““Papa wants you to marry some decrepit old wigsby?” She gave him a charmingly rueful smile, all tousled golden curls like some angel who had rolled off a cloud in her sleep, he thought, and had fallen to earth with a thud. “Something like that,” she said in vague amusement. “I see. Well, surely we can find a solution.” He snapped his fingers and gave her a grin. “Shall I ruin you? That should solve your problem. The old wigsby won’t want you if you’re used goods, and I assure you, I’d be happy to oblige.””
