Three Flat Whites by Sarnia de la Mare, a Mills and Swoon Short Romance Story

 

Three Flat Whites by Sarnia de la Mare, a Mills and Swoon Short Romance Story

Clara Smith was not, by anyone’s account, tech-savvy. She had once tried to scan a QR code using her SLR camera, and once reported her Kindle as 'smoking' when it was, in fact, her kettle boiling.

Things were improving though as she had roped her sister's four year old into giving her smartphone lessons. She could now text, search Google, and even purchase ceramic hedgehogs on eBay.

And today, Clara was confident. She had downloaded an app. All by herself.

Not just any app, mind you. Plenty of Lovely, the thinking woman’s dating platform. So many men, so little time, so many dentists, vets, and doctors working with Medecins sans Frontieres.

She uploaded a photograph where she was smiling holding a ceramic hedgehog. It had taken three days of selfie practice, some with props, many in different outfits, and most looking like she was passing wind.

“GSOH, loves adventure, loves quirky vintage, and collecting ceramic hedgehogs. Swipe right if you can cook risotto or explain cryptocurrency.” Her 12 year old niece had explained the importance of a good bio and told her that saying '32 year old virgin who loved early nights and hedgehogs' was not a good look. However, hedgehogs were such a big part of her daily life that they simply had to be mentioned.

Then, within mere moments, she received this hopeful message:

Harry Hedgehog Lover: 'Hey. Loved your hedgehog. How about comparing collections sometime?'

Harry was handsome in a hedgehog kind of way. He had spiky hair and a long nose and he was always smiling. 

She was smitten. A man who appreciated her ceramics? What were the chances?

They exchanged messages for a week. Harry was charming, witty, and had an enviable knowledge of ceramic wildlife in the decorative arts through history. He had specialist knowledge in hedgehog ceramic art in Victorian Britain (which really made her swoon).

They arranged to meet at Caffè Antico, the kind of place where everything came served on reclaimed slate and the Wi-Fi password was 'haiku'. Plus, there was a painting of a hedgehog on the wall.

Clara arrived early, wearing her favourite dress, which was made from vintage nylon fabric with a hedgehog motif.

She waited. And waited. And waited. Three flat whites later and feeling ground level low, she picked up her hedgehog tote and made her way home. Then the phone rang. It was HIM. The cad, the charlatan, he who had extorted lewd-ish images of her lying on her best hedgehog duvet cover.

Clara did not answer, she was mad, and also, very sad. She wanted to go home, curl up in a ball, forget all this dating craziness and get back to being a virgin and evenings bidding on eBay.

But then, her phone pinged again. It was a message from her friend Suzy.

'Have you seen this? she said. 'This must be your Harry surely?'

Clara was staring at a Twitter feed of Harry stopping traffic as a family of hedgehogs crossed a busy road just when he should have been on their date.

Clara was aghast.

Then a message from Harry. 'Running late, just had to rescue some hedgehogs and get them to the vet to be checked over as one was injured. On my way to Caffè Antico now, hope you are still there.'

Clara did an immediate turnaround and headed straight back.

Three years on, Clara and Harry run a hedgehog rescue centre in Milton Keynes and have a daughter called Henrietta. Their home is adorned with rare ceramic hedgehog collections and they have their own YouTube channel with three million followers. And the moral of this story....never give up on love after the third flat white....true love takes at least four.

© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare

Other Short Stories by Sarnia de la Mare

The Duke's Seduction

The Olive Grove

Plus One

Amber Moon

Crimson Cravat

Vanishing Violinist

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The Book of Immersion : Volume 1 Kindle Edition
by Sarnia de la Mare (Author) Format: Kindle Edition

Book 19 of 23: The Book of Immersion


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The Book of Immersion: Volume 1
by Sarnia de la Mare

In a future where code meets consciousness, one being begins a haunting transformation. Renyke—an AI on the edge of humanity—awakens to emotion, sensory overload, and the fragile beauty of connection. Guided by the enigmatic Flex, their deepening bond explores intimacy and friendship, neurodivergence, and the complex world of feeling through an autistic spectrum lens.

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Mills and Swoon™ “The Duke of Dunstable’s Seduction” by Sarnia de la Mare

Mills and Swoon: “The Duke of Dunstable’s Seduction” by Sarnia de la Mare, for Tale Teller Club Publishing.

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.

Her French maid was actually from Glasgow.

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.

Books and book illustrations by Sarnia de la Mare released this Week

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The Riverbank by Sarnia de la Maré

Great Aunt Katherine had been seemingly on her last legs for about thirty years. Since I could remember she had been shrinking and creaking and swaying in the wind. Finally, she was gone and was currently residing in a casket for public viewing before burial later in the day.
We had never gotten along.

She was caustic and bitter and complained about everything. She irked me to the core.
None of us liked her and we seldom got in touch. Mum had fallen out with her years back and the connections rusted and corroded like old batteries. Damage had been done with emotional weaponry and unrepentant intent.


But in death people rally together to do their duty and triumphantly, one hopes, they ignore the fallout from the battleground.


The undertaker had worked a treat. Great Aunt’s hair was spruced and pompadoured like a grand poodle and someone had done a great job on her makeup. In repose, I thought I saw in her some beauty. I had never seen it before in her. How, I wondered, had I not seen it before? Perhaps then, it had been the light.


It was stuffy and death makes me nauseous so I took myself off for some air in the Lancashire sun.

 

The Riverbank

The grounds of the estate were rambling and pretty, cared for by a team of gardeners and gamekeepers. I followed a winding road, then a desire path through an accidental arch of higher foliage. Birds sang and I noticed the accidental grace of an untouched place.




‘You wanna be careful down there luv,’ said a man with a thick accident and clobber befitting a man who works on the land.


‘Oh, where does it go, this path?’ I asked.


‘Just by the riverside, it’s dangerous if you lose your footing; and don’t be tempted to swim in it, there’s wild currents, people ‘av drowned.’


‘Ok,’ I said, ‘I’ll be careful’.
‘Make sure you are, shout if there’s a bother’.


I objected to be being told and marched arrogantly on.


The riverside was a reedy unkempt place and the water seemed almost still. I doubted anyone had drowned there. I followed the bank upstream for some minutes and saw a beautiful glade just inland covered in bluebells. The blue-purple velvet tones in the late sun were breathtaking and I stopped to take a photograph on my phone.


I misjudged the bank and as I stepped back, cascaded down the steep slope, twisting my ankle as I landed with little room to spare before the water’s edge. It was a close shave. I would probably have to eat humble pie after all.


I stroked my foot; it was sore and I assumed I had twisted it. Reluctantly I called for help without trying to sound panicked.


Something had stabbed on my way down, something sharp. I was bleeding quite badly from my thigh.



I looked up the bank amongst the flattened grasses and saw something. It shimmered in the sun’s rays.


A bellowing voice broke the silence.
‘Are you alright? I told you to be careful din I?’


It was the gamekeeper doing his job, thank goodness.
‘I was trying to take a photograph,’ I explained feebly. ‘I hurt my ankle’.


‘Stay put, if you think you can follow a simple instruction. I will get my car and the first aid kit.’


The gamekeeper muttered several gripes and made his way to prepare for an overly dramatic rescue mission.


I waited as instructed and looked at the shiny object, it was a large red and gold brooch with an open bent pin. I must have stabbed myself as I tumbled down the verge.
It was tarnished and dirty but I could see it was gold. The stone looked like ruby, but I cannot profess to be an expert. It wasn’t paste, that much I knew. It was big and I was pleased to have found it immediately wondering if it was worth anything.


I began to polish it on my skirt, breathing hard on it and trying to remove the muck. As I did so I could see a small clasp and a hinge.


I tried to prize it open but it seemed to be stuck. After some brute force, the clasp was released.


Inside was like a locket, squared off. There were two photographs. One side, a picture of a young woman, a beautiful young woman and a young man with dark eyes. The woman’s hair was mounted in pompadour fashion on her proud dignified face. They were lovers, you could tell.


The other was a picture of an infant in swaddling clothes.


I tried to take out the photos but the baby picture was stuck fast. The other came out easily and inscribed on the reverse in tiny handwriting was my great aunt’s name, Katherine Baltimore and a date, 1938.


I looked again at the beautiful woman in the photograph and there I saw her as I have never seen her before.


‘Alright, old tight!’ shouted the gamekeeper.


The rescue mission passed off with ease and we trundled along the road towards the house in a four by four that looked and smelled like things were growing in it.


‘How long have you worked here?’ I asked.
‘Nigh on sixty years,’ said the gamekeeper.
‘Did my Aunt ever marry?’


‘No no, she was broken-hearted as a young girl, so they say. Had a love, apparently, died in the river there. I told you dint I?....don’t get close to the river, it has a jinx it does, I’m tellin’ ya, and your ma’ld never forgive me should out ‘appen.’


We arrived at the house to a general fuss about the state of my health and I was taken to be ‘fixed up.’


Mum was not pleased and came to my room to reprimand me in that maternal way mums do.


‘Why did you go to the riverside? People have drowned there!’ she exclaimed.
‘I wish people would stop telling me that’ I said in disgruntled fashion, ‘and who was it, Great Aunt Katherine’s boyfriend? I can’t believe she ever had one, looked like she hadn’t ever been laid with that scowl.’


‘That’s unkind,’ said mum.


‘Oh yeah sorry, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But she was such a bitch.’
Mum sat down on the bed next to me.


‘Well, I may as well tell you, it won’t do any damage now, I suppose.
Your Great Aunt was such a rebel. She had this red hair. My great-grandma used to say it was the hair was the problem. There was a boy here, employed. He was rough, son of the gamekeeper who rescued you.’


I raised my internal eyebrows at the word rescue but listened intently.
‘My great-grandma knew he was going to cause trouble because he had those eyes.’
‘What eyes?’ I asked


‘Ones that make you want to lie down and take your clothes off, that’s what eyes.’
‘Oh. Those eyes......’ I said, knowingly.


‘Well,’ mum continued, ‘they struck up a very intense relationship but it was never going to work. Everyone was up in arms about it. They were different people, different classes, different upbringings. Those eyes were not going to solve the problem.’


‘So, what happened? I asked, desperate now for the full story.


‘Well, your Great Aunt ended the affair but he took it badly. They say he jumped off the bridge upstream where the two rivers meet and his body was washed up here, by the bluebell glade. He had been drinking, no one really knew what had happened.’


‘But she had a baby,’ I said.


‘Yes, how did you know? It was stillborn. At the time it was all for the best.’

I went downstairs to look at the coffin and say farewell to a great aunt who had felt such pain and loss. I looked at her face embraced in the sumptuous cream satin. Great Aunt Katherine looked content, different from when I had seen her this morning. I wondered if she would have wanted me to keep the brooch and considered its value. But I knew that that would be wrong.



She would want to be reunited with her baby and her love with the lay-down eyes.


I put the brooch on her lapel and kissed her forehead. Then I apologized and said farewell.


© 2019 Sarnia de la Mare