My brother, Julien, liked to say that I was our father’s penance made flesh. A rather dramatic sentiment, but then, Julien was prone to theatrics. I was not so very terrible—not as a daughter, not as a sister, and certainly not as a friend. My only true crime, at least in the eyes of my family and the entirety of London society, was that I was quite thoroughly mad.

Whispers followed me wherever I went. Some claimed a careless maid had dropped me on my head as an infant. Others insisted I was divine retribution for the sins of my father, whose own tenure in this world had been neither long nor particularly virtuous. If anyone had ever thought to ask my opinion on the matter, I would have told them the truth: London had simply never known what to do with a woman who wanted more for herself than a dull husband with a fondness for port and an even greater fondness for my inheritance.

And so, yes, perhaps I had developed something of a reputation. But truly, what else was I to do? Accept my fate like a docile lamb? I thought not. Instead, I made it my mission to send my suitors fleeing as quickly as possible. There had been wigs. There had been excessive chewing at dinner. My personal favorite was the time I had pretended to be possessed by the vengeful ghost of an ill-used maiden who loathed men. That particular gentleman had very nearly fainted.

It had all been rather amusing—until I met her.

Emma. My cousin’s fiancée. She was everything I was meant to be—demure, graceful, the perfect model of feminine virtue. And yet, not once did I resent her for it. No, my jealousy was reserved entirely for my cousin, the unworthy scoundrel who had been blessed with an angel when all I could look forward to was a marriage to whichever desperate—or reckless—man was willing to take me on.

Perhaps London had been right about me all along. Perhaps I was a curse. And if that were true, then it seemed only fitting that I, in turn, should suffer for it.

But oh, if only my punishment could have been her.