And the current Lady Wexley did not want any of those. She was a recent widow, though she’d shed the weeds the moment she was able. It was her third husband to die, of course, so one might argue she was accustomed to dealing with grief. Though Lady Wexley had never appeared particularly sad.
Ella had experienced her fair share as well, having lost first her mother and then her father. Tears pricked at her eyes just thinking about it. It hadn’t gotten easier for her. If anything, the loss of her father had nearly undone her.
They were traveling to Lord Rumsford’s home to pay their respects after the loss of his wife and to aid him in his time of grief. Ella distinctly remembered a similar visit to her father by her stepmother after her mother had passed. Nearly six months later they’d welcomed her new mother and sisters into the family. Laughable really, to think of them as an actual mother and sisters.
Her spine straightened at the memories as anger made her walk stiffer. Their disdain for her was palpable, though she’d never understood it. In the early months, she’d been excited for her new family, hoping this would be a new beginning for all them.
She’d hoped in vain.
“Ella, fetch your sister’s valises at once,” Lady Wexley called from behind.
“Yes, Stepmother,” she replied. They had not been brought in from the carriage yet, which meant she’d be traipsing through the snow.
She clamped her lips closed to keep in a sigh, nor did she bother to complain. Not only would her stepmother take satisfaction from her misery but Ella found that it made her dwell on her situation. So instead, she curtseyed and did as she was bid. Somehow grace seemed a better solution than complaints. The last time she had attempted to complain, her stepmother had not only made her scrub every floor in the house, she’d had to do it with nothing but bread for three days.
Besides, Priscilla did enough complaining for all of them. As if on cue, her stepsister began. “Why do we have to have a formal dinner tonight? I’m tired after the carriage ride.”
Ella turned. She’d gladly traipse through the snow to avoid listening to their conversation.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to go outside. As she made her way to the back entrance, the driver came in with several of their belongings. Giving him a smile, she took three of the smaller pieces of luggage to make his load more manageable.
“Thank ye kindly, Lady Ella.” He tipped his hat to her. “Yer a gem to be sure.”
She wrinkled her nose at the old driver who had become her only friend. “On the contrary. I’m not sure what I would do without you, sir.”
They made their way up the servant’s steps, Ella happy to move as slowly as possible. With any luck, Priscilla would be done with her tirade of complaints.
She thought of the duke they’d met. How anyone could complain about spending time with him, she couldn’t guess. Handsome beyond measure, he was tall with broad shoulders that tapered into a thin waist. His jaw was square and masculine while his dark hair softened his sharp edges with its brown waves. But it was his dark brown eyes that had captured her. They had looked deep inside her and somehow, they mirrored her own pain and loss.
Not that it mattered. She'd likely never see him again. Ella didn't have to ask to know she would not be attending dinner. Her stepmother would attempt to secure an invitation from the duke with the hopes of making a match with one of her daughters.
A trip she would most certainly not attend. Her stepmother would never allow it. The few suitors who had come to call, Ella had been discreetly sent to the attic for the visits.
They arrived at the room and Ella lightly knocked.
“Come in,” her stepmother said.
Was her stepmother’s voice full of ire or did the sound of it just make her skin crawl? It didn’t matter. With a tiny sigh, Ella opened the door and entered. Her stepmother’s eyes flicked briefly to her as her lip curled.
“There you are. What took you so long?” But the woman didn’t wait for Ella to answer before she waved her hand for Ella to be silent. “Never mind. Take Priscilla and Adrianna things to their rooms and lay out a change of clothes for each of them. Make sure to pull out combs, perfumes, and powders as well."
Ella nodded. She’d grown accustomed to waiting on her stepsisters. They’d let most of the staff go as her stepmother spent lavish amounts of money on her daughters. “Yes, Stepmother.”
“Oh, and make sure to take your own trunk to the barn while we dine.” Her stepmother turned away clearly dismissing Ella.
Her heart sank. Even for her stepmother, this was cruel. Ella had known she wouldn’t attend the dinner. A hot tear trickled down her cheek. To be allowed to do so might give her hope she would someday escape her stepmother’s clutches. In her heart of hearts, it’s what she wanted more than anything. Some semblance of a normal life. She’d expected, however, to sleep on the floor of one of their rooms. How would she survive this storm out in the barn? With each passing day, each act of cruelty, her hope faded.
Want more Connected by a Kiss books? Read on for an excerpt from Book six, A Gypsy’s Christmas Kiss by Dawn Brower!
Prologue
Tenby, Wales 1803
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Cold wind blew through the small coastal town with frigid efficiency. The bitterness settled into Finley Prescott, the new Duke of Clare’s gut. 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 it held him in. If he managed to let go of that feeling then it meant his father’s death hadn’t left its mark on him. He wasn’t ready for the responsibility of 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 only 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 had meant for him to use it as a stud, but his father had been insistent about trying him out. The horse had thrown him and his neck broke instantly.
Fin had committed patricide.
Oh, he knew he hadn’t actually done it, but he’d been the instrument all the same. If he’d not give his father that damn horse he’d still be alive. That kind of guilt would never go away. He would have to live with that truth the rest of his miserable days. Perhaps he wouldn’t die a young age. The older he lived the longer he’d suffer for the crime he’d committed.
He 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 look 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 some gypsies ran when the weather turned too cold for them 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. Though he supposed they weren't really. They kept their own hours and only kept it open during two of the winter months. The rest of the time they were gone. He had to wonder how they could keep the building itself for such a short time.
He headed toward it his curiosity too much for him to ignore. Fin reached the door and tested the doorknob surprised to find that it turned. He stepped inside the shop. There didn't seem to be anyone inside of it. The shelves were nearly empty. Some 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 that he was a duke as he turned. He met the gaze of one the most ethereal girl’s he'd ever seen and kept his mouth shut—his title didn't matter. She had violet eyes and hair the color of the night sky unfettered by stars. He bet it 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,” she said. “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 him tell her 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 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 needed 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 only 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 of the Duke’s of Clare managed to live past the ripe ole’ age of forty. If he only had two more decades left maybe he should start living it now.
She shook her head. “You have two paths—a fork in which you must choose. One path leads you to happiness but some heartache along the way.”
“And the other?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know but the morbid side of him had to ask.
“It means death.”
He sighed. No, that little bit didn’t surprise him one bit. “An early one?”
She shook her head. “Not your death, my lord, the one you love will die.”
He jerked back at her words. His death he could accept, but someone he loved? No, that couldn’t happen. He would just refuse to fall in love. 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.”
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 blond 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 shook her head. “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 a mistake,” 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.”
“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 him 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 will 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.
USA Today Bestselling author Amanda Mariel dreams of days gone by when life moved at a slower pa
ce. She enjoys taking pen to paper and exploring historical time periods through her imagination and the written word. When she is not writing she can be found reading, crocheting, traveling, practicing her photography skills, or spending time with her family.
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Stealing a Rogue's Kiss (Connected by a Kiss Book 4) Page 6
