Lady Antonia Bellweather had three secrets, well a lot more than three but I will break readers in gently.
She couldn’t ride side-saddle without swearing.
And she’d once had a highly inappropriate dream about the Duke of Dunstable involving marmalade and a velvet chaise. (It was a strange dream that also involved the butler, but luckily, things had become hazy at that point.)
Sadly, the Duke had yet to reciprocate any marmalade-based fantasies, though he did occasionally stare at her bodice as if trying to recall where he’d left his monocle.
Her Ladyship had spent all season attempting to draw more of the Duke's attention. She had even asked assistance of her friends, a lady of ill repute and even her French maid (just in case the things they say about Glaswegian girls was actually true).
The Season was in full swing. Antonia’s dance card was crammed with tedious barons and sweaty viscounts who spoke only of dogs, land, and their mother’s digestion. But the Duke — Augustus Thorne — was different. He smelt faintly of scandal and expensive leather. His wit was as dry as her aunt’s sherry. But, most annoyingly, he refused to flirt back. The Duke was most certainly the most eligible bachelor in London and there was fierce competition from other debutants. Even the odd widow sitting on a huge pile was proving to be a thorn in her Ladyship's silky smooth rump.
Until the day she fell out of a tree.
She’d been retrieving her hat, which had flown off during an extremely fast canter and landed in the crook of a particularly uppity sycamore. Scrambling up in her riding habit (with the kind of agility that would have horrified her governess), she lost her balance — and her dignity — and landed flat on her back in a hay cart. Her skirts had turned themselves inside out and covered her face, completely exposing her new bloomers. (At least they were French and not from Glasgow.)
And who should be there mounted ion his stallion holding a hunting crop with one raised eyebrow?
“Lady Antonia,” said the Duke, with a slow smirk. “Is this a regular occurrence or should I be concerned?”
Her Ladyship peeled the crinolines from her blushing cheeks.
“I assure you, Your Grace,” she gasped, winded and scrambling around to retain some modesty, “I climb trees entirely for sport. And hats.”
He moved his horse closer, his voice sinfully low. “That wasn’t very ladylike.”
"I did it on purpose to get your attention'' she lied.
Then he laughed — that deep, sinful kind of laugh that makes one’s stays feel over-tight — and offered her his hand.
"Your undergarments have my full attention, your Ladyship."
The Duke pulled her towards him and mounted her side saddle on his horse. No swearing this time. His nethers were pulsing.
“I should reprimand you,” he said, squeezing her tightly, “for unseemly behaviour.”
“I dare you,” she whispered.
He clicked his heels and they galloped to the hayloft. Her heart was pounding, a mix of desire and a touch of trepidation that was also, let's face it, exhilarating. The Duke reprimanded her with his manliness. No marmalade was required, and no butler intervened, thankfully.
Three weeks later, the banns were read.
The Duke of Dunstable had finally met his match, a woman who climbed trees, defied etiquette, wore the most lustful knickers in London, and knew exactly how to take a gentle reprimand with the eagerness of a virgin, again and again.
© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare.
A Mills and Swoon Short for Tale Teller Club Publishing.
