The Viscount Who Misplaced His Reputation A Mills & Swoon Short #romance #perioddrama

 

The Viscount Who Misplaced His Reputation

A Mills & Swoon Short

 

In the agreeable scandal factories of Georgian London, reputations were delicate objects—rather like porcelain teacups. One careless moment and they shattered upon the ground, echoing through the chattering classes the moment a delicious rumour appeared.

Lord Alistair Hawthorne, Viscount Bellmere, had misplaced his entirely.

This was not, to be clear, an accident.

The trouble began on a Tuesday, which is a particularly dangerous day for respectable men. Sundays encourage virtue, Mondays encourage work, but by Tuesday mischief begins creeping in through the hidden door of fresh hopes.

 

 

On this particular Tuesday, the viscount was discovered emerging from the conservatory at Lady Pembroke’s garden party with Miss Eliza Fairleigh.

Miss Fairleigh was not his fiancée.

Miss Fairleigh was not even particularly known to him until approximately twenty minutes earlier.

She was, however, holding his waistcoat.

Society, which is famously generous in its interpretations, concluded immediately that something interesting—a polite word for smutty—had occurred among the trembling sepals of the voluptuous orchids.

Miss Fairleigh, for her part, appeared entirely untroubled. The nonchalance of a successful romp did not show—save perhaps for slightly rosy cheeks. And not the ones on her face.

She was a woman of sharp eyes, clever conversation, and a laugh that made elderly matrons tighten their lips in disapproval.

“Your waistcoat, my lord,” she said calmly, returning the garment.

“You removed it,” the viscount replied.

“You seemed overheated.”

“I was not overheated.”

She tilted her head.

“Then perhaps it was anticipation.”

The viscount, who had previously faced cavalry charges with greater composure, found himself momentarily speechless.

By evening the rumours had matured beautifully.

At White’s and Gregory Gentleman's Club it was suggested that the viscount had been seen kissing Miss Fairleigh’s hand with unnecessary enthusiasm for all to witness.

At Almack’s the story evolved into an embrace behind a palm.

By midnight someone claimed they had been practically horizontal among the begonias—which was botanically improbable, but socially irresistible.

The viscount, who had never been particularly careful with his reputation, discovered he rather enjoyed the situation.

Not least because Miss Fairleigh possessed certain strategically placed curves that had been imprinted permanently upon his brain—a most unforgettable image of garden delights.

Miss Fairleigh, true to fashion, enjoyed it even more.

They met again two evenings later at a musicale.

“You appear very calm for a ruined man,” she observed.

“I am considering the advantages,” he said.

“Of scandal?”

“Of you.”

Miss Fairleigh raised one elegant eyebrow.

“You hardly know me.”

“True,” he said thoughtfully. “But I suspect I should like to.”

There was a pause.

The orchestra began something delicate involving violins and a sighing choir.

Miss Fairleigh leaned slightly closer.

“My lord,” she murmured, “if you think the rumours are entertaining now…”

Her smile was slow and extremely unhelpful.

“…you should hear what people say after the second garden party.”

And Lord Bellmere, who had mislaid many things in life—gloves, fortunes, occasionally horses—suddenly realised he had no intention whatsoever of recovering his reputation.

Some losses, after all, were simply too enjoyable.

 

And that, dear listener, is how Viscount Bellmere lost his reputation… and found considerably better company. 

©2026 Sarnia de la Maré 

Published by Tale Teller Club 

💋 The Widow From Bath Who Borrowed Husbands Mills & Swoon Short by Sarnia de la Maré

The Widow Who Borrowed Husbands

In the polite districts of Bath there existed a woman whom respectable matrons referred to only in whispers.

Mrs Arabella Devereaux.

A widow of three years, excellent posture, alarming wit, and a reputation for borrowing husbands the way other ladies borrowed shawls.

Not permanently, you understand.

Just for an evening.

Arabella herself considered the arrangement perfectly civilised. A husband, she reasoned, was a dreadful thing to own outright — expensive, noisy, and inclined to develop opinions.

But borrowing one occasionally?

Delightful.

Her system was admirably organised. Thursdays were reserved for supper companions. Saturdays for dancing partners. Sundays, naturally, for philosophical discussions about the nature of love, which most gentlemen agreed were best conducted near a sofa.

The wives of Bath, however, were less appreciative of Arabella’s intellectual curiosity.

“She is dangerous,” declared Mrs Hardwick at the Pump Room, clutching her smelling salts with theatrical urgency.

“Why?” asked a younger lady.

Mrs Hardwick lowered her voice.

“Because she makes the men laugh.”

This, as every married woman knows, is the most dangerous trick of all.

The situation might have continued indefinitely had Captain Nathaniel Graves not returned from the continent.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Recently decorated for bravery.

And, most inconveniently, completely immune to flirtation.

Arabella encountered him at a musicale and immediately recognised the problem.

He did not stare.

He did not blush.

He did not attempt to compliment her shoulders, her eyes, or her scandalously confident posture.

Instead he looked at her with calm amusement and said:

“Mrs Devereaux, I have been warned about you.”

“How efficient of society,” she replied smoothly. “And have they advised you to run?”

“No,” he said.
“They advised me to guard my heart.”

Arabella laughed.

“My dear Captain, that is entirely unnecessary. I never keep them.”

Over the next fortnight something deeply inconvenient occurred.

Captain Graves refused to be borrowed.

He attended dinners, conversed charmingly, and escorted elderly ladies to their carriages — yet whenever Arabella attempted her usual game of glittering seduction, he simply observed her with that infuriating half-smile.

“You enjoy this,” she said one evening.

“Very much.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said calmly, “you are waiting for someone who will not leave at midnight.”

Arabella raised an eyebrow.

“How perceptive.”

“And how wrong.”

But for the first time in three years, she did not borrow a husband that evening.

Instead she walked home beside the one man who seemed entirely unwilling to be temporary.

At the edge of her garden gate he paused.

“You could marry again,” he said gently.

Arabella studied him.

“And lose my excellent reputation?”

He smiled.

“I suspect it would improve.”

She leaned closer, eyes glittering.

“Captain Graves… what are you proposing?”

“Nothing, yet, a gentleman never assumes too early.”

“How disappointing.”

“Let's say, I am merely conducting reconnaissance.”

Arabella laughed, the sort of laugh that made men think of intimacy.

“Well then,” she said softly, “you may borrow me tomorrow evening.”

The Captain bowed and kissed her gloved hand pulling her body towards him. She felt the rising power in his stiff loins and gasped. The thought of him inside her was almost too much to bear. She gasped again, lips wet and opening, like her heart.