To Walk in the Sun (Wiggons' School for Elegant Young Ladies - Book 1) (10 page)

Wake Not the Dead

Johann Ludwig Tieck

Chapter 9

Though it was past midnight, Tess could not
return to sleep. It wasn’t from lack of comfort for she could not
recall lying in such luxury before. In fact, the softness of the
bed and sweet smell of the lavender scented sheets sent her into
slumber immediately. The memories woke her and ever since, she had
tossed and turned, trying to forget. If only she could avoid
thinking at night, then perhaps she could sleep. But, with the
darkness came her past, visions from the night her uncle had been
killed, the blood-covered floor, her red-stained footprints through
the room and the soaked hem of her gown. She couldn’t forget
Percer’s laughter and threat that he would see her sent to the
gallows. Or could she block her escape out her window that same
night.

She got out of the bed, shook the memories
from her mind and pulled the belt tight on her robe. Tess walked
toward the window and pushed the curtains aside. There was not much
to see, especially in the darkness of the night. Above, stars shown
down, but the land behind the house held only forest. Dark trees
swayed in the breeze.

Perhaps she should have left England. She now
had enough funds she could go where she pleased. However, the
continent was far too dangerous given the upheaval with France and
she feared America was too far away, too foreign. Yet, what was
really holding her here? It wasn’t as if she had family. On the
other hand, Claudia, Natalie and Mrs. Wiggons
were
her
family as she was theirs.

What if the school could not be rebuilt? The
workers returned late in the afternoon but had not met with Atwood
until after dinner. Neither she nor Mrs. Wiggons had been a part of
their conversation so she did not know how much work would need to
be accomplished. She only knew what they had been able to retrieve
a view items from her room, such as her journal and a case that
held small pieces of jewelry, letters and documents – items that
had belonged to her parents. It was too dangerous to go further
into her room, so she was still without clothing, other than the
dress she had worn the night of the tempest. Was that only
twenty-four hours ago? She shook her head and turned. So much had
happened it seemed more like a week or a month. Tess could only
hope the repairs were completed soon for she doubted Atwood wanted
them to stay very long.

Thoughts of Atwood brought an entirely
different set of memories to her mind. His sculpted chest, dark
eyes, unruly hair. . .

No, she would not think of his image either
or she would never sleep.

A book. That is what she needed. A long,
boring book to put her to sleep. Perhaps a treatise of sorts. Those
never failed to do the trick.

After she rolled up the sleeves, for the
third time tonight, of the robe she borrowed from Claudia, Tess
made her way down the hall, then the stairs, until she stood
outside of Atwood’s library. The door was ajar and she peeked into
the room. A fire burned brightly in the fireplace, but he was not
seated behind the desk. Perhaps he had retired early. Or, maybe he
had gone to visit his wife’s grave.

The clock struck down the hall and Tess
jumped at the sudden noise. One chime. Tomorrow would be difficult
enough while she tried to teach her lessons in a new location
without being exhausted as well.

Chances were Atwood had not yet returned from
the cemetery so she had time to sneak in, borrow a book and be back
in her cozy bed before he returned.

Tess pushed the door opened and walked
silently into the room. She lifted the lamp from the desk and
carried it with her so she would have enough light to read the
titles. Certainly there was something dreadful enough to lull her
back to sleep.

* * *

He heard her long before he saw her. Thank
goodness it was Miss Crawford. Or perhaps, it was more dangerous
because it
was
Miss Crawford. He wondered what could have
possessed her to come into his library at this time of night when
she knew he would be working. Worse, she was not even properly
dressed. The robe she wore must be two sizes too big given the hem
drug on the carpet behind her. Miss Crawford must have borrowed it
from Miss. Morris, for she was the tallest teacher and stood almost
a head above Miss Crawford.

He should alert her to his presence, but did
not feel compelled to do so. This was
his
library after all.
Besides, he was glad for the chance to study her, without her
knowledge.

She lifted the lamp to read the titles on the
shelf above her head. The robe shifted, dropped and exposed her
bare shoulder. Did she not have anything on beneath her robe? This
situation was more dangerous than he originally believed.

Miss Crawford turned to look at another stack
of shelves. The robe pulled away and revealed a shapely ankle and
calf. Her feet were rather delicate with small, dainty toes. Miss
Crawford definitely had nothing on beneath the overlarge robe, not
even serviceable slippers on her feet. Was she out of her mind to
wander his house in such a state of undress? Had she no idea the
affect she would have on any man?

He brought the glass to his lips and downed
the brandy. Perhaps she would leave soon. Leave him in peace. In
the meantime he allowed himself to absorb her appearance. Black
curls hung loose down her back and he wished he could see her face.
However, if he could see hers, she would see him and it was best
that she was unaware of his presence, especially in his current
physical state.

That was twice in one day that he had found
himself in this predicament. Worse, it was brought about by the
same woman. The other ladies hadn’t caused this type of reaction,
only
her
, and he could not begin to understand why. However,
it had been a very long time since he had enjoyed the intimacy of
being with a woman. Still, that did not explain why it was only
Miss Crawford who brought about the urge to couple. Of course, the
four older ladies would not have moved him to such a state. But
Miss Pritchard and Miss Morris were attractive as well. And, given
what he knew of Miss Pritchard, one would think he would desire her
above the others as she was no longer an innocent and teased her
friend in a manner that would suggest she did not mind a more
private relationship with a man. Yet, he had no desire for Miss
Pritchard or Miss Morris. Only Miss Crawford.

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.”