Mills and Swoon™ Podcast Por Sarnia de la Maré FRSA arte de portada

Mills and Swoon™

Mills and Swoon™

De: Sarnia de la Maré FRSA
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🎙️ Mills and Swoon: Romantic Comedy Podcast with a Droll Twist
Discover Mills and Swoon — a laugh-out-loud romantic fiction podcast where period drama meets modern mischief. Written and narrated by British author Sarnia de la Maré, each short story delivers a complete romantic comedy packed with scandal, satire, and sly seduction. Perfect for fans of Bridgerton, Jane Austen spoofs, and witty love stories, this podcast offers bite-sized episodes with strong female leads, absurd entanglements, and a dash of vintage spice. Whether you're after slow-burn romance, cheeky dialogue, or clever plot twists, you'll find your fix here. ⭐ New episodes weekly
🎧 Available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and all major platforms
💋 Presented by the Tale Teller Club Subscribe now and join listeners worldwide who come for the love... and stay for the laughter.Sarnia de la Mare Arte Ciencias Sociales Historia y Crítica Literaria Relaciones
Episodios
  • El Dilema del Trasero Desaparecido | Cuento Romántico Corto con Humor – Mills and Swoon en Español

    El Dilema del Trasero Desaparecido | Cuento Romántico Corto con Humor – Mills and Swoon en Español
    Jul 16 2025
    Comenzó, como suelen comenzar estas cosas, con un trasero. No el de Honoria, que se consideraba tanto firme como filosóficamente irreprochable, sino el trasero de alabastro del Duque de Bellington, recientemente inmortalizado en mármol por la señorita Lavinia Crimble—escultora, alborotadora, y poseedora de la colección de escándalos más cara de Sussex.

    #RomanceEnEspañol #PodcastDeAmor #MillsAndSwoon
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    5 m
  • The Duke of Dunstable’s Seduction A Mills and Swoon™ Short by Sarnia de la Mare

    The Duke of Dunstable’s Seduction A Mills and Swoon™ Short by Sarnia de la Mare
    Jun 29 2025


    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.
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    4 m
  • The Olive Grove Agreement: A Hot and Hilarious French Villa Romance – A Mills & Swoon™ Short

    The Olive Grove Agreement: A Hot and Hilarious French Villa Romance – A Mills & Swoon™ Short
    Jun 26 2025
    📘 The Olive Grove Agreement: A Hot and Hilarious French Villa Romance – A Mills and Swoon
    One reluctant heiress. One infuriatingly hot ex-chef. And one very firm agreement made over figs and fornication.
    Title: The Olive Grove Agreement
    A Mills and Swoon Short
    Where inheritance meets innuendo and everything smells faintly of rosemary and bad decisions.Cass Winter was not in the mood for a French villa.She had deadlines, a dodgy knee, and the last time she tried to drive on the right side of the road she’d accidentally parked in a fountain. But apparently, her great-aunt Iris had passed away and left her La Maison du Hérisson, a once-grand property in the hills of Provence. And so, armed with nothing but SPF 50 and mild resentment, Cass arrived.It was hotter than she expected. And louder. Especially in the garden, where someone was swearing in French and violently attacking an olive tree.She squinted.He was shirtless. Tanned. And wielding garden shears like they owed him money.“You’re not supposed to be here,” he barked, in the polished English of someone who’d once dated a model named Saskia.Cass raised a brow. “And you are?”“I live here,” he snapped. “Who the hell are you?”Meet Luc Brousseau, disgruntled former chef, current squatter, and all-round beautifully difficult man.It turned out Iris had taken him in after he “quit” (read: was fired from) a Michelin-starred kitchen in Lyon for seducing a critic and flambéing her handbag. She let him stay in the guesthouse in exchange for cooking and grumpiness.And now? Now the guesthouse had no formal deed. And Luc had no intention of leaving.“I’m not going anywhere,” he said over dinner that night, ladling cassoulet into bowls like a man who knew exactly what he was worth. “Unless you drag me out in handcuffs.”Cass smiled sweetly. “Don’t tempt me.”The first week was war. Passive-aggressive Post-it notes on the fridge. Loud music at strategic times. He cooked at midnight. She reorganised the pantry just to upset him.But then… something shifted.It began with wine. Then a storm. Then her power went out and he “reluctantly” invited her to sleep on his sofa. One glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape became two. Then his hand was on her thigh. Then her dress was on the floor.He kissed like he argued—deliberately, intensely, and with far too much tongue.“Still want me gone?” he growled, half-naked, pinning her against the ancient stone wall.“Ask me again tomorrow,” she gasped.In the morning, she found a croissant, a perfectly brewed coffee, and a note:Keep the villa.
    I’ll keep the guesthouse.
    We’ll share the rest.
    —LShe sipped the coffee, watching him prune a fig tree shirtless. Again.Cass smiled.The inheritance wasn’t the only thing that needed handling delicately.The End.
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    3 m
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