🐎 The Taming of Lady Theadora Blunket A Mills and Swoon Romance Short
A Mills and Swoon Romance Short by Sarnia de la Maré.
Lady Theadora Blunket was widely considered a problem.
Not a scandal exactly—although there had been murmurs after the incident with the racing stallion and the magistrate’s wig—but she was certainly a difficulty.
At twenty-eight she possessed a respectable dowry, an alarming seat on horseback, and absolutely no interest in matrimony whatsoever.
Her mother blamed the horses.
Her father blamed the French.
Society blamed Theadora.
For while other ladies embroidered roses and fainted charmingly in drawing rooms, Lady Theadora preferred breeches, boots, and the smell of leather and tobacco.
And, on certain evenings, gambling houses.
It was just past midnight in the back rooms of the Golden Crown Gaming Club, where respectable gentlemen went to become slightly less respectable and lose their inheritance.
A tall young “man” leaned against the far table, coat collar high, hat low, a glass of brandy in hand.
He watched the cards with the steady gaze of someone who understood odds—and enjoyed beating them.
This gentleman was, of course, Lady Theadora Blunket.
Her hair was tucked beneath the hat, her figure flattened beneath a waistcoat, and her voice, when she spoke, had acquired a faintly lazy drawl that passed remarkably well among drunk aristocrats.
“Three guineas more,” she said calmly, sliding coins across the table.
Across from her, Lord Peregrine Hawthorne narrowed his eyes.
Lord Peregrine was not accustomed to losing.
He was handsome in a mildly infuriating way—broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and possessed of the dangerous habit of noticing things other men overlooked.
Tonight, for instance, he had noticed that the young gentleman opposite him had remarkably elegant hands.
And eyelashes that would have caused envy in a debutante.
“Curious,” he murmured.
Theadora raised an eyebrow.
“What is?”
“That I have played cards with half the rakes in London,” Peregrine said softly, “and yet I have never seen you before.”
Theadora shrugged.
“I prefer winning quietly.”
“Indeed.”
He studied her a moment longer.
Then smiled.
It was not a polite smile.
It was a dangerous one.
Theadora won the hand.
She stood, scooping up her winnings with efficient satisfaction.
“Pleasure, gentlemen.”
And turned to leave.
She reached the corridor before a voice behind her said:
“Lady Theadora Blunket.”
She froze.
Slowly, she turned.
Lord Peregrine Hawthorne leaned lazily against the doorway.
Still smiling.
“Well,” he said pleasantly, “this is awkward.”
“You are mistaken,” she said coolly.
“Am I?”
“Entirely.”
Peregrine stepped closer.
“Then perhaps you will explain why the notorious horse-mad daughter of the Earl of Blunket is currently dressed as a young gentleman and emptying pockets in London’s most illegal gaming house.”
Theadora folded her arms.
“Perhaps,” she replied, “I simply enjoy the company.”
He laughed.
It was a low, delighted sound.
“My dear lady, you are the most interesting thing to happen in this club in years.”
“That is because gentlemen here lack imagination.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping closer still, “they do not usually possess breasts.”
Her hand flew instinctively to her waistcoat.
He chuckled.
“Relax. Your secret is safe.”
“Is it?”
“For the moment.”
She glared.
“Blackmail is vulgar, Lord Hawthorne.”
“Curiosity,” he corrected. “And perhaps admiration.”
“Admiration?”
“You ride like a cavalry officer, gamble like a pirate, and terrify three-quarters of the men in Mayfair.”
He paused.
“I find it irresistible.”
Theadora gave a filthy chuckle.
No one had ever said such a thing to her before.
Usually men simply looked confused.
Or faintly injured when confronted with a woman who never even feigned submission for effect.
“You should leave,” she said briskly.
“And miss the entertainment?”
“You intend to follow me?”
“I intend,” Peregrine replied, “to see how far this delightful rebellion extends.”
Theadora turned and strode toward the exit.
He followed.
Of course he did.
Outside, the night air was cool and sharp.
Her horse waited nearby—an enormous chestnut mare that had thrown two stable boys and a visiting baronet.
Theadora swung into the saddle with easy grace as Peregrine watched with open admiration.
“Good Lord,” he murmured.
“What?”
“You mount like a highwayman.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
She gathered the reins.
“Goodnight, Lord Hawthorne.”
“Goodnight, Lady Blunket.”
She nudged the horse forward.
Then stopped.
Because Peregrine had taken hold of the bridle.
“Now,” he said calmly, “we must discuss the matter of taming you.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Taming?”
“Yes.”
“I am not a horse.”
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “You are far more dangerous.”
She leaned down slightly.
“Let go of my horse.”
“Or?”
“Or I shall ride you down.”
He grinned.
“I would rather like to see you try.”
Theadora stared at him for several long seconds.
Then, quite unexpectedly, she laughed.
A bright, wild laugh that startled the sleeping street.
“Very well,” she said.
“Very well what?”
“You may attempt to tame me.”
His eyes gleamed.
“And the rules?”
“If you succeed,” she said, “I shall attend one ball, wear one gown, and behave like a proper lady for one entire evening.”
“A remarkable sacrifice.”
“And if you fail,” she continued sweetly, “you will purchase my horse a year’s worth of oats and never again attempt to interfere with my hobbies.”
Peregrine considered.
Then extended his hand.
“Agreed.”
She shook it.
Firmly.
And immediately regretted it, because his hand closed around hers and pulled her clean off the steed and into his arms.
Now, at this point there was a decision to be made.
Theadora had options.
And wisely or not, she threw caution to the wind, because Lord Peregrine Hawthorne smelled of manliness, gin, and cigars, and because desire spread through her torso and loins like an unrepentant fire as he pulled her against his britches.
Theadora was a woman who knew her mind.
She kissed Peregrine hard as he slid his hand up her stockinged leg and cupped her behind.
“Lord Hawthorne,” she said firmly, “I will not be tamed.”
“That,” he said with a wicked grin, “is absolutely fine by me.”
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