Lady Wortham calls me the Widow of Winslow and Peak.

Never to my face, only in hushed tones, and always with conspiring eyes peering over the rim of a pretty lace fan.

"I heard she killed Mr. Winslow on their wedding night."

To her credit, this is partially true.

Mr. Thomas Winslow was, indeed, my first husband, and the poor man did, indeed, die on our wedding night.

"You know what they say about orphans. There is always something not quite right about girls who grow up without a proper family."

At present, I am attending a garden party at Lord and Lady Hawthorne's estate, Crestley Hall. The sun is shining. Flowers are in bloom. A gentle breeze is blowing. A game of polo is in play. Guests are smiling, laughing, frolicking. It is all very lovely and picturesque.

But I am not at ease.

A mere three feet away from where I stand, Lady Wortham is leading her circle of companions in another rousing round of chatter and mischief.

These females are not the kind of souls who shy away from sharing their innermost sentiments on matters that have little or nothing to do with them. They and I exist within the same social stratosphere. We often attend the same social gatherings, but—

They are not my friends.

I know this, I know this—

This is why I keep my face impassive as Lady Wortham prattles on. This is why my retorts catch in my throat before they fly from my tongue. Like a she-tortoise retracting to her shell before mightier predators, I, too, must become deaf, dumb, and mute as a rock if I am to persevere in the presence of vipers.

"I heard the wicked creature went on to pursue Colonel Peak before she finished mourning poor Mr. Winslow."

Colonel Michael Peak was my second husband.

"How shameless!"

I grit my teeth and cling to my mantra—I am a rock, I am a rock, I am a rock...

"Scandalous, too!"

I suppose I am rather scandalous.

My first marriage was never consummated.

Mr. Winslow had been nearly thirty years my senior. I was seventeen when we married. I had been forced to marry him because of—

Nevermind. It does not matter. Not anymore.

At any rate, poor Mr. Winslow was about to slip the tip of his manhood inside me when he passed.

I entered my second marriage—a virgin.

"Why would the Colonel want someone like her?"

Why does she care?

As long as I know why Michael married me, no one else needs to know his secret.

Our marriage was not a love match, but we ended up becoming a good match. Michael and I grew to be friends. He cared for me, and I cared for him.

"Your guess is as good as mine. We all know why she wanted him, though."

In truth, I enjoyed being Michael's wife. We spent most of our time apart. He was on tour with his regiment in South Africa for most of our marriage while I remained in England. This arrangement had suited us well.

"I gather it is because soldiers tend to die young. She was eyeing his fortune."

This is also partially true—a soldier's occupation tends to be more hazardous than others.

Two years ago, Michael perished in the Battle of Majuba Hill.

"I despise gold diggers!"

As far as my inheritance, though, Michael's will left me with little. He gave his most valuable assets to Bertie, and I bear no grudges against them. Bertie deserves it, and I do not. His heart is utterly broken. Mine only aches from time to time. I have often felt guilty for not grieving Michael's death like a lover, not in the way the human heart is, supposedly, meant to mourn when the mate to one's soul has gone to a place where the other half cannot follow.

I miss Michael dearly, but, unlike Bertie, my heart continues to beat and life goes on.

Did this make me a bad wife?

Mr. Fernsby, God rest his soul, would certainly think so.

I do not know what to think, frankly, I no longer know what kind of woman I am supposed to become. Society expected me to marry. Society expected a child by now. As things stand, I am not anyone's wife, and I may never become a mother.

What I am is—wicked, wanton, cursed.

Yet, contrary to the gossip that often seeks to strike down my good name, there have been no other gentlemen in my life. No decent man would claim me, anyway. To frame it kindly, in society's eyes, I am a widow who has outlived two husbands as an infertile vessel, and these qualities are the very opposite of what the opposite sex desires in a wifely candidate.

What society expects of me, however, are trifling matters in comparison to my actual reality.

Somehow, some way, a roof must remain above my head. Food must appear on my plate. I know, all too well, that winter waits for no one.

So, what is a female to do without a father or husband or fortune to fend for her well-being?

"That wretched female will likely marry a third time to some other poor unfortunate soul. Women like her are vampires, always on the hunt, always ready to leech off of their next victim."

Lady Wortham's companions erupt in a fit of giggles over her remark.

I am not nearly as amused. She has misspoken here. I may be wretched, but I am no vampire. Nor do I wish to walk down the aisle again. Not at all. For reasons only God knows, men do not seem to stay alive and well in my company. My reputation cannot bear the death of yet another husband.

"Only a man with a death wish will claim her now. The witch has managed to survive two husbands."

If only I was a witch.

I would no longer need to pinch my pennies. I could simply conjure them out of thin air.

"Imagine being married to two different men with nothing to show for!"

Poor Mr. Winslow expired before he could plant his seed in me. Michael endeavored a handful of times with no success.

Perhaps they are right? Perhaps I am infertile.

"I cannot bear to be within her vicinity."

For once, Lady Wortham and I share the same opinion.

"She is, honestly, a disgrace to womankind everywhere."

At this point, I decide that I have suffered enough of their company. I turn to walk away and hear their titters trail behind me as they move on to discuss another topic.

"Have you heard?"

"Do tell."

"Rumor has it that Lord Hawthorne is back in London!"

"When did Lord Hawthorne ever leave the city?"

"Not Lord Maxwell Hawthorne, you ninny! His younger brother, Teddy."

Teddy?

They are baiting me again. I am sure of it.

"Oh, my! Do you mean to tell me that Theodore Hawthorne has returned from abroad?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Oh, that poor man! He was so handsome before, you know, the accident..."

"I wonder if anyone will have him now?"

I do not know, and I do not care.

Theodore Hawthorne is nothing but a scoundrel and a liar.

I only wish to get away.

I can feel the weight of Lady Wortham's eyes digging into the back of my head. Her shrill voice fades as my steps quicken upon the grass. The lawn is still damp and wet from yesterday's rain. Muddied skirts and petticoats drag around my ankles, but I do not stop until I reach the small hedge maze near the far side of the garden.

With a wry smile, I observe that the green in the fabric of my gown is almost identical to the leafy hue of the boxwoods. Perhaps if I stand here, quiet enough, still enough, I will be able to blend in with the shrubbery, invisible to my naysayers, and Lady Wortham can go bugger—

My thoughts are interrupted when a large, warm hand clasps my wrist, I am unceremoniously yanked towards the entrance to the labyrinth, and, suddenly, I find myself staring into a pair of brilliant blue eyes that belong to none other than the scoundrel and liar himself.

"Mr. Hawthorne?" I gasp in displeasure.

"Emily," he breathes softly, "I thought it was you."