

  She turned toward his voice. Her mouth opened and she squinted into the darkness.

  “First, you walk alone at night. Then you are caught in a tempest. Now, you visit my library, long after you should be asleep, wearing nothing but a robe.”

  Her hand came up to grasp the edges of the robe to close it at the collarbone. Her face pinkened under the light of the lamp. He loved how she blushed.

  She took a step forward. “Lord Atwood?”

  He stood and came forward so that she could see him better. “Would you care for a brandy?” What was he thinking? He should force her to leave, not invite her for a visit.

  “Oh,” she took a step back, “I don’t think so.”

  “It is much more soothing than a book, if one is wishing to sleep.”

  “It is not proper.”

  He laughed. “We have long moved past propriety, Miss Crawford. Come, share a glass with me.”

  He walked to the table and poured a liberal amount of liquid into his own glass, but less in hers.

  Miss Crawford placed the lamp back on his desk and edged toward the settee. He took a step toward her. She took a step as well and reached out her hand. At the same time her foot caught on the long hem and she tumbled into him. Vincent’s arms went out to catch Miss Crawford and in the process spilled the contents down the back of her robe. With a hiss at the sudden drenching, she arched her back as if in an attempt to move the robe from her skin.

  Vincent thought he was going to expire on the spot, or worse, toss Miss Crawford on the settee and ravage her. In the process of trying to escape the wetness on her back, the robe had opened to reveal the soft swells of her breasts. If it loosened any further, all of her would be on display for him to enjoy. It didn’t help that his other hand was settled at the small of her back to keep her balanced, or that her middle section was pressed against him like a second skin. He had to escape this woman soon, before it was too late.

  He set the now empty glass on the table and with both hands, grabbed her shoulders and moved her away.

  She straightened and looked him in the eye. “I apologize for my clumsiness, Lord Atwood.”

  “There is no harm done.” He forced a smile in front of his gritted teeth. He wished she would tighten her robe.

  She held his eyes for a moment then looked away. He picked up his own glass and downed the contents. “Please, have a seat. I will bring the drink to you.”

  Miss Crawford bit her bottom lip but did turn to walk toward the settee. She must have looked down because he heard a gasp. When he dared turn in her direction, she was fidgeting with the front of the robe. It tightened across her shoulders and by her arm movements he could only assume she was tightening the belt. Thank goodness.

  * * *

  Tess had never been so grateful for the darkness. In the light of day, Lord Atwood would have seen a good deal of her person. Most of which he had no right to see.

  He offered her another glass of brandy. She took it and kept her back erect in hopes the robe did not cling to her skin. Not only was she now damp and cold, she reeked of spirits. She hoped one of the servants would be able to clean it tomorrow because she had no other robe. This one wasn’t even hers. She would have to see about her state of clothing, or lack thereof, shortly because she could not wear the same dress for months on end.

  “Thank you.” She glanced up at him. “When you were not at your desk I assumed you were at the cemetery. Otherwise I would not have intruded.”

  “I have already returned from visiting the grave.”

  Tess looked away and toward the fire. What did one say to that? Did you find the walk pleasant? How is your wife’s plot? Did it survive the storm? Whose flowers did you steal this evening? Have you discovered a way to raise her from the dead?

  Instead, she took a sip of the spicy liquid.

  “The girls, have they settled in?”

  Tess returned her focus to him. Goodness he was handsome in the firelight. Dark eyes, pale skin, shadows cast beneath his high cheekbones, his lips. If his chest appeared sculpted, his face had been chiseled to perfection. She cleared her throat. “Yes, they have.”

  “Do I make you nervous, Miss Crawford?”

  Yes, you do. “Um, no.” She lifted the tumbler to her lips and sipped the fiery liquid.

  The side of Atwood’s mouth tipped up. “You seem nervous.”

  “Well, this is rather… well, different, yes, a different type of circumstance than I usually find myself in.”

  “What is unusual about a lady and a gentleman sharing a glass of brandy at the end of the day?”

  “It is one in the morning,” Tess reminded him. She was not used to this side of him. He seemed almost nice. True, he had been kind enough to offer his house, but he had complained, and sometimes yelled, since. She was certain this was the first time he actually seemed, well, pleasant.

  “So, it is the hour you object to?” he prompted.

  The hour, the lack of a chaperone, my lack of clothing. “I am unaccustomed to sitting with a gentleman in his library.”

  “But not unaccustomed to brandy?” He lifted his glass in question before he took a drink.

  Tess bit her lip and looked down. Ladies were not supposed to enjoy brandy, but for some reason, she did not put much stock in that rule. “The teachers and I, not all of them mind you, tend to enjoy a small libation at the end of an arduous day.”

  “Having met some of your students, I would not blame you if you enjoyed a bottle at the end of every day.”

  Tess tried to hide her giggle, but what he said was too true. If fact, they often considered doing just that. “While I should defend the students, I find your statement to be quite accurate.”

  His grin broadened and Tess’ heart skipped a beat.

  Atwood leaned back, a small smile still on his lips as he studied her face. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Crawford.”

  Tess took a deep breath and said nothing at first. She certainly would not tell him the truth. “What would you like to know?” she countered. It was easier to answer a direct question than to ramble on about her life. Especially when there were pertinent details that should remain hidden for eternity.

  “What of your parents? Do you have siblings? What brought you to the academy to teach when a lady, as lovely as yourself, could have landed a husband during any season you chose to attend?”

  Tess’ face heated. He thought her lovely? She couldn’t remember the last time a gentleman had given her a compliment. Those from Percer did not count as he had an ulterior motive. It didn’t just please her that Atwood thought she was pretty, it warmed her, from her very core. “My parents died when I was four and ten. I was a student at the academy at the time.”

  “How did they die?”

  She had to look away. He was no longer smiling but had a true look of concern on his face. It wasn’t that long ago that he lost his own parents, brother and wife, so perhaps he understood her loss better than anyone. “They were crossing the Channel. Father had taken his yacht out. Either a ship from her majesty’s navy did not see him, or my father could not maneuver in time. . .” She paused to sip from her drink. “Regardless, the two collided and given the difference in size, there was nothing that could be done. Both my mother and father were pulled from the water, but it was too late.”

  He reached over and grasped her hand. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  She
turned to look in his eyes. She would have never believed those almost black pools could be so full of warmth and carrying. This was not good. Tess broke eye contact once again and took a hasty drink. Her hand tingled beneath the warmth of his, but she had no will to pull it away.

  “Once I finished school, I went to live with my uncle.”

  “Did you have a season or two?”

  “No.” Had she, her life could have turned out entirely different. Her uncle would also still be alive. “He passed before there was an opportunity.” She could claim to have had a season, but that fact could be confirmed too easily. It was better to stay as close to the truth as possible. “He was elderly and though he wanted to give me a chance in London, I could not bring myself to prevail upon him to take me the city. We remained in the country, in quiet recluse.” That was partially the truth. Atwood did not need to know that her uncle had died right before she turned nineteen and before their planned trip to London for her presentation.

  “There are no other relatives?”

  They all think I have run away, left the country. “No. Or none that I ever knew or were close to.”

  “So, instead of going to live with one of them, and getting the season you deserve, you returned to your childhood home.”

  That summed it up. Tess turned and smiled at him. “That is exactly what happened.”

  “But you are so young. Why would you throw your life away at a school?”

  Tess was not prepared for this question. Others had asked about her family, but this question had never been posed. She pulled her hand from beneath his and stood. “I enjoy my position at the school and enjoy my time with the girls. It is fulfilling in a way I never dreamed possible.”

  “Don’t you long for more?” His voice was quiet, hushed, prodding. She turned to look at him.

  “In truth, Lord Atwood, the thought has never crossed my mind.”

  * * *

  Vincent had seen endless waste in the world from the dandies that wagered estates on a hand of cards to soldiers who wagered their lives in war. Miss Crawford, with her silver eyes, black hair, and form of a goddess, was wasting away at a girls’ school tucked away in the country, far from London. There she would only grow old and lonely, having never known love, passion, or children. Waste, that was the only way to describe it.

  “I believe I should return to my room. Thank you for the brandy.” Miss Crawford turned to leave. He was not ready for her to go yet, but knew it was probably the wisest thing she did.

  Vincent stood to follow her. Only every other sconce was lit, and he feared she would trip in the darkness.

  Tess placed her hand on the railing and took the first step. Her foot caught on the hem of her robe and she tumbled forward.

  Vincent stalked forward and lifted her into his arms.

  “Put me down,” she protested.

  “And watch you try and negotiate the stairs only to fall and break your neck? I think not.” His voice was harsh to his own ears, but the sight of Veronica lying broken at the bottom of these very stairs swam in his vision. He would not allow another lady to share the same fate.

  He cradled her in both arms and stalked up the stairs.

  “You may put me down now,” Miss Crawford hissed once they stopped on the main floor.

  Vincent knew there was very little chance of her getting injured in the hallway, but it had been so long since he held a woman in his arms, and one that smelled as sweet as Miss Crawford, he did not want to relinquish her too soon.

  “I prefer to see you to the safety of your room,” he replied and strolled further down the hall.

  A door banged shut at the end of the hall and he turned to look but no one was there.

  “I am sorry. It was probably one of the girls.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes. It would be interesting to find out what tale they made up after seeing him carrying Miss Crawford to her chamber.

  “Haste, let us away ere the dawn breaks, for my eye

  is yet too weak to endure the light of day.”

  Wake Not the Dead

  Johann Ludwig Tieck

  Chapter 10

  “Did you see?” Eliza asked her wide-eyed friends, her back pressed against their bedroom door.

  “Who do you think it was?” Sophia asked. She walked toward the burning fireplace, her arms wrapped around her body as if to ward off a chill.

  “Who do you think?” Rosemary turned toward her.

  Sophia shrugged her shoulders. “All we could see was her feet.”

  “And the pale robe,” Rosemary added, her tone ominous.

  Sophia looked between the two girls, her expression blank, and she shrugged her shoulders again.

  “It was her, his wife,” Eliza insisted as she came forward.

  Rosemary grew pale. “It must be here. Who else could it be?”

  “It is impossible. We would have heard. Remember the story.” Sophia turned her pleading eyes on Eliza. “It has been a calm night.”

  “True,” Rosemary agreed.

  “It wasn’t last night ago,” Eliza reminded them, a small smile on her lips, her eyes lit with excitement.

  Rosemary’s mouth popped open and her eyes grew wide.

  “Where do you think she has been all this time and why did Atwood wait until now to bring her home?” Sophia sank into a rocking chair.

  “Maybe he didn’t know it worked.” Eliza sat on the bed, then jumped back up and paced. “He had to hide in the crypt with Miss Crawford, and then they went to the school. He probably didn’t even know his wife had awakened.”

  “Then where has she been all this time,” Sophia asked with exacerbation.

  Eliza’s pacing increased. Her fingernail tapped against her chin. Suddenly she stopped and looked at her friends. “I know. She was hiding in the crypt at day and hunting in the woods at night.”

  “Hunting? Vampires don’t hunt animals,” Rosemary argued. “Or, at least I don’t think they do.”

  “True.” Eliza resumed her pacing. “The poor woman must have been hiding and waiting for her beloved husband.” Eliza stopped in front of the fireplace and focused on frightened Rosemary. “She must have been beside herself, wondering why she was back and worried about where her husband may be,” she ended with a proper dramatic sigh.

  “Do you think we will see her?” Rosemary leaned forward.

  “Of course not. Atwood will have to keep her hidden,” Eliza admonished.

  “I just hope we are out of here before she gets hungry,” Rosemary mumbled.

  “Me too.” Sophia pulled her robe tight around her shoulders.

  * * *

  Tess woke to a gloomy room. Then again, it shouldn’t be a surprise since her windows faced north and would never see the true light of day, just like Atwood’s.

  She rose and walked to her armoire. The same dress she had worn for the past two days once again hung within and her freshly laundered chemise folded neatly on a shelf. The servants had been kind enough to wash it each evening and repaired some of the damage, but not all of the blood stains could be removed. She dreaded the thought of wearing that dress again, but had no other choice.

  She exited her room and turned down the hall only to meet Atwood strolling from the opposite direction. His eyes raked her from head to toe.

  What was wrong with her appearance? She had glanced in the mirror one last time before she exited her room. Her hair and clothing were neat, so what could be wrong?

  “I mean no disrespect, Miss Crawford, but shouldn’t you address the issues of your wardrobe before the studies of your students.”

  Tess took a step back. How dare he?

  “While the dress is quite lovely on you, I have never known a lady who could wear the same ensemble for six hours, let alone three days. I find it rather impressive that you have managed.”

  So, he was not insulting her, or was he? Tess did not know what to make of his comments. This gentleman was very strange indeed.

  “I am sorry, Mi
ss Crawford. I see I have left you speechless. Please pay me no mind. If you wish to wear the dress for the rest of your days it is no concern of mine.”

  He did not move on, but seemed to focus on her forehead. She brought her fingers up to feel the injury, wondering if she was bleeding again.

  “Your cut seems to be healing nicely. Though the bruise is an interesting mix of purple, blue and it is turning a bit green around the edges, but the swelling seems to have gone down.”

  She let her hand drop. Atwood certainly knew how to make a lady feel attractive, she thought sarcastically.

  “I still wish you would have allowed Wesley to stitch your head, though this may not scar after all.”

  “I would rather risk a scar than face a needle and thread, as I explained.”

  He quirked a brow. “You are a rather odd lady, Miss Crawford. First, your dress, and now no concern over a scar on your face.”

  Goodness, could he insult her anymore?

  “Good day, Miss Crawford. It is time I retire.” He nodded his head and walked past her to enter his own rooms.

  Tess turned to watch him go, unsure of what to make of the odd conversation. However, his thoughts had mirrored her earlier ones. It was time for new clothing.