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Authors: Shannah Biondine
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hesitated in answering.
"I...haven't decided yet."
"You haven't decided?"
There was a long silence as neither of
them spoke. Then Morgan's features hardened. "I presume you know when that
alcoholic husband of yours died?" She grudgingly nodded.
He jerked the door open and stepped past
her. "I'm too stuffy and somber to play parlor games. See you at the
office, Widow ."
Chapter
7
It was a bone-chilling night in early
November. Leaves swirled in the deep gloom and the promise of frost hung in the
evening air. Rachel ignored the jostling of the carriage as they bounced along
the rutted road north of the village. Chrissandra and Boyd spoke in hushed
tones, gloved hands clasped above the lap robe. Rachel stared out her window
into the darkness, lost in thought. She'd returned only yesterday from London.
She was dressed in a gown of deep crimson velvet trimmed with ecru lace at the
throat and sleeves. Half her afternoon had been spent wrapping her hair into a
tight chignon, which she'd covered with a snood of gold netting. So much
preparation for a night of sheer folly.
Going to this Harvest Dance was probably
a mistake. She should be at the cottage now, safely toasting her feet beside
the hearth. But some wicked part of her wanted Morgan to see her in a fancy
gown. The reflection in her mirror tonight was no impoverished farmer's widow. The
woman gazing back at her was Jeremiah Hardwick's daughter—a girl raised in
plenty, one who might grace a sparkling London ballroom, one who'd attended
some of Philadelphia's most exclusive parties before moving West. She wanted
Morgan to see that person. Just once.
The carriage drew to a halt. Its three
occupants were promptly swallowed up in the throng outside the Plummer
residence. Rachel was swept into the warmth of an immense farmhouse with a huge
open room the size of a modest barn. Ladies milled about in gowns of every
autumnal hue, peacock blue and mossy green to burnished russets and gold. The
men wore embroidered vests, their finest frock coats and crisp shirts. Tables
stood laden with bowls of mulled cider and eggnog, platters groaned beneath roasted
whole chickens and legs of mutton or beef. Steam rose from large bowls of
boiled greens, potatoes, squash, and carrots. Rachel couldn't remember when
she'd last seen so much food in one place. A huge table of desserts offered
apple tarts and scones alongside mince and pumpkin pies, temptingly displayed
in tiers beside bowls of berries in cream.
"I don't believe I've had the
pleasure," came a deep baritone rumble that made Rachel shiver. Morgan had
been away from the office most of the past two weeks. She'd wondered if his
absence was connected to the incident with the signet ring and what had
followed.
She turned to find him standing nearby,
dashing as ever in tan breeches with a coat of dark teal. "Then again,
apparently I have," he corrected. His gaze dropped to her lips. "And
a pleasure it was. One I hope to enjoy again."
Rachel suspected her face must be as
rose-hued as the baked apples. "You're looking dapper this evening,
sir."
"And you're looking positively
spectacular, madam. It appears the term 'widow' no longer applies. Dare I hope
this remarkable change is the result of my influence the other evening?"
"Please, Mr. Tremayne. I'd rather
we didn't discuss that." She scanned the room to see if others noticed
them talking together.
Morgan made no attempt to hide his
amusement. "They probably don't know you, Rachel. I didn't at first
glance. Your hair up like that, the velvet gown." A hand slid to the small
of her back. "We need to find someplace to be alone."
Though inwardly she thrilled at the
evident heat in his gaze as his eyes raked over her once more, she was too
flustered to be alone with him just then. And too aware of their surroundings.
"I don't think that's a wise
idea," she demurred. "The villagers know I'm your clerk. I'm not anxious
to be at the center of the next batch of rumors." She was
"I...haven't decided yet."
"You haven't decided?"
There was a long silence as neither of
them spoke. Then Morgan's features hardened. "I presume you know when that
alcoholic husband of yours died?" She grudgingly nodded.
He jerked the door open and stepped past
her. "I'm too stuffy and somber to play parlor games. See you at the
office, Widow ."
Chapter
7
It was a bone-chilling night in early
November. Leaves swirled in the deep gloom and the promise of frost hung in the
evening air. Rachel ignored the jostling of the carriage as they bounced along
the rutted road north of the village. Chrissandra and Boyd spoke in hushed
tones, gloved hands clasped above the lap robe. Rachel stared out her window
into the darkness, lost in thought. She'd returned only yesterday from London.
She was dressed in a gown of deep crimson velvet trimmed with ecru lace at the
throat and sleeves. Half her afternoon had been spent wrapping her hair into a
tight chignon, which she'd covered with a snood of gold netting. So much
preparation for a night of sheer folly.
Going to this Harvest Dance was probably
a mistake. She should be at the cottage now, safely toasting her feet beside
the hearth. But some wicked part of her wanted Morgan to see her in a fancy
gown. The reflection in her mirror tonight was no impoverished farmer's widow. The
woman gazing back at her was Jeremiah Hardwick's daughter—a girl raised in
plenty, one who might grace a sparkling London ballroom, one who'd attended
some of Philadelphia's most exclusive parties before moving West. She wanted
Morgan to see that person. Just once.
The carriage drew to a halt. Its three
occupants were promptly swallowed up in the throng outside the Plummer
residence. Rachel was swept into the warmth of an immense farmhouse with a huge
open room the size of a modest barn. Ladies milled about in gowns of every
autumnal hue, peacock blue and mossy green to burnished russets and gold. The
men wore embroidered vests, their finest frock coats and crisp shirts. Tables
stood laden with bowls of mulled cider and eggnog, platters groaned beneath roasted
whole chickens and legs of mutton or beef. Steam rose from large bowls of
boiled greens, potatoes, squash, and carrots. Rachel couldn't remember when
she'd last seen so much food in one place. A huge table of desserts offered
apple tarts and scones alongside mince and pumpkin pies, temptingly displayed
in tiers beside bowls of berries in cream.
"I don't believe I've had the
pleasure," came a deep baritone rumble that made Rachel shiver. Morgan had
been away from the office most of the past two weeks. She'd wondered if his
absence was connected to the incident with the signet ring and what had
followed.
She turned to find him standing nearby,
dashing as ever in tan breeches with a coat of dark teal. "Then again,
apparently I have," he corrected. His gaze dropped to her lips. "And
a pleasure it was. One I hope to enjoy again."
Rachel suspected her face must be as
rose-hued as the baked apples. "You're looking dapper this evening,
sir."
"And you're looking positively
spectacular, madam. It appears the term 'widow' no longer applies. Dare I hope
this remarkable change is the result of my influence the other evening?"
"Please, Mr. Tremayne. I'd rather
we didn't discuss that." She scanned the room to see if others noticed
them talking together.
Morgan made no attempt to hide his
amusement. "They probably don't know you, Rachel. I didn't at first
glance. Your hair up like that, the velvet gown." A hand slid to the small
of her back. "We need to find someplace to be alone."
Though inwardly she thrilled at the
evident heat in his gaze as his eyes raked over her once more, she was too
flustered to be alone with him just then. And too aware of their surroundings.
"I don't think that's a wise
idea," she demurred. "The villagers know I'm your clerk. I'm not anxious
to be at the center of the next batch of rumors." She was
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