“Certainly. Any honorable man would.”

“Why then would an honorable man toy with another man’s wife?”

Oz’s dark brows shot up. “You can’t be serious. Or perhaps you live in a cave. Although, if you do,” he cheekily murmured, surveying the portion of her nightgown visible above the covers, “you have a fashionable modiste in there with you. That’s quality silk you’re wearing.” Anyone in the India trade knew silk.

“Who are you?” she asked, suddenly curious about a man acquainted with grades of silk.

Perhaps she did live in a cave; he was well-known for a variety of reasons, some of them actually acceptable. “You tell me first.”

She watched him drain the rest of his drink, wondered in passing why her alarm had seemingly disappeared, and wondered as well where he came from with his deeply bronzed skin. “Are you drunk?” Would he remember any of this? How much should she divulge? And how honorable would he be if she related her tale?

He hesitated a fraction of a second. “I’m probably not completely sober.”

“Are you dangerous?” Even as she spoke, she realized how useless the question if indeed he was.

He shot her a look. “To you? Hardly.”

“I’m relieved.”

He smiled. “I’m relieved you’re relieved. Now tell me your name.”

“Isolde Perceval.”

“From where-the ends of the earth? I haven’t seen you in society.”

“I avoid society.”

“Apparently.” He dipped his head. “Osmond Lennox. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

“Now that the courtesies have been observed,” she said, “kindly tell me what you want, so we may end this charade and go our separate ways.”

“You.”

Her eyes flared wide. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” There, certainty-his plans no longer moot-although wealthy noblemen were as a rule unrestrained in their whims. “Think of it as recompense,” he said with a small smile, “for the shock to my system. When your witnesses barged in I thought someone was seeking vengeance for my many sins. Or about to horsewhip me.”