He was beastly handsome, she would give him that. Dark hair, dark eyes, nicely tanned skin without being coarsely brown, and his jaw seemed to be dotted with stubble, yet he clearly was clean-shaven. He was a full head taller than her father, and his shoulders were better suited to a worker in the fields than a gentleman.

Perhaps the Cornish baron worked his own fields rather than hiring the work out. Had he been elevated to his present station from a poorer one? Some simple cousin of a prodigious line who was now desperate to make a good connection to prove his worth?

And she was the perfect sacrificial lamb for such an occasion.

Her father was just the sort to give her up for an agreeable man in need of a good match. He was particular in some respects, so the man had to have a decent enough pedigree. The daughter of a viscount should never marry beneath her, but the interpretation of that particular caveat wasn’t all that clear. Title, of course, was a fair marker of status, though not always of quality. Wealth would wipe away a number of Society’s sins. Pedigree was significant for maintaining the integrity of bloodlines. And then there was the occasional aberration, those who were simply popular in Society, whether for heroics in His Majesty’s Navy or for entertaining the matrons at Almack’s.

Lord Basset had a title, if barons counted as part of the peerage, and he had money, which was enough for anyone to give him a second look. And with the man looking like that, Adelaide would certainly give him several additional looks.

She didn’t want to marry him, but she wouldn’t mind looking at him. And certainly, he was nothing compared to her beloved Phillip. He never could compare. Never would.

But Phillip was not offering for her. And her father would never have agreed to his suit. Not yet, at any rate.

“Adelaide, would you greet Lord Basset properly, please?” her father asked, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

Adelaide took a long, slow sip of her tea, eventually moving her gaze back over to them. “And how would you like me to do that, Father? Curtsey? Kiss his cheek? Run and throw myself on his person in gratitude for marrying me?”

Her father formed a fist with both hands. “A curtsey will do, daughter.”

Nodding primly as though she were simply an obedient daughter, Adelaide set her teacup down and rose with as much grace as she had been trained to possess. She gave Lord Basset as thin a smile as possible and sank into the most perfect curtsey known to man.

“My lord,” she purred, pausing a moment before she rose and quirked a brow at the man. “What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Lord Basset’s eyes narrowed slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

What did he mean by that?