Christiana was staring at him now as if he were some exotic creature she’d never encountered before. Uncomfortable under that steady, odd gaze, he added, “So when Daniel suggested that I simply step back into my life as if George had never stolen it from me . . . well, the truth is that I hesitated. I didn’t wish to hurt you or your sisters, but on the other hand, I didn’t know you and didn’t wish to be punished further by his actions either. So we decided to remove George and hide him away for a couple of days while I saw if you and I would deal well together.”

Christiana stood up abruptly, her face suddenly florid and Richard realized she’d taken what he’d said the entirely wrong way, thinking he’d meant whether they suited each other in bed. “Not that way,” he assured her quickly. “Last night was wholly unexpected. In fact, if you’ll recall I was trying to stop you from undressing me. It was you who was so determined to get my clothes off.”

“I was trying to see your strawberry,” she snapped and then narrowed her eyes. “Speaking of which, I should like to see it now.”

“My strawberry?” he asked blankly and peered down at his groin. It had been his pants she’d been so determined to remove last night as he recalled, but no one had ever called his manhood a strawberry before. In fact, he thought he might be insulted if that was what she was referring to.

“On your bottom,” she said, her irritation of a moment ago seeming to transform into a mix of exasperation and embarrassment. “Richard Fairgrave is supposed to have a strawberry-shaped birthmark on his behind. I should like to see it, please.”

“Oh.” Richard relaxed and even grinned. “No one has ever said to me that it was strawberry-shaped.”

She merely arched an eyebrow, apparently unwilling to be put off from seeing it. He supposed he couldn’t blame her really. She’d been married to who she’d thought was Richard Fairgrave this last year and now he was telling her it had really been his brother George. He supposed it was reasonable for her to want proof of who was who. Sighing inwardly, he grimaced, turned his back to her, undid his trousers and dropped them.

Christiana simply stood there gaping at Richard for a moment, completely taken aback. She supposed she shouldn’t be so surprised, she’d asked to see his bottom to check for the strawberry, but really she’d expected something of an argument perhaps, or a little modesty, but the way he’d simply dropped his drawers suggested there was very little modesty in the man.

“Well?” Richard asked impatiently.

Swallowing, Christiana took a tentative step closer to him and forced herself to focus on his bare derriere, but then frowned. The man was standing near the door about as far away from the light cast by the window as possible. He also happened to be standing in the bed’s shadow. “I . . . erm . . . it’s too dark. I can’t see.”