Free Cachet by Shannah Biondine

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 grateful for the intervention of a local farmer, who accosted Morgan about granary storage for his spring crops. She used the distraction to cross the room, positioning herself well away from her landlord.
    A farmer she'd met during one of her audits at the inn struck up a conversation, then persuaded her to dance. She found herself in his arms, whirling to the fiddles and voices lifted in song. When the dance ended, she was approached by the young male clerk from the tobacco shoppe. He had a timid young maid on his arm, whom he introduced as his future intended.
    Though she didn't recognize many of the faces at the large gathering, Rachel found she knew several of the villagers well enough to receive a smiling greeting or polite nod. The villagers might not fully accept her after having her amongst them for several months, but she no longer felt hostile or curious stares. The stares now came from several