Free Kiss of a Traitor by Cat Lindler

and held out her hand. Willa sighed and reached beneath her petticoats to draw out the hunting knife strapped to her thigh.
    “Dat all?”
    “I believe so. But I fail to understand why I cannot arm myself. In the event you did not notice, we happen to be living in a war zone.”
    Jwana spread her hands wide. “Lordy, chil', you be meetin’ yur fiancé in de front parlor, not stormin’ Fort Watson.”
    Willa bit back further protests and allowed Jwana to finish dressing her. She had prevailed in the battle against wearing a wig and heavy powder, though she submitted to a corset and farthingale, two unwieldy items she seldom wore.
    At last Jwana pronounced Willa presentable and patted her on the shoulder. “Don’ fret so,” she said when Willa gave her a sour look. “Wot’s meant ta be’s meant ta be. If’n de Lord want dis man fer yur husband, ain’t not’in’ you kin do ‘bout it.” She scooped up the soiled linens from the bed and left the room.
    “If the Lord wished for me to marry this man,” Willa muttered, “he would not have fashioned him into such a fool.” As soon as Jwana’s footsteps receded into the distance, Willa untied the petticoat and farthingale, let them fall to the floor, and stepped out of them. Her skirt and bodice quickly followed the lacy underpinnings. The corset came off next, though she had to contort herself to reach the laces in the back. Still wearing her chemise, she tore through her wardrobe and pulled out a faded cotton housedress that had aged into little more than a rag. The hem fell to ankle length, and stains rendered the gown suitable only for stable or gardening chores. She dropped to the floor, pulled on her oldest boots, and raced from the bedchamber to make her way to the stables.

    Ford could barely restrain his delight when Colonel Bellingham appointed him to Tarleton’s Legion, the best possible assignment. Being so close to the Butcher, he could monitor the legion’s movements and apprise Marion of any British plans to penetrate the swamps.
    On the other hand, his new double life also dictated he call on Wilhelmina Bellingham in a fashion consistent with their courtship. He took up that duty on Thursday following the ball, his face set in a frown at having to waste his time in such a petty manner. After sending ahead his calling card, he arrived at the Bellingham residence in early afternoon. Quinn answered his knock. Ford removed his hat, tucked it beneath his arm, and straightened his spine until he dwarfed the small man and filled the doorway. The butler looked stunned, even to the point of blinking rapidly. The astonishment on the man’s face added credence to Ford’s own earlier review and opinion of the figure he cut. He was a living advertisement for appallingly bad taste.
    His crimson riding coat fit him without a wrinkle and clashed beautifully with the bright turquoise waistcoat. The sky-blue knee-britches were silky and supple, his linen snowy, edged in delicate, gold-veined lace, and his boots polished to a spectacular brilliance. He wore a bright yellow bagwig and had rouged and powdered his face. With no small amount of pride, he admitted he looked like a Christmas nutcracker.
    The butler’s awed expression dissolved into wariness, and he eyed Ford as if he had come to massacre the family rather than court their dowdy daughter. At the man’s hesitation to grant him entrance, Ford surged into the foyer by shouldering past the door. Quinn fell back and took up a position to one side, lifting his gaze from Ford’s chest, to his eyes and contemptuously curled lips.
    As Ford glowered, he extracted a quizzing glass from his waistcoat pocket. Holding it up to one eye, he squinted through it and adjusted his pitch to reflect a prissy, arrogant tone. “Please inform Lady Wilhelmina that Lord Montford is calling.”
    “Certainly, my lord.” Quinn bowed and motioned him forward. He took Ford’s chartreuse feathered hat as though he were removing a