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  A Gypsy’s Christmas Kiss

  A Scandal Meets Love Novella Connected by a Kiss 6

  Dawn Brower

  Monarchal Glenn Press

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: Odds of Love

  Prologue

  Excerpt: Rebellious Angel

  Chapter 1

  Excerpt: Stealing A Rogue’s Kiss

  Chapter 1

  About The Author

  Also by Dawn Brower

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Gypsy’s Christmas Kiss Copyright © 2018 Dawn Brower

  Edits and Cover Art by Victoria Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  For everyone that believes in the magic of the holidays and finding your one true love. Sometimes it takes years, and sometimes it’s the one person you least expect it to be. Don’t lose hope if you haven’t found someone yet. Maybe they haven’t wandered back into your life again, or maybe they have yet to cross your path.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to my editor Victoria Miller. I’m always amazed at her talent, and as an editor—I’ve never had better. Thanks for all the hard work you do and the help you give me to make my stories stronger. I really do appreciate it more than I could ever say. Elizabeth Evans, thank you for being my rock and always reading my roughest of rough drafts. I appreciate you more than I can ever express. Thank you, Megan Michelau for proofreading too. It means a lot to me that you take time out of your busy schedule to help me.

  Prologue

  Tenby, Wales 1803

  Cold wind blew through the small coastal town with frigid efficiency. The bitterness settled into Finley Prescott, the new Duke of Clare, and he couldn’t shake it. His father’s funeral still lingered in his soul. The grief had been unshakeable, and Fin wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to lose the grip that held him. If he managed to let go of that feeling, then it meant his father’s death hadn’t left its mark. He wasn’t ready for the responsibility if the dukedom. His father shouldn’t be dead already.

  What kind of world did he live in when a man didn’t live past his fortieth year? Did that mean he wouldn’t have a long life? Both his parents were gone, and Fin was completely alone in the world. He had no one to lean on and share his grief with. It was the Christmastide season, and it should be a time of joy. It never would be for him again. This time of year would always mark a change in his life he’d not been ready for. He’d turned twenty the day before, and what had been his gift? His father’s death, courtesy of the brutish horse Fin had given him as an early gift. He honestly hadn’t thought his father would ride the stallion. Fin meant for him to use it as a stud, but his father had been insistent about trying him out. The horse had thrown his father, and his neck broke instantly.

  Fin had committed patricide—at least that’s what his guilt screamed to him in regular intervals...

  Oh, he knew he hadn’t actually done it, but he’d been the instrument all the same. If he’d not given his father that damn horse, he’d still be alive. That kind of shame would never go away. He would have to live with that truth the rest of his miserable days. Perhaps he wouldn’t die at a young age. The older he lived, the longer he’d suffer for the crime he’d committed. He deserved to suffer.

  Fin walked along the shoreline, staring out at the sea. Maybe he should leave Wales for a time. It was his home, but did he really deserve to be there? They would all stare at him, either judging him, or pitying him. Either way, he didn’t want to look in the faces of those around him with their mixed emotions messing him up more with each passing day. He didn’t pay attention to where his feet lead him. He roamed up the hill and into the small town. There was a small shop that gypsy’s ran—or rather the husband of one, when the weather turned too cold for the small family to roam the lands.

  He’d never gone inside, and found it odd that they had a shop at all. It wasn’t normal for a gypsy to be tied down, but the shopkeeper’s wife settled in Tenby during the colder months for her husband and their children. They kept their own hours and mainly remained open during the winter. The rest of the time they were gone. He had to wonder how they could make any profit with the store open for such a short time.

  He headed toward it, his curiosity too much for him to ignore. Fin reached the door and tested the door knob, surprised to find that it turned. He stepped inside the shop. There didn’t appear to be anyone inside of it. The shelves were nearly empty. Candles filled one of them in different sizes, ranging from long, tapered candles to thick, oblong ones. He picked one up and tested its weight. They seemed solid enough…

  “Can I help you, my lord?”

  Fin opened his mouth to correct her—he was a duke—as he turned. He met the gaze of one the most ethereal girls he’d ever seen and decided against chastising her—his title didn’t matter. She had violet eyes and hair the color of the night sky unfettered by stars. He bet her midnight locks would be lovely dressed with diamonds, and would put a star-studded sky to shame in its beauty. She had it plaited with a long braid that fell to the middle of her back. The girl couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, and he shouldn’t be admiring her. Maybe when she grew up… He shook that thought away.

  “I don’t know if anyone can help me,” he finally said.

  “You have a great sadness in you.” Her voice held an almost ethereal quality to it, but perhaps it was just how he perceived her. He’d never met anyone quite like her before. “Please, come sit and I’ll tell your fortune.”

  Fin didn’t believe in such things, but it would help delay his return home. He didn’t much feel like gathering around mourners and their sympathetic gazes. He’d made enough of a mess of things, and there was no fixing it. He might as well humor the girl and let her tell his fortune. Fin walked over to a chair in front of a table. She sat on the other side. “Give me your hand.”

  “Does it matter which one?”

  She shook her head. “No, whatever one you’re comfortable with.”

  He lifted his left hand and set it on the table. She flipped it over and trailed her fingers over his palm. The gypsy was quiet for several moments and then she glanced up at him. There was a bit of surprise in her glance, but whatever had earned that particular look, she kept to herself.

  “Tell me, my lord, do you believe in love?”

  “I’m not sure I do. Nothing in my life has made that particular emotion well received.” He’d experienced far too much loss. “Do you?”

  She smiled. “Love isn’t for everyone, and I’m young yet. I’ve at least witnessed the possibility.”

  Try as he might, he’d never be able to explain why he’d been drawn to her from the moment they met. There was something unidentifiable about her—almost special. “Do you have a name?”

  “We all have names, my lord, even you.”

  Fin wanted to laugh at her words. He was acting rather silly and deserved that response from her. This small moment of time with her had lightened his mood quite a bit. There was a truth in her eyes that told him she’d never lie to him. He nee
ded more people like her in his life. “If I tell you mine, will you share yours?”

  “Perhaps,” she replied cryptically.

  She’d known he was of noble birth since the moment she’d started talking to him. He hadn’t told her how far his rank rose to keep her from being even more formal. He wanted to keep that to himself longer, so he wouldn’t give her anything other than his given name. For some reason, he wanted their relationship to be on more intimate grounds. “My name is Finley, but my close friends call me Fin.” At least, they did—some might start calling him Clare now. He hated that idea already. Before then, he’d been the Marquess of Tenby. They should have called him by that title, but he’d insisted on Fin. He hoped the ones that mattered still called him that.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Fin,” she said politely, but still didn’t offer her name. She kept staring at his palm and nibbling on her bottom lip. She was so bloody beautiful, and she’d probably grow even more so as she matured.

  “What is so fascinating in my palm?” he finally asked.

  She jerked her head up and barely met his gaze. Had she seen something she hadn’t liked? Had he been wrong and he was doomed to die young? Wouldn’t that be rich? He couldn’t say he was surprised at that fate. Not too many Dukes of Clare managed to live past the ripe ole’ age of forty. If he had two more decades left, maybe he should start living it now.

  He sighed. No, that little bit didn’t surprise him one bit. “An early one?”

  She shook her head. “Are you asking about your death? I’m afraid, my lord, I cannot predict that, someone you love will die—or perhaps has already passed… The lines are murky and broken, but that’s not the fortune you need to be told.” She trailed her finger across the lines on his palm and told him his fortune. “You have two paths—a fork in which you must choose. One path leads you to happiness but some heartache along the way.”

  * * *

  He jerked back at her words. She tried to explain away the first part of her prediction, but he couldn’t let it go. His death he could accept, but someone else he loved? That couldn’t happen. Hadn’t he already lost enough? He would refuse to fall in love and then he’ be safe from any further heartbreak. That would be easy enough to do. He didn’t particularly want to give his heart to anyone, and he surely didn’t want to live with the guilt of another’s death.

  “I think this fortune is over.” He should perhaps ask more questions and demand she give him better answers, but he was afraid of the truth.

  She held on to his hand. “Don’t go. I can see you’re already going down the wrong path. Please listen…”

  He yanked his hand out of her grasp and fell backward in the chair. His head smacked against the floor, and she rushed to his side. She brushed back his hair and crinkled her brows together. “You have such pretty, golden hair, my lord and your eyes are the color of the sea on a hot, summer day. I’d hate to see either marked with blood and death. You already carry too much sadness.”

  Her accent almost made the words sound poetic or perhaps he had become delirious from hitting his head so hard. He reached up and twined his hands around her head and pulled her down toward him. When she was close enough, he closed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. They were a lovely pink, and so delectable to taste. She didn’t fight him, and it was the one good thing he’d had in days.

  She pushed on his chest lightly and sat back on her haunches. “While that was lovely, it can’t happen again.”

  “Do you believe in risks?”

  She nodded. “Some risks are too great, but yes, there are times they are worth it. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve made too many mistakes in my life to risk my heart. I can’t love anyone.”

  “That would be unfortunate,” she said softly. “For you, more than anyone, needs love. Our lives are best left to fate. Some pain is worth living for. You can try to prevent it, but by doing so, you’ll miss your greatest joy.”

  He wished he could take her advice, but he couldn’t do as she suggested. It was clear to him, by her little fortune, happiness wasn’t something he could afford to try for. The world would be better off if he remained alone. His pain wasn’t meant to be thrust on the innocent.

  “Are you going to at least tell me your name?” he asked as he came to his feet. Fin straightened his jacket and glanced at her. He didn’t like the look of sadness that had filled her violet eyes. “Not you too.” Fin was tired of the pity so many people bestowed upon him. Surely, she didn’t know that he’d lost his father and grieved. He didn’t want her to see him as damaged, even though, deep down, he couldn’t be any more unworthy of her.

  “My name doesn’t matter. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I have no plans of returning. I doubt we will ever cross paths again.”

  “Then it won’t hurt for you to share it.”

  He didn’t know why it was so important to have her name, but he felt in his gut he should know it. They’d shared a kiss. Shouldn’t they at the very least be on a first name basis? He knew they had no future together, but he wanted something to hold on to in the cold, dark nights ahead. He’d never have love, but he wanted this small thing.

  “Lulia,” she said quietly.

  He nodded at her and smiled for the first time in days. “Lulia,” he said her name softly. It was almost like a benediction for him. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” She tilted her head, her accent a melody he’d never tire of. “I’ve given you nothing but grief and set you on a path of destruction.”

  “That’s not how I see it,” he explained. “You have given me a purpose. I’ll be stronger for it.”

  She frowned. “No,” she replied defiantly. “You’ll be alone. I’ll never forgive myself for it. I pray that, in time, you’ll realize there is a better choice to make. There will be a time when you reach that fork, and when you do please choose love.”

  With those words, she spun on her heels and left him alone. He would probably never forget her. She was wrong though—he could never choose love. That would be the one thing he could never do. It would be the beginning of the end if he did.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1815

  Something about the cold winter chill invigorated Lulia Vasile, but then, she was not the normal society lady. She’d grown up alongside her family and embraced their way of life. Her mother was Kezia Vasile Alby—a Romany princess. She’d married Lulia’s father at eighteen against her family’s wishes. When Lulia turned eighteen, she’d had to make a choice of her own—stay with her father’s family or embrace her mother’s. Her free spirit hadn’t felt right confined to the strictures of society and decided to see what living as a Romany meant.

  Not once had she regretted that choice. It had led her down a wonderful path and to the one person she considered her friend—Diana. Her friend had married and was now the Countess of Northesk. At first, Lulia hadn’t liked her friend’s future husband, but the man had a way of worming into a person’s good graces. Lulia didn’t tell him that though. She liked making him miserable. Someone had to… The Earl of Northesk could be a tad arrogant at times. Lulia wanted to ensure her friend’s happiness, so if it meant keeping the earl second-guessing what she might do—then, yes, she would browbeat him as often as possible. It was Lulia’s way of protecting her friend, and she would do almost anything for someone she cared about.

  Today Diana had planned a soiree of some sort. Lulia would much rather be fencing, or really anything other than socializing. The things she did for friends… If Diana wanted her to—Lulia shuddered—socialize, then she’d do her best. She walked up to the Earl of Northesk’s townhouse and rapped her knuckles on the hard surface. When Diana had lived alone in her father’s London home, Lulia had waltzed in without a care, but there were certain boundaries in place she had to follow now that Diana had wed the earl. They deserved a certain amount of respect and privacy, even if they had servants around them. Lulia would not be rude.

  “Miss Vasile,” the butler gr
eeted her. “So good of you to join us today. Lady Northesk will be pleased.”

  She scrunched up her nose. “Of course, she will.” It didn’t take much to please Diana these days… “She’s as happy as a bee in a fresh flower patch. Move aside now.” Lulia brushed past him and entered the foyer. All right… Some habits couldn’t be broken. She hated standing on ceremony. “Where is she holding this soiree of hers?”

  “You’ll find all the guests in the drawing room,” the butler answered. “A few have arrived thus far.”

  The old man had a stiffness to him that made Lulia question his humanity. No person should be that—straight. He barely moved, even when he bowed to the lords and ladies of the ton. It was probably a result of too much starch in his clothing. He couldn’t possibly breathe well in all that taut clothing. “I’ll see myself there,” she told him and left him alone in the foyer. Lulia visited often enough she might as well reside there. It was for that reason that she could find her own way and didn’t require an escort.

  Laugher echoed through the hall. That was the only sign of life she received as she headed toward the drawing room. When she entered, she found Diana, her husband, Luther and two other people. The butler hadn’t lied when he’d stated not everyone had arrived. She didn’t know the other individuals. Well, that wasn’t completely accurate either. She did recognize the man. He was Lord Northesk’s friend, the Marquess of Holton. The lady at his side she didn’t know though.