To Walk in the Sun (Wiggons' School for Elegant Young Ladies - Book 1) (13 page)

“Did you say that Lady Atwood has arisen,
apparently?” Miss Morris asked.

“That is what the girls believe,” Miss
Pritchard confirmed.

Miss Morris leaned forward. She sat at the
far corner, next to Miss Crawford, and the one piece of sun that
found its way to this side of the house shone on both of them.
Their faces were alight with curiosity and humor.

“Eliza?” Miss Crawford questioned.

“Apparently the girls saw Lord Atwood
carrying Lady Atwood to his room last night.”

Miss Crawford choked on her tea. He wasn’t
surprised given she was the one who he’d actually carried.

Vincent leaned against the window but held
back his own laughter. Veronica would have found great enjoyment in
these current rumors surrounding her.

“Of course, all they saw were her feet and
pale nightgown, but they are completely convinced it was she.”

“That explains Sophia’s question at breakfast
this morning,” Miss Crawford acknowledged in dry humor.
“And when did she apparently come back to life?” Miss Morris
asked.

While Miss Morris and Miss Pritchard laughed,
Vincent noted that Miss Crawford had become very quiet.

“During the storm,” Miss Pritchard announced.
“According to Eliza, this has been the first time he was able to
bring her home and the poor woman has been hiding since the
tempest.”

Miss Morris howled with laughter and was
joined by Miss Pritchard. Miss Crawford remained silent and the
women turned their attention to her. Vincent could observe the
mischievous look on Miss Pritchard’s face from where he stood. “So,
Tess, who do you think Lord Atwood was actually carrying through
the house? I know it was not I.”

“Nor was it I,” Miss Morris added.

“All right.” Miss Crawford stood and placed
her cup on the table. “He came across me in the library and we
spoke for a short time. When I tripped on your robe going up the
stairs, he insisted on carrying me so I didn’t injure myself.”

Both ladies sat back and looked at her
thoughtfully. Neither said a word.

“What?” Miss Crawford demanded and flopped
back down in the chair, exasperated.

The other two ladies exchanged a perplexed
look. “Why, nothing,” Miss Morris insisted, “but you do seem rather
defensive.”

Miss Pritchard leaned forward. “How long did
you talk and what exactly did you discuss?”

Miss Crawford made a show of filling her cup
with tea, and then with slow deliberation added sugar. After she
settled back, she answered their questions. “He asked me about my
life, my family, where I come from, why I did not make a match in
London.”

Both ladies stiffened. Vincent found their
reaction rather odd. Had he missed something?

“What did you tell him?” Miss Morris asked in
an ominous tone, as if she feared the answer. She placed her cup on
the table and it rattled in the saucer.

Miss Crawford fixed her gaze on the woman,
her mouth firm and serious. “I told him as much as I dare.”

“Go on,” Miss Pritchard prompted.

“That my parents died when I was fourteen and
that I chose to remain in the country with my uncle and forego a
season and that he had died.”

The two other teachers looked at each other
then back to Miss Crawford. “Did you mention your betrothal?”

Betrothal?
She definitely left out
that particular detail for he would have remembered such a
pertinent fact.

Miss Crawford shook her head.

“So, he knows nothing about your association
with Lord Percer.”

“No, and I would like to keep it that
way.”

Vincent turned from the window. It felt as if
a fist had been slammed into his gut. The one man he hated above
all others was betrothed to Miss Crawford. Why did she insist on
keeping it a secret? Truth be told, had he known he would have
never allowed her into his house. How could such an apparently kind
woman be engaged to that deceiving bastard? Further, what possessed
her to remain mum about her involvement? Any other woman would
gloat about an engagement to a lord, so why hadn’t Miss
Crawford?

His mind turned back to the first time he had
seen her. At first he thought she had caught the girls spying on
his house, when perhaps she had actually joined them. Perhaps she
had encouraged it for an excuse to get close.

Then, she was out walking late at night, by
the cemetery when the entire town knew he would be there at that
time of night. Was she in the county for reasons other than to
teach those young women? Had Percer sent her on the mission because
he had failed himself?

Vincent poured himself a brandy. The pounding
in his head increased with each second that passed. He downed the
first glass and refilled another.

What a fool he was. He took her at her word,
for who she was, when all along she had been sent here to do
Percer’s dirty work. He drew his arm back and flung the tumbler
against the wall. Shards of glass flew in every direction.

How fortuitous it was that a tempest came
through on the very night she was out and demolished the school.
Had she not been spying on him, she would have been killed and then
where would Percer be?

Vincent wondered how she had managed to
contain her glee at being invited to stay in his home. He no longer
believed it had been chance for her to end up in the room next to
his, but planned all along. As for the library last night, he
sincerely doubted her trip at one in the morning had anything to do
with reading material.

No, he knew why she was here and she would go
away empty handed, just like Percer did the night he helped kill
Veronica.

* * *

She thought that after losing sleep last
night and all that transpired today, she would fall into an
exhaustive slumber tonight. Such was not the case. With a sigh,
Tess threw the covers off her bed and placed her feet on the cold,
wood floor. This was ridiculous. She should be able to sleep sooner
or later, shouldn’t she?

Tess slipped her feet into her new slippers,
enjoying the softness against her skin and shrugged on the thick,
pale blue robe. It was just past midnight. Given the hour she knew
she could retrieve a book from Atwood’s library and return before
he ever suspected she was out of her room.

Having wandered the house enough at this hour
already, Tess did not bother with a candle. She knew the way, and
the number of the steps. As before, the door of the room was ajar.
She stepped in and noted the seat behind his desk was vacant. She
picked up a lamp and once again perused the titles on the
shelf.

“I am beginning to wonder if you continually
hope to find me alone, Miss Crawford.”

She whipped around. Why hadn’t she looked
toward the corner, the same place he had sat last night?

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at the
cemetery?”

She could see him smile in the muted
darkness.

“I once had a purpose of visiting Veronica’s
grave. Now, I have a purpose to remain home.”

What an odd statement. “I shall leave you in
peace.” Tess turned to leave.

Atwood stood. “Don’t be in such a hurry, Miss
Crawford. You did come here tonight and it would be a shame to
leave without what you came for.”

Why did he make it sound as if she wanted
something more than a book? Did he think that because she had
shared a brandy with him two nights in a row she wished to spend
more intimate time with him? “I am sure I will finally be able to
sleep, even without a book.”

“Ah, yes. The same excuse you had last
night.” He stepped further into the room and the light from the
fireplace illuminated his features. His eyes were cold, his lips
firm. “Besides, if I recall, I have mentioned that a brandy is the
best tonic for a sleepless night.”

Tess took a step back. Would she ever be able
to keep up with his ever-changing moods? She should simply stay in
her room at night. Tomorrow, after class, she would choose a book
so she would have no reason to venture here at midnight.

He poured her a glass without asking
permission and held it out to her.

“No thank you.”

“Come now, Miss Crawford, indulge me in my
one pleasure.” He held the tumbler out to her.

Tess took it with reluctance. At this moment
she was almost afraid to refuse him. “Perhaps you indulge a little
too often, Lord Atwood,” she said with caution.

“Pardon?” He tilted his head and looked at
her.

“It seems to me as if you drink quite a bit
of brandy. It concerns me for it certainly cannot be healthy.”

Lord Atwood tossed back the contents of his
glass and poured another. “Are you an expert on the consumption of
spirits, Miss Crawford?”

“No.” She wished she could understand what
was wrong. He almost seemed angry, cold. She knew Atwood was often
irritated with the presence of all the females in the household,
even surly at times, but this mood was different from any of the
others she had seen. It almost frightened her.

“Drink, Miss Crawford.” He pointed to her
glass. “Sit.” He indicated to the chair. “I promise not to
bite.”

She looked up at him and slowly sat.

He grinned down at her. “Unless you want me
to.”

A chill ran up her spine. How did one deal
with
this
Lord Atwood?

He took a seat in the chair opposite of her.
“I would like to know more about you, Miss Crawford.” He took
another drink.

Tess fidgeted with the tie on her new robe
and looked down at her hands. She really had nothing more to tell
him. Or, nothing else she dared share with him. Wouldn’t he feel it
his duty to turn her over to the authorities? “What is it you would
like to know?”

“I find it difficult to believe no one
pursued you, asked for your hand in marriage.”

She glanced up at him, startled to find that
he had moved and now stood before her. He sank to his knees and
brought a hand to her face. “A man would need to be blind not to
desire you.”

Tess tried to pull back but he held her chin
in place. “If you recall, I did not have a London Season.”

He smiled at her again and his lids dropped.
“Gentlemen reside in the country as well. Not one approached your
uncle? No one wished for even a courtship?”

His eyes locked on hers and she was
mesmerized by the dark pools. Oh, she was a horrible liar, but what
could she say? The truth would damn her but he made it impossible
to lie. “Tell me about your wife,” she changed the subject. “Did
you meet her in London?”

Atwood reared back and looked down at her.
“Very impressive, Miss Crawford. I find it fascinating how you
always manage to change the subject when the topic becomes
uncomfortable.”

“Pardon?”

“It has happened before.”

She sputtered.

Atwood chuckled and took a seat on the couch
beside her. “As neither one of us wish to discuss our pasts, shall
we discuss the present?” His arm rested along the back and she
could feel the hardness of his bicep behind her head. This was a
very dangerous situation and she willed herself not to bolt from
the room.

What would he do if she did flee? Run after
her? The thought brought a chuckle to her lips.

“Do you find something humorous, Miss
Crawford?”

She swallowed her laugher and looked at him.
He had an eyebrow cocked in question.

“No, I just, oh, I don’t know why I laughed.
I apologize.”

“Oh, Miss Crawford, life is far too short not
to enjoy every moment.”

He was out of his mind. That is all she could
conclude. Or, his intake of brandy was higher tonight than normal.
She leaned forward and placed her glass on the table. “I should
return to my room.”

His hand reached behind her, grasped her
shoulder and pulled her back against the couch. His other hand
picked up the tumbler and handed it to her. “No, stay.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” She cradled the
glass on her lap.

“I needed a rest. The eyestrain was giving me
a headache.”

Tess glanced around the dark room. The only
light came from the fireplace and a few lamps. “Perhaps if you lit
more lamps, or perhaps worked during the daylight hours, your eyes
would not suffer.”

“Or, perhaps I could use the help of a
proficient secretary.” He leaned toward her.

Tess pulled back. “I am sure if you placed an
advertisement, you would have several candidates apply.”

Atwood chuckled and toyed with a wayward
curl. He wrapped it around his finger and studied her face. “No, I
don’t think so, Miss Crawford. In fact, I think I have the perfect
candidate right here.”

Surely he wasn’t suggesting. . . “Me?”
“Of course.”

His thumb brushed against her cheek. She was
surprised by roughness, though not quite calloused. Percer’s hands
were as soft as a woman’s and she assumed all gentlemen were the
same. Her skin heated where he touched and she fought the urge to
squirm away, or was it lean closer. No. She would not move closer
to him. To do so would be far to forward.

Tess pulled back and scooted away. “I teach.
I don’t have time to be your secretary.”

“Your evenings are free.” He moved closer,
his warm breath caressed her ear.

“I have lesson plans.”

“Think of it as repayment for me allowing
everyone to stay in my house.”

Tess turned her head to look at him and found
his eyes a few inches away, his lips even closer. She feared he
wasn’t talking about reading and writing correspondence.

“It is not as if you sleep anymore than I do.
Shall we begin tomorrow night, at seven?”

She finally found the strength to nod her
head after a few moments

Atwood smiled and pulled back. His arm
returned to his own side.

Tess stood and took a step back. “Until
then,” she nodded and practically sprinted for the door.