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.

Beneath the Amber Moon: A Droll and Steamy Seaside Love Triangle – A Mills and Swoon Short by Sarnia de la Maré FRSA

 Beneath the Amber Moon: A Droll and Steamy Seaside Love Triangle – A Mills and Swoon Short

(A modern romantic short with heat, humour, and one woman caught deliciously between her past and a pair of very persuasive arms)

 Beneath the Amber Moon

Marina Vale had precisely three rules for her new seaside life:

1. No high heels before noon.

2. No men named anything.

3. And absolutely no falling in love with anyone who owns a boat.

By Tuesday, she’d broken two of them. By Wednesday, the third was looking dangerously shaky.

Marina had returned to her family’s crumbling clifftop manor in Dorset with grand intentions of solitude and home-grown tomatoes. After a spectacularly public London divorce involving a hedge fund, a Hungarian model, and a poorly aimed breadstick, she was determined to become the kind of woman who wore linen without creasing and talked to plants. Instead, she found herself staring far too long at the new dockhand's biceps.

Aeron Maddox. With a name like that, he was contractually obliged to be hot. And he was. The kind of hot that made you reconsider feminism, underwear, and your grocery list all at once.

She spotted him on her morning walk to the bay—shirt clinging, jeans low, working a coil of rope like he was in a very niche exercise video titled Knots and Thighs.

“New?” she asked, casually clutching her water bottle like it might burst into flames.

He glanced up. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Smile like he knew what she dreamt about.

“Temporary,” he replied, eyes dragging slowly from her sandals to her sunhat. “You?”

“Divorced,” she said brightly. “And drying out.”

Aeron laughed. A deep, quiet kind of laugh that suggested he didn’t take much seriously—except maybe the way he was currently not taking his eyes off her.

Enter: Theo Ellison.

Theo was her past dressed in corduroy and good decisions. He’d been her almost-fiancé back when she still thought brunch was a personality. Tall, charming, and entirely too nice, Theo turned up at her door three days later, holding a bouquet of ethically sourced wildflowers and the sort of hopeful expression that made her deeply suspicious.

“I heard you were back,” he said, rain dripping from his hair. “I thought… I might come and ruin your peace.”

“Oh, thank God,” Marina said. “I was starting to make sourdough.”

He kissed her cheek and smelled of bergamot and poor timing.

Things escalated, as they tend to do, over a dinner party.

Marina had invited them both without thinking. Or rather, without admitting she was thinking. Theo brought wine. Aeron brought a crab. There was jazz. There was risotto. There was tension so thick it could be spooned into ramekins and served with a sprig of regret.

When Theo leaned in to whisper something undoubtedly poetic, Aeron raised a brow and cracked a claw.

“Everything all right, Marina?” he asked, voice low and infuriatingly amused.

She cleared her throat and tried not to explode. “Peachy. Just two old flames and one highly flammable woman.”

After dessert, Theo offered to help with the dishes. Aeron stayed behind to dry. Marina, foolishly, stood in the middle like a Regency heroine on a hen night.

“I remember the sound you made when I touched your neck,” Aeron murmured, not looking at her. “Wonder if you still do.”

She dropped a spoon.

From the kitchen, Theo called, “Still like chamomile, Rina? I made a pot.”

And that’s when she knew she was absolutely, completely, and spectacularly doomed.

Later that week, Marina stood on the cliff path, barefoot and wine-glossed, watching the moon spill amber across the water.

Two men. One heart. Zero bloody clue.

But for now? She was exactly where she wanted to be. Between chapters. Between kisses. Between one delicious mistake and another.

She grinned, tilted her face to the wind, and whispered to no one in particular:

“Tomorrow, I’m buying a boat.”

The End.

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Strata 12, Immersion V1, Shabra and the Basement People (Emotions)

Strata 12

Shabra and the Basement People

(Emotions)

The Book of Immersion

Volume 1

www.taletellerclub.com

CDM music by Tale Teller Club

Illustrations by iServalan Homotech 23

Welcome to our world.

© 2024 Sarnia de lamaré Tale Teller Club Publishing

I searched the globe for want of you,

A friend to call my own,

My space,

A tribe,

Was this the place?

Was I really home?

And there you stood

A tree of hope

Arms outstretched

To envelope

My ravaged body

Savaged mind

This soul so lost 

And you so kind.

Most humans progress through life along a path created by the society and culture they are part of. Existentialism emphasises individual existence, freedom, and choice. Androids and machines are essentialists, focusing on the inherent nature or essence of things and the assumption in fundamental unchanging truths. 

Emotions are vital to help humans learn and make decisions. Feelings are experienced constantly from birth to death. A newborn baby is emotionally involved with its mother as soon as it understands she is a valuable source of food and comfort. The emotional attachment is instantaneous and intuitive.

Human emotions are essential to consistency, being part of a social group, and staying safe.

Androids have successfully been programmed with 'visceral-like' responses but these are mimicked, in essence, they are faked. Androids are trained to respond to their owners' emotions as they are not able to understand emotions themselves through their lens. Such models are trained to respond to human physical cues such as odours, pupil changes, vocal idiosyncrasies etc, and to reciprocate. We could call this 'fake empathy'.

Automatic robotic vehicles do not fear the crash, they simply know that a collision is not desirable for the ongoing success of the mission in hand.

Welcome to Immersion, You Have Reached Strata 12.

'We should get some infon on any preds,' Shabra said, thinking hard about the best time of night to get to the edge, which was renowned for tribal and gang flashpoints

Renyke asked the POS to translate.

It would seem that Shabra is gathering helpful information to aid our journey

Renyke was uncertain what to do. This feeling was becoming all too familiar and quite at odds with his hitherto programmed assuredness.

'You coming or what?' Shabra asks from outside the car, leading the way to a set of stairs that led down into a noisy basement.

The robodog wagged its tail and sat importantly on the roof of the vehicle looking around and growling.

Shabra knocked on a large door and a camera was activated above them. They were being scanned.

The door opened suddenly and a large man with a long beard frisked them before allowing them entry.

Renyke, not used to any sort of frisking in his past life, was sensing increasing anxiety. 

The POS was idle.

'Welcome brother,' the guard said to Flex. 'Are you well?'

'Fine, just fine, my friend,' Flex answered, 'We continue unabated to live another day. Vilarev!' 

Both men laughed convivially whilst Renyke wondered what had amused them.

They enter a meeting place, some kind of bar. It is thick with smoke, the smell of nibs, sweat, and the streets. 

A woman approaches chanting poetry with her arms outstretched. 

'The sun shines bright when you let in the light, welcome, my sister of the night.' There is more convivial laughter.

She embraces Shabra and they exchange warm greetings. Excited to make new acquaintances the woman beckons the group to sit at a table.

'Ah, come, come my friends. I have a perfect place for you to sit, and please, be my guests at the bar.

The woman beckons a member of staff. 'Let's have liquor.' she says, 'bring my best for my new friends.'

Renyke asks the POS for details about the venue, the location and the owner but it makes little sense, stuttering and breaking up.

.......data, unavailable..... scrambled, information 

'How come these places aren't mapped?' Renyke asked Shabra. 

'Mr Renyke, you ask too many questions. 'Hiding is surviving.'

'Yes,' interjected Flex, 'and we move, we move often. The key to freedom is movement.

Nothing is permanent. Only your lungs and your heart. Only your breath and when that's not permanent, you're dead and you're ready for the metamorph.

'And we know not where that will take us for certain.'

Renyke checks the POS with an improving signal.

.....Urchs believe in various spiritual concepts but little has been documented. Oral traditions and faith seem to be passed from parents to children. I will attempt to decipher the information at my disposal.

It would appear that they believe in the existence of dissatisfied or pained ghost-like entities from the future. 

Urchs believe that death is not the end, merely a manifest alteration, referred to as the third life. This third life is fiercely protected with love because hate manifested in individuals will be carried to the next stage.

They also believe that hate is so powerful that it can control what the yet-unborn will do in the future. Hate becomes a circular energy that rotates between past present and future, forging an eternal and devastating cycle of ruin across several dimensions of existence. The dead are responsible for the living, the living are responsible for the future born. To honour this mantra, enlightenment and love are the only tools required to ensure human success.

.....Urchs also believe that taking drugs or mind-altering ingested compounds will help them understand what is 'real real' and that the stresses of daily existence mask these realities and render them misunderstood. Urchs believe that getting 'high' enables them a greater understanding of truth, and even an ability to meet the entities or ghosts of the future.

'We shouldn't stay here too long, and you shouldn't get high,' said Renyke, looking at Shabra who was drinking the free liquor.

'You are so uptight Mr Renyke.' Shabra winks.

There is a brief conversation between a man and Shabra that Renyke cannot understand.

The POS has lost signal so Renyke turns to Flex.

'What is this dialect?' he asks.

'Ah, that is zone speak, with some colour changes for the Urchs. We have our own code see.'

Shabra rises, 'Let's Go! I think there is some trouble around tonight.'

Outside a small urch child sits on the bonnet of the car.

'Can I come too?' the child asks excitedly.

'No man, This is grown-up stuff. Come see me tomorrow, now fucksyoff.'

The child jumps off the bonnet, hugs Flex, and runs away

There is a flurry of drug and weapon traders who are hustling for sales.

Finally, they are all in the car. There is a sense of trepidation as they drive in silence to the underpass through a thinning crowd. The child appears again on the bonnet, facing forward and singing with a fist raised.

'No sweat,' says Flex, 'we will get him off the other side. He does no harm, annoying is all.' 

Suddenly there is an almighty bang and the child on the bonnet is shot. Its guts are all over the windscreen, blood drips down the glass and the crowd scarpers.

Everyone on the street is screaming.

The POS engages

.....99% likelihood of robbery, ambush, death. This is a red alert! You must take action! Repeat, red alert!

There is a man in front of the car pointing an AK47 at Shabra's head.

Two other men flank the vehicle and bang rhythmically on the windows.

'Bastardos gang aint getting my vehicular', shouts Shabra.

to be continued...

©2024 Sarnia de lamaré FRSA