Excerpt of The Mad Lord's Daughter by Jane Goodger

How could she allow a man to touch her anywhere he wished when she'd never even held a man's hand? She pressed her gloved hands against her cheeks, feeling the smooth silk against her flesh. In quick, angry movements, she tore the gloves from her hands and threw them to the floor.

John's heart nearly broke for her at that moment. He knew she didn't want his pity, but by God, how could he not give it, watching her fall apart in front of him.

"Sometimes I want to go home so badly I could scream," she said fiercely, staring at the floor, her fists clenched against her stomach.

"Melissa, come sit by me," John said, walking over to the settee. She looked at him uncertainly, then joined him and sat, very much like a petulant child. John slowly took off his gloves and placed them between them on the settee. "Now, give me your hand."

She looked up at him, and he nearly got lost in those magnificent eyes of hers, still shining from her brief bout of crying. Instead of giving him her hand, she clenched her fingers tighter in her lap and gave her gloves, still lying on the floor, a look of longing. Taking a shuddering breath, she said, "I wasn't allowed to take my gloves off except to bathe and at night. And no one was ever allowed to touch me without wearing them." She shook her head and fresh tears fell.

He laid his hand, palm up, in the space between them. She looked down at her hands for a long moment before finally, and with great hesitation, laying her palm on his. Her hand was small and cool, and he could feel slight tremors as he closed his fingers slowly 'round hers.

John watched her face, ready to withdraw if he saw any fear in her eyes. All he saw, though, was wonder, and something inside him gave a sharp, almost painful tug. She looked up at him, then back to where their hands were still clasped.

"It's so warm. And soft," she said. Then her brow furrowed, and she lifted his hand up as if inspecting it. With the index finger of her other hand, she trailed her fingertip across the calluses in his palm.

"From riding," he said gruffly, agonizingly aware that her touch was beginning to physically affect him in a way that was completely unexpected. How could her moving her finger across his palm be so incredibly erotic? He wanted to jerk his hand from her grasp, but he knew if he did, he would only frighten her more. So instead, he gritted his teeth together and prayed his body would stop betraying him. Unfortunately, the more he thought about how he didn't want his body to respond, the more it did. When she moved her thumb across his wrist, he became achingly aroused, and he let out a strained laugh and slowly withdrew his hand from her curious grasp. It was monstrous that he should react to her so, that he would allow his mind to picture her in his bed, exploring his body the way she was exploring his hand.

Bloody, bloody hell.

"John?"

"Yes?" he choked out, moving slightly away from her.

"Would you allow me to kiss you? I..." Her cheeks turned a vivid red. "Just to see what it is like and so that I'm not such a ninny if a man does try to kiss me. I know it's a lot to ask, but I don't want to make a fool of myself when the time comes. Is it very revolting?"

Dear God, why are you doing this to me? Is this a test? Because I fear I'm going to fail it. Sorry.

"Kissing is not revolting. Not with someone you're attracted to, at least."

"Oh. Then it shouldn't be too revolting with you. I do like you."

John swallowed and gave her a strained smile. "No, it shouldn't be too revolting, but I don't think...that is to say..." She kept looking at him with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open, her lips full and delicious and—oh, Lord, he thought, I am doomed.