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storiesforallfandoms · 3 years

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unhappy futures ~ duke simon bassett;bridgerton

word count: 2286

request?: no

description: neither one of them wants to be there, so they decide to make it a little more fun

pairing: simon bassett x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist (one, two)

I had yet to figure out why I still allowed my mother to drag me to these courting events. She had already allowed me to live without being forced into a loveless marriage, and even without that overbearing feeling over me I hated these social events. I had no reason to be there, and yet there I was, stood in a corner alone because no one wanted to interact with the future spinster.

I figured part of the reason why I went was in hopes of finding some new company. I only had two friends, Eloise Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington, and I loved them both to pieces, but I was also older than them both by a few years. As mature as they were, sometimes I craved the company of people my own age.

Sometimes, a very strong sometimes.

I watched as the women my age fawned over their potential suitors (or were being forced to by their mothers), and those who weren’t fawning were already sporting baby bumps. I didn’t belong there, I shouldn’t have gone.

As I looked around the room, I spotted a gentleman stood by himself. He didn’t look much happier than I felt, which made me feel a bit better about my current feelings towards the event.

His eyes met with mine for a split second. I looked away quickly, embarrassed by being caught. Not that there was anything to catch as I had only briefly glanced at him. I dared to look back after a moment to see his attention was drawn elsewhere. I took this opportunity to look at the stranger again, and I had to admit, he was incredibly handsome. So handsome that I was shocked that he didn’t have a wife hanging off his arm.

Tired of being alone, I decided to across the room to stand next to the only other person who seemed as miserable as I was.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” I commented as I reached him. He glanced down at me and grunted in response. “I can’t blame you, these things are dreadfully painful. I do have a fun way to pass the time here.”

I could tell he was trying to ignore me, but my words drew some interest. He glanced down at me before turning his attention back to the socializing debutants. I looked out at the crowd as well and zoned in on a young lady who was dancing with an older gentleman.

“See those two there?” I asked, nodding towards the couple. “I saw one of two things have brought them together: either she’s struggling to find a suitor so she’s being forced to marry that old Lord, or she’s pregnant and they’re going to try to say the baby is his.”

A smile smile tugged at the stranger’s lips. “You think so?”

His voice was like velvet and it made me forget myself for a moment. I was proud of myself for getting him to speak, and I needed to make it happen again.

“I’d almost guarantee it,” I said. “We had a similar scandal last season when Lady Featherington tired to cover up her husband’s cousin’s pregnancy. Which leads me to the true nature of this game: the future of that soon to be unhappy couple. I picture a quick wedding before the old bastard croaks, and a baby roughly nine months later. He will be happy, obviously, he has a young wife with plenty of time before her body is not something he wants to look at, but she’ll live a life of misery because men her own age didn’t want to marry her.”

He was chuckling and I decided that his laugh was maybe better than his voice.

“This is how you pass the time during these events?” he asked, clearly amused. “By picturing unhappy futures for your fellow debutants?”

“Not a debutant,” I muttered, “and besides, it’s just the truth. All of these marriages will end the same way: unhappy, many children, and should a daughter be born the cycle repeats.”

“If you are not a debutant I am led to believe you’re speaking from experience.”

I snorted, rather unladylike, in response to his comment. This earned me another smile, which I gladly returned.

“Try for yourself,” I prompted him. “Our little game, I mean.”

“Our game?”

“Yes. You can use this game for future boredom inducing events as I’m sure they’ll be plentiful. Therefore, it can be our game.”

The handsome stranger smiled at me before turning his attention back to the crowd ahead of us. I took this moment to really look at him. He was about a head taller than I, even in my tallest heels. He carried himself rather highly, which made me wonder which family he belonged to. With the slight smile on his face and his body less tense than it had been when I had arrived, he looked even more unbelievably handsome.

“That lady there,” he said, finally bringing me back to reality. “The one who looks very cross with her suitor. Seems like she’ll be a very...difficult wife to that poor man.”

I looked at the woman in question, a lady who was not much older than I with a man who was of the same age. Even through the dimly lit room I could see her face was red as she scolded her suitor. I couldn’t help but giggle to myself at the sight.

“Difficult is an understatement,” I said. “I’d say she’ll be wearing his balls around her neck like expensive diamonds by the night’s end.”

My new friend let out a loud laugh that drew the attention of anyone around us. “You don’t speak like a lady, do you?”

“Being a lady is quite boring. I prefer to be myself.”

He seemed to like my answer, which part of me was proud to see for some reason.

We continued with our game for some time, passing the night greatly. At a certain point, we were laughing so hard at our stories that I was wiping tears from my eyes.

We found ourselves outside as the night began to wind down. We were perched on the railing of the house, overlooking the garden as we passed back and forth a bottle of wine that my new friend, who eventually introduced himself as Simon, had taken on our way out.

“This truly has been the best time I have had at one of these events,” he told me. “Most of the time I am being accosted by debutants and their ambitious mamas. Which I should apologize for my behavior when you first approached me as I thought that’s what you were trying to do.”

“Apology accepted. Although I can’t say I’m shocked to hear that. A handsome man such as yourself, I’m surprised you’re not wed yet.”

His face darkened. I suddenly felt awkward as I didn’t know what I had said wrong. I took another quick sip from the wine bottle before passing it back to him.

“I have no intentions of marrying,” he said after a moment. “I have told every mother who has tried to see me on their daughter this fact, but no one seems to listen.”

“That’s how these mamas are,” I said. “My own mother refused to listen when I told her I didn’t want to marry. She made me go through two whole seasons before she left me alone, and that was only because my sister caught the attention of a soon to be Duke.”

Simon raised an eyebrow at me. “It’s not every day that I meet a young lady that doesn’t wish to be wed.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to be wed,” I explained. “It’s just...I don’t want to marry someone just because I have to, and I certainly don’t want to be forced to marry a man just because of his title. I want to marry someone that I have feelings for, that I will actually enjoy spending my life with. I have two younger sisters, bless them, they’re the ones my mother is able to fuss over and find husbands for. Mother acted as though she were the one marrying the Earl and not my sister. But me, I’m the family disappointment. I will not bring honor to my family by picking a noble man to marry because I want love, not just a partnership.”

Simon looked at me for a long time. His eyes stared through mine and looked into my soul. I could feel my heartbeat racing under his gaze. I had to look away or else risk doing something I probably shouldn’t. Not until we were somewhere more private, at least.

I never told many people my true reason for not wanting to marry. Everyone I had told didn’t understand. They all thought I was mad. One man, the father of one of my suitors, even offered my mother his condolences on her “lost cause”. While I still held strong to my reasoning for not getting married, I couldn’t help but feel hurt at the way that I was treated by so many people because of this, my own parents included. I swear some days my mother is just one comment away from throwing me out onto the streets.

“I don’t see why that’s such a bad thing,” Simon finally said. “I personally don’t agree with the idea that women have to wed a man they barley know just so they can bare an heir to his family name. And to try and put some sort of value on these young women based on how many suitors they have coming for them, or who they end up marrying, no wonder there are so many of you who find themselves lacking in self confidence.”

I smiled gratefully at Simon’s understanding. Besides Eloise, he was the first person to truly understand what I was saying.

He extended the wine bottle to me again. As I went to take it, my hand brushed against his and I felt a spark run through my fingertips and up into my arm. I looked up into Simon’s eyes again and realized how close he had gotten to me.

His free hand reached up to gently caress my cheek. I shivered under his touch, but still leaned into it. I wanted more of it, I never wanted him to stop touching me.

“Is it indecent of me to ask if I could kiss you?” he asked.

My heart was racing so fast that it was starting to make my vision blurry. I could barley find the words to say, so instead I just shook my head. Simon smiled and closed the distance between us, pressing his soft lips against mine. The wine bottle slipped from his hand, or maybe it was from mine, and shattered on the ground beneath us, but neither of us could be bothered with that at the moment. We were too busy being lost in one another.

Simon’s other hand found my waist as his lips moved against mine. He was very gentlemanly, being gentle with me and not once pushing to go further than just a kiss. I was almost ashamed to admit how much I wanted him to take me. I didn’t care for the still dispersing crowd, I didn’t care that my mother was likely still a part of that crowd. All I cared about was wanting to feel Simon’s warm body on top of mine, his hands exploring my body, his lips on every inch of skin. I wanted him.

I was sure I would’ve gotten what I wanted, too, if it weren’t for a voice interrupting us.

“Your grace?”

Simon pulled away and looked over my shoulder with annoyance. I followed his gaze to see he was looking at a man whose dress told me he was a butler standing a few feet away from us.

“What is it, Jeffries?” Simon asked, his voice laced with irritation.

“It’s time to go, your grace.”

“A moment longer, then I will be with you.”

Jeffries looked between Simon and I. A knowing smile crossed his lips as he agreed and walked away to leave us alone.

I looked back at Simon in confusion. “Your grace?”

He smiled as his index finger gently grazed my cheek again. “Your mother would be happy to hear that your sister isn’t the only one who has gained the attention of a Duke, I’d say.”

I was absolutely speechless. I felt like such an idiot. Even then, knowing of Simon’s status, I had no idea which Duke he was.

But even knowing that Simon was of much higher status than I realized, I didn’t feel any different. Knowing that he was a Duke did not make my feelings for him greater, nor did it lessen them. I still wanted to sit there and kiss him all night, and then some if he would allow it.

He kissed me again, making my head spin yet again, before he rose. He took my hand in his and helped me to my feet.

“I shall call upon you tomorrow afternoon,” he told me. “If you are okay with it, I would like to continue what we started here tonight in a bit more of a...private setting.”

Still speechless, I simply nodded. He chuckled - oh, what a beautiful noise! - before leaning down to kiss me one last time.

“Goodnight, (Y/N),” he said.

“Goodnight, Simon,” I responded.

I watched him as he walked away, my heart swelling with happiness.

Who knew that the lady who refused to marry a man just for his status would end up falling in love with a Duke?

#simon basset #simon basset imagine #simon basset x reader #duke of hastings #duke simon basset #rege-jean page #rege-jean page imagine #rege-jean page x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #netflix #one shot #imagine #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

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mrsbbridgerton · 3 years

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The Moment I Knew// Anthony Bridgerton - Chapter 1

Word Count : 1663

Warnings: none. [but it’s gonna get spicyy]

A/N: based on this request from @albeeox. This is going to be seven chapters long and it really gave me The Moment I Knew - Taylor Swift vibes so there we go ... enjoy :) Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7

At the beginning of Season your mother had been frantic; it was your first season, but with an older sister still unwed after her fourth, she was adamant that you marry as soon as possible – to ‘make the most of your youth and beauty.’ Following your debut at court she had circled the floor with you at every ball, thrusting you into the arms of any unsuspecting gentleman who so much as smiled at you. Little did she know that your heart may already fully belong to another. Another whom you had known since you were both in leading strings, one who had tormented and teased you through your youth but had grown silent and stoic since the untimely death of his father.

You had first seen Anthony Bridgerton again at your debut. Despite the silence from her brother you had retained correspondence with Miss Daphne Bridgerton, and wished her luck as she walked past you on her way to the doors with her mother. You swallowed a deep breath as the doors were re-opened for you next; the scrutiny of the Court and accompanying families made you nervous but as you looked to the right you locked gazes with a pair of deep brown eyes you had not seen since you were 16. His eyes followed you on your way to the Queen, you could feel them burning into you as you watched her smile and bless you. Turning to exit you looked over and saw him again. His expression unreadable but his eyes just as fixed. You had not seen him in so many years but what was once a girls crush came flooding back right away as you tried to regain composure and look ahead of you.

The evening of your first Ball he didn’t approach you, having Daphne to accompany and guide, but you could feel his glare from across the room. Only when your mothers met in the middle to discuss any potential suitors did he bow and greet you like a gentleman. Taking the liberty of the distraction he asked how you were. Where once had been a carefree young man, he had been replaced by a stiff, conforming gentleman- head of his household and in keeping with societies expectations. That wasn’t the Anthony you had known. His façade loosened after Daphne joined your conversation, and completely crumbled when his two younger brothers intervened to come and poke fun at their big brother and his enormous sideburns; the smile you had known since childhood returning to his face as he gazed up at you laughing with his family.

You had always loved the big Bridgerton family, all of them feeling like an extension of your own. You had especially been friends with Benedict growing up, being closer in age to him and Colin, he always tried to protect you from his older brothers more bullish jesting; indeed, having no brothers of your own Benedict had adopted you as yet another sister to look after.

Looking back at Anthony you watched in fondness as his eyes crinkled at the sides with laughter at one of Colin’s drier japes, before flushing as he caught you staring at him. Despite the long glances you had been giving each other all evening, Colin Bridgerton was the first to offer his hand for a dance. Taking his arm, he escorted you to the floor where you joined the cotillion.

“Miss Y/N is a fine young woman is she not, brother?” Benedict asked, none too subtly. Anthony side eyed his with suspicion at the direction of the conversation.

“Yes, quite. I’m sure she will have no problem finding a match.” He gritted out, taking a sip of wine.

“It is a wonder then, you did not ask her to dance yourself, brother.” Benedict mocked, turning to face Anthony with a tilt to his head. That roughish smile that always preluded trouble graced his face as he turned back to watch the dance and sip his own wine.

“I do not dance.” Anthony said bluntly, finishing his glass. Just then he spotted his old school chum, Simon Bassett across the room, and left Benedict swiftly to greet him.

The following week you found yourself at Bridgerton House, having afternoon tea with Daphne Bridgerton and her mother. The warm spring was beginning to turn into summer and the younger Bridgerton’s, and Colin, had flung the French doors open and galloped onto the extensive lawn to run about. The Bridgerton’s had always had such fine sweets and cakes, all of them having a hereditary sweet tooth, and after a long tea you sat in peace discussing the next ball and the latest Whistledown. Only a short time after a footman disturbed you to inform the Ladies Bridgerton that a visitor had arrived for Miss Daphne. No sooner announced, than Lord Berbrooke broke into the room, his presence made all of you tense, and a little queasy, and as you took you leave of the room you sent a small, sorry, smile to Daphne.

You wandered the quiet halls of Bridgerton House before coming to the library. Slipping in you enjoyed the quiet and far away laughs of children, as your eyes scoured the bookshelves. You barely heard the door open before a gruff cough asserted that someone was behind you and you turned to see Anthony Bridgerton. He stood there, purposefully but without further words, giving you a chance to take him in. He had forgone his jacket in his own house; a look which, although proper, was still foreign and relaxed to your eyes, although your attire, sans jacket and gloves was surely the same. “Your Lordship.” You curtsied.

Anthony was dumb-struck. He hadn’t expected to walk into his own library and see you there; your hair in some sort of cascade down your neck as you look up at his extensive collection. He was midway through rolling up his shirt sleeve when he saw you, a glint of sun through the tall windows acting like a spotlight on your gown, you were just a beautiful as the last time he saw you. You had grown into an elegant lady, but the wild streak that had caused you all so much mischief in your youth was still there; if he looked dep enough. Snapping himself out of his trance he heard you speak. “Miss Y/N” he bowed “I did not realise you were still with us.”

“Yes. Your mother insisted I not leave on Lord Berbrooke’s account, and so I found my way here. I hope my presence here is not an inconvenience too you.”

“Of course not.” He said, moving around the table towards you “is there anything I can help you with?” You looked into his eyes for a moment as they held yours before turning back to the bookshelves.

“I am happy to browse Sir, I hardly know where to start.” You concluded, reaching out for a book on a high shelf. You struggled to reach it and stretched on the toes of your slippers to try. The warmth emanating from Anthony surrounded you as you felt him come close behind. He reached up over you and plucked the book from the shelf, lowering it down to your reach. His breath fanned across the back of your neck making your small hairs stand on end as goosebumps rippled over your flesh. Anthony tracked your reaction closely, not having meant to become this close to you but now finding himself unable to move. “Here.” He whispered, his lips almost grazing the shell of your ear “And please. Call me Anthony.” Your light scent was intoxicating to him and he could feel the warmth radiating from your skin onto his lips. He closed his eyes and drew a breath to steady himself, pulling back a little so he did not break his composure and overstep the mark.

Your head turned slightly at his words. You could see him out of the corner of your eye, his eyes burning into your skin and making you feel hot all over. As you reach up to take the book from him he let his hand graze down yours, his finger lightly trailing your un-gloved arm. “Anthony” you gasped in a breath; turning to face him. He was still so close to you, closer than any gentleman had been before, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It felt so right, having him close to you, his lips slightly parted as he drew a gentle breath – his cravat loose and shirt sleeves rolled up showing so much more skin than was proper, on refection. Your eyes trailed to a small triangle of chest hair, visible in the gap, your breath caught in your throat as you thought about what was under his shirt. Your eyes flicked up to meet his and he was already staring at you; a twinkle in his dark eyes letting you know he could read your mind.

Anthony brought a hand up to brush at the curls on your neck; gently pushing them off your shoulder and exposing the smooth skin of your collarbone to his gaze. Slowly, he leaned in and pressed a feather light kiss to the base of your neck. His lips, pillow soft, enflamed your skin and made your blood burn within you. He pulled back, ever so slowly, bringing his deep gaze back up to your eyes, gauging your reaction to his actions. The air was thick between you and you wanted nothing more than to feel his lips on every inch of you skin twice over. Just as you wrestled your demons against leaning into the touch a shout from the parlour broke both of your attentions and made you both whip your heads around to the door left ajar.

“ANTHONY!!” Violet shouted for her son. He stepped back with a shake of his head, clearing the fog of your union and rushing to tend to his mother.

#Bridgerton #Bridgerton imagine #Bridgerton x reader #Anthony Bridgerton #Anthony Bridgerton imagine #my writing #req #Anthony Bridgerton x reader

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royallyprincesslilly · 3 years

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Title: Pleasing The Duke {1}

Duke of Hastings/Rege Jean Page x OFC Jemilla “Jemi” Remmington

Warning: Plot, Regency Period Piece, Slow Burn, LOTS OF WORDS

Words: 5.7k

Summary: After your four weeks on the marriage mart and the tumultuous way yours and the Duke’s budding friendship that turned into a faux courtship, then a real crisis that could have tarnished your name forever, you are now married to the Duke. Only this is no traditional marriage. The Duke has professed to never fall in love, never get married, and never sire an heir, a matter you know nothing of. Furious that his wanton, lustful desires have gotten him to forego one of those vows, he is determined not to break the other two. That would usually be an easy feat. Only with you, it might be more challenging to keep those vows, seeing as no matter what, you are the only thing on his mind.

Note: Inspired by Rege Jean Page’s portrayal of Simon Bassett. This fic will not have any other characters from the series, except Lady Danbury, mainly the portrayal version of her by the incredible Adjoa Andoh and maybe Queen Charlotte portrayed by Golda Rosheuvel. This series will focus on The Duke and an OFC female character and will be a sultry and erotic historical romance. Anyone under 18 is advised not to read.

***Let me know if you guys want me to add like glossary terms at the end of the chapters for period specific words/items.

***Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Julia Quinn’s characters, nor the Characters established by Bridgerton. I own the rights to the original characters created in this story.

If you enjoyed this please LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG!! 😘

As always, thank you so much for reading. ❤️❤️

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Slightly Interactive***

Chapter One: The Duke & Duchess Of Hastings

“I pronounce you husband and wife.”

You kept your back straight and your limbs stiff though you felt at any moment either or both would give way, sending you tumbling to the ground in a heap of white lace, silk, and tulle. Perhaps you’d even be sucked into the ground for good measure, you thought. No one spoke once those words had been uttered. Almost a full minute passed before the clergyman spoke again.

“Eh-em, I declare you husband and wife.”

You gulped and slowly found your head swiveling toward the man beside you. a man who was practically a stranger, a man you’d now found yourself joined to until you were parted by death. Your husband—The Duke of Hastings. When your eyes met his, you noted a look of strangled fear and disgust. His jaw was clenched, and he looked as if he were seconds away from revealing the contents of his stomach right on the front of your gown.

Long moments seemed to pass with the two of you just gazing into each other’s eyes. This was not the gazing of enamored lovers or even lustful suitors. It was the gaze of a man who’d been forced into a marriage he did not want and a woman riddled with guilt for her part in it.

“Your grace.”

Simon’s head snapped back in front of him to find the clerk holding out the book he was to sign his name into. You watched as he took the quill from the clerk and slowly signed his name. He paused after every word as if he were seriously contemplating scratching his name from the book entirely. An act that was to be seconds took a full minute, and the entire time you wondered if he would turn to you and call the whole thing off, leaving you a ruined and jilted woman.

Simon held the quill to you for your turn. As you took the object, your gloved fingers grazed his. Even though your skin did not touch his, you shivered all the same—that was before Simon snatched his hand away to drop them to his sides. You glanced down at his hand that you’d ever so softly grazed a week or two ago and watched his fist clench tightly.

“Your grace,” the clerk repeated, this time to you.

Bringing your attention back to the book in front of you, you proceeded to sign your name beside Simon’s. Instead of writing the name you’d been accustomed to your entire life—Lady Jamilla Remmington, you signed your new one for the first time—Duchess Jamilla Bassett, The Duchess of Hastings. It looked strange to your eyes, but it did not look terrible.

“Congratulations, your graces.”

The voices began to overlap as each of those in attendance for the small ceremony extended their felicitations to both of you. Neither of you could find your voices or the words to reply to even thank them. There was nothing to be thankful for, you thought. You’d traded one unhappy future for an equally unhappy one, quite possibly more unhappy as you’d just entered the very thing you’d refused to—a loveless marriage.

Thankfully leaving the church, there weren’t people outside ready to shower the newlywed couple with rose petals and cheers. Unfortunately, you had to ride in the same carriage as your new husband. Simon sat across and diagonal from you, peering out the window at the scenery. Holding your bouquet of fresh flowers while fiddling with the blush-colored silk ribbon it was tied with, you watched Simon take a flask out of his coat pocket and knock back something strong from the whiff of it that caught your nostrils. He grimaced, then groaned before he looked at you.

The way he looked at you nearly made you stop breathing, not from him taking your breath away, but from the hostility you saw in his eyes. Simon grumbled before looking from you back out the window. Your stomach fell, realizing just how severe and hopeless your fate was. For the remainder of the carriage ride, you worked to keep your eyes off of Simon. It was a task that seemed more manageable for him than you.

Every so often, your eyes found their way back to him to take in other parts of him. Either it was the way his cravat looked around his neck, and the sly way peeks of his throat could be seen through the tiny slots, or it was the way he tightly gripped the flask he held. A flask he didn’t bother to hide. He was already so unhappy with you that he didn’t care to continue the ruse of propriety for you. It was disheartening.

Simon kept his jaw firmly clenched as he watched the scenery pass, but he didn’t look as if he were looking at the rolling hills or passing farms. He appeared to be looking directly through anything that passed. This was just day one of your “new” life, and if the two of you couldn’t muster any conversation, you didn’t know what hope there was for the future.

The carriage ride from the church to your reception took all of fifteen minutes, give or take a few. You’d tried to plead with your mother to forgo the reception, stating that it was outdated and unnecessary, but your mother wouldn’t hear a word of it.

“The wedding reception is one of the joys of the beginning of a married woman’s life. It is the time she greets the ton as a Mrs. She is no longer a miss. You will get to revel in your new role in front of all the other unmarried women. The reception lets everyone wish you well while being the source of envy in their eyes.”

You sighed, hearing her words in your memory from the night before. You did not fault her. she did not know the true way your nuptials had come about. She thought you and Simon had genuinely fallen head over heels while pretending to have fallen head over heels. She did not know about what had transpired to bring the two of you to this outcome. You didn’t dare tell her.

While a loving and kind one, your mother preferred her children, mainly her daughters, to be the supreme example of propriety. She had groomed you to be nothing but a proper lady. That meant you always had a chaperone when you were going most places. You were never alone with anyone that wasn’t a woman. Your hemline was the exact number of inches deemed appropriate, as was your neckline. It also meant that your education was top of the line—well, most of your education.

You learned to read, write, do arithmetic, play the piano, do needlework, draw, paint, sing, dance, how to catch the eye of a suitor, the propriety of courting, and how to run a household for marriage. Your accomplishments could have been seen as superior, but your mother said you had to be better than average. You had to be perfect. She pushed you further, saying because your skin color was different, expectations for you to be perfect were high. So, you expanded your education to learn two languages, French and Latin. Excelled in piano and learned to play the harp. You were quite accomplished, usually more than those around you.

The part of your education that was lacking was knowledge that went past things others could see. Your mother made sure to keep any discussions of inappropriate topics away from you and your sisters, only giving you the smallest of details. She sure stressed what was inappropriate but skimmed past any other things. It was while learning about science and animals that you grasped procreation at the most basic level.

You had plenty of unmarried friends. There was Tessa Carmichael, your best friend who lived across the road, Abigail Prowler down the road on the left, Edith Bunfeld down the road on the right, and Letecia Grother, whose aunt was on the neighboring street. All of you often spent your afternoons walking around the park and gossiping about many things, including the joys and privileges of married life. None of you really knew what to expect. Of course, many unmarried ladies tried to grill the ones who were married, but they all remained tightlipped. All they did was giggle into their fans, saying, “you will find out on your own.”

Here it was, the evening of your wedding day, and you still had no idea. Your mother had assured you earlier in the day before you left home for the final time as a Miss that “The Duke will take the lead, all you must do is follow it.”

“Your grace?”

You came out of your memories to see the footman holding out his hand to assist you out of the carriage. Once you stepped out, you rearranged your dress until Simon stepped out beside you. You watched him tuck his flask in his jacket before he held his arm out for yours without even sparing you a glance. Sighing, you looped yours with his and let him lead you into the building.

Once you walked in, the first people you saw were your mother and Landy Danbury. They both had bright smiles on their faces.

“Your graces,” Lady Danbury said, dipping her head.

“Oh, you know you never have to bow your head to me—never to me,” Simon said with a fond smile on his face as he looked at Lady Danbury.

You knew his affection for the woman went deep. You weren’t entirely sure about most of it, but you knew that she’d taken care of him helped him become who he was. You’d only known him about five weeks, and that wasn’t nearly enough time to peel back the many layers of The Duke Of Hastings. You suspected you’d need a lifetime for that. A lifetime which you now had.

“Are you all right, dear?”

You plastered a smile on your face and nodded.

“Of course she is mother, she is now a duchess,” your sister Jerrikka piped up as she came over to pull you into an embrace.

“You know very well I am not the type to hold so much weight on a title,” you replied.

“Is that so? Not too long ago, I remember you bragging you were to be a Princess,” Simon dryly shot out.

You glanced at him trying to keep the glare away. You remembered the conversation you’d had where you’d uttered those words and remembered why you’d said them. You’d wanted to pointedly show him that you were desirable though he behaved as if you weren’t. Perhaps part of you wanted to enrage him or garner any reaction from him at all. He’d been so damned stoic. It was next to impossible to know what toiled in his head.

To not draw suspicion of trouble so soon after wedlock, Simon smiled at you. It almost looked like a real smile, a warm one, but his eyes remained cold—detached. He then led you into the ballroom, and as he did, all eyes floated to you. Everyone in the room held broad smiles on their faces as they dipped down into a respectful half curtsey or head bow. You and Simon both returned the gesture before the members of the ton flooded around you, each offering their happiest felicitations for your marital bliss.

You kept your back straight, face neutral, smile stretched, and hoped it shone all the way to your eyes. Your eyes always gave away whatever you were thinking or feeling. It was what you considered your fatal flaw. Your mother could hide everything behind her relaxed expression and only allow others to see what she wanted. Even, your sisters, Jerrikka and Jacinda, could remain relatively stoic, you were the one who was cursed. Your father always called you his little lightning bolt because of how quickly your emotions flashed.

By the time the congratulations finally subsided, it gave you time to take your first ever taste of Ratafia. Your mother had never allowed it. She said it was for married women. You and Jacinda had only been allowed one glass of cordial at any event. Once you’d had your one glass, it was lemonade after that.

You were standing close to the fireplace in the corner of the room. It gave you a good view of all that was happening. Simon was beside you, slightly turned away with one elbow resting on the stone of the fireplace. His stance allowed you to take in his side profile. Even standing leisurely with his other hand on his hop and one leg crossed over the other, he still looked regal. Before you thought it was conceit you sensed in him, but you’d come to see it as pride.

It wasn’t a detrimental pride or one that said he thought himself high over others. It was a different kind of pride entirely. It was one that made him more attractive in your eyes. His slim but masculine frame you’d gazed over tens of times over the last month always set your curiosities running wild. Right now, you found yourself wondering if all of him had the muscles he’d displayed two weeks ago when he rolled up his sleeves.

You hadn’t even seen your brothers in that state before. he was the first. As your eyes traveled the length of his body, you raised your glass to your lips and took a sip of the coveted Ratafia that many ladies seemed to love. Your eyes stopped at his backside, and that was where they remained. The liquid passed your lips and washed over your tongue.

The most unexpected flavor filled your mouth. It was one that was stronger than anything you’d ever tasted. As soon as you swallowed it, you began coughing. Simon’s head spun to you with a worried expression.

“Are you all right?”

Your response was another fit of coughs, which made Simon take a step toward you.

“Jemilla?”

You held up your hand as you cleared your throat once more.

“Good heavens, this is absolutely terrible.”

Simon’s eyes flittered between the glass in your hands, your face, and back to the glass. Slowly a smile spread across his lips before he pressed them together.

“Is this your first time having Ratafia?”

You nodded.

“How? Every lady in London has a Ratafia habit they think no one knows of,” he said with a smirk.

“Is that so?”

“Why yes. Look.”

He stepped to the side then nodded his head to the ladies of the ton. You looked at a few of them, and each of them brought glasses of the horrid tasting drink to their lips, including your mother, older sister, and Lady Danbury. He was right. It would seem the ladies did have a liking for the thing.

“How is it that your mother and sister drink it regularly, but you have not?”

He was facing you again with plenty of curiosity in his eyes. Needing something to do, you nearly raised the glass back to your lips—nearly.

“My mother doesn’t let any of us have this. She says it is for mature married ladies. So I did not qualify.”

Simon nodded and raised his glass of Brandy to his lips.

“I see. So, now that you are in the company of those married but not quite mature ladies, you decided to partake.”

Curiosity nipped at you now. Tilting your head to the side, you took him in.

“Married but not quite mature ladies? Pray tell what you mean by that, your grace?”

Simon didn’t attempt to speak. He just took another mouthful of Brandy and studied you with the utmost scrutiny. A hint of mischief flickered across his face before he scoffed and turned away from you, taking up his same stance from before. You could have tossed the remaining Ratafia in your glass at his back. He’d always had this uncanny ability to wind you up since the day you’d met. It still hadn’t changed. Your mother said that it was a blessing, and it would mean your marriage would not be a bore.

“It figures you would regress into a state of cowardice at the mere spark of a conversation,” you speared, knowing it would rile him up.

As expected, Simon spun around to face you but also took the three steps needed to be only inches from your face.

“Did you call me a coward?”

You fought a smile. “I wouldn’t dare, your grace.”

You knew he heard the sarcasm in your voice.

“All right, your grace, I shall educate you, but only a little. You are married, as sure as that bauble decorates your dainty finger, but just because you are married, it does not make you mature,” Simon reiterated.

You waited for him to continue, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing you anxiously wanted to hear the end of his thought. Your eyes dipped lower than his to his mouth and watched him smile. That smile was something that was growing on you every time you saw it. You realized the dryness of your throat then, and you snaked your tongue out to wet your lips. His eyes dropped to your lips and stayed there for several long moments.

Simon leaned an inch closer. He could almost touch your nose with his. “You are not mature until you have woken the next morning in nothing by the bed sheets, with aches in muscles and places you never knew you could ache, and a road map of marks along your body all made with nothing but lips all from your first night with a man,” he said in the most alluring voice.

A strange feeling washed over you, and you feared you might actually swoon. Clouds seemed to fill your head as your entire body became so heated as if the fire you were standing near had caught on your body. You tried to control your expression, all the while Simon watched you. After a few seconds, Simon’s jaw clenched, making the muscles in his neck jump.

“Maturity, your grace, requires a toll be paid, and it must be paid over and over and over,” he finished. A scowl replaced his clenched jaw, and the thought that he felt disappointment made your stomach sink.

“And how many tolls have you collected, your grace?

Simon looked caught off guard by the question. It wasn’t a dignified question. One does not ask a man, even if he is her husband, such things.

“Plenty, but remember one needn’t make it an all-night occasion. Five minutes or so in a parlor could suffice.”

Jealousy hit you, and you couldn’t hide it. Simon smirked, then scoffed, but the smile slipped and was replaced with a frown.

“Well, my husband, the rake. I am surprised you wed at all.”

Simon looked pained, but you did not focus on it.

“As am I, but I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” He muttered it, but you heard it through. Instead of letting another emotion slip, you raised the glass to your lips and drank it all down in one agonizing and sicking move. Once finished, you walked off, leaving him there.

Mere hours into your marriage and things were already falling apart; you thought as you walked out of the ballroom and outside into the chilly night air. You took a deep breath, held it, and did it again and again. The man made you angry and flustered in under five minutes. You couldn’t help but reminisce about your time casually talking at balls and events around London while you were on the marriage mart. He’d been terse to begin with, but slowly he’d warmed to you.

You’d developed the beginning buds of a friendship that took you by surprise but was welcoming. While every man in London was trying to put their best foot forward to entice you into marriage, Simon was not. He showed plenty of his bad habits, his cynicism and preference to see the worst in people, his inability to see the true heart of those in his company, his stubbornness, his temper, and on some occasions, his rakish ways. It didn’t matter, you never judged him for it, and you could tell he appreciated it.

“My, how things have changed,” you said to yourself once you were under a wide-spanned tree sitting on the stone bench.

You closed your eyes and listened to the night, finding comfort in the chirping crickets, the sound of the wind rustling the leaves, the faint rolling of the wheels from passing carriages, all backed by the orchestral music from the ballroom. Slowly your anger subsided. You didn’t even know why you were angry. You’d known he had no plans to marry. It was one of the very first things he’d told you, and he repeated it on so many occasions it was seared to your brain. The Duke of Hastings was not in want of a wife. Yet, here you were married to him, all because of one night similar to this one.

It was your fault. You felt as if you’d left him with no other choice. You thought back to the night that had changed everything. You didn’t know what you were doing when you allowed him to cross the lines of proper distance between two unwed people. The only thing you could think about when he slowly came closer and closer was how badly you wanted to know what he smelled like underneath his cravat. For weeks the casual way he had it done with the different materials that were so much more vibrant than others always drew your attention.

In your few moments of stupor, Simon had managed to come so close you could see the small flecks of auburn within his eyes. His unexpected closeness made you swoon slightly, and his arms were there to catch you and hold you against him. It was your first time being close to a man that was not either of your brothers. Even then, there was some distance.

Simon’s hand then grazed your cheek and trailed down to your jaw before curving back to where your earlobe hung. You’d lost whatever strength your knees had and slumped against him just as his finger dipped down your neck and coming across your collar, and it was there he stopped. It took several moments for his finger to plunge lower until it dangled right above the rise of your breast. When he dipped his head down while maintaining eye contact, you began to shake in his arms. He took a deep inhale at the swell of your breast.

“You’re trembling like a leaf, are you cold?”

You shook your head slightly.

“Then what are you, Ms. Remmington?”

You could smell the brandy on his breath, but there was something else too, something you couldn’t make out.

“Quite fevered,” you whispered.

Simon took another deep inhale of your skin then moaned.

“Goodness, you smell of roses, night jasmine and--,” he inhaled again. “Orange blossom. You smell like my best dreams, Ms. Remmington.”

Your breath hitched. Simon came closer and closer until his lips hovered over yours. You should have moved and chastised him about impropriety, but you stood there while the hand that was at the middle of your back slid lower and lower until you felt his fingertips pressing into the flesh just above the swell of your bottom. The action brought your lower half firmly against his. You didn’t know what you felt, but it was something. His lips only slightly grazed yours before you’d heard voices approaching you. He’d been the one to pull away from you first and apologize profusely before he’d walked off, leaving you pressed against the wall of roses that was right behind you.

“Already hiding from your husband?”

You opened your eyes and saw your best friend, Tessa, standing there with a teasing smirk.

“Tessa.”

You began to stand, but she stopped you, sitting beside you instead.

“Your grace,” she said.

Scoffing, you bumped her with your shoulder. “Oh, stop it. Do not tease me. I am still Jemilla. I will hear no nonsense of your grace from you.”

“I know you are Jemi, but you are also a Duchess now. It would be faulty to not acknowledge it, especially in public, at least once.”

You sighed and fiddled with the new ring on your finger underneath your white gloves.

“We are not in public now. It is just you, and I so do away with it.”

“Very well.” Tessa remained quiet for a few seconds before she turned to you with an excited smile. “All right, show it to me.”

You pulled off the glove and showed her the wedding ring Simon had placed on your finger earlier in the day. Tessa gasped, grabbed your hand, and brought it closer to her face.

“Oh my. I dare say the Duke has excellent taste. It is quite beautiful. While most husbands give their wives one jewel, yours had bestowed you a bevy.”

You snorted and looked out into the night while she continued to gawk at the bauble.

“So why are you out here and your new husband nowhere in sight?”

You bit your bottom lip then looked at her. You’d told her everything that had happened between you and Simon. You’d told her the reason your engagement was so quick and that there was no love between you and him.

“Oh come, come, Jemi. I know you wanted to marry for love and desire and passion, but just because your marriage did not start that way does not mean it cannot end up there,” Tessa suggested.

“Tessa, be realistic. I have told you the things he has said about marriage. He came to town with no intent on marriage.”

“And look, he is married now, in mere weeks no less. Jemi, a man will say all sorts of things to prevent something, but from this day on, he is yours.”

It was then you thought back to his words by the fireplace.

“And how many tolls have you collected, your grace?

“Plenty, but remember one needn’t make it an all-night occasion. Five minutes or so in a parlor could suffice.”

You could have laughed out loud, but you didn’t. He hadn’t been yours before, and you doubted he was now.

“Tonight is your wedding night. Perhaps you shall feel differently in the morning,” Tessa said, a broad smile spread across her face.

You knew what she was insinuating. You had heard the chatter of a woman’s wedding night but had heard nothing of consequence. All you and Tessa were left with were speculation and plenty of possible theories and fantasies. Tessa stood and held out her arm for yours. After slipping your glove back on, you looped your arm with hers and allowed her to lead you back into the ballroom.

Once you were seen, your mother approached you and swiftly brought you towards your new husband, then enticed him to dance with you for all the ton to see. Simon, of course, complied, and the two of you drew every pair of eyes. Rather than looking directly at him, you kept your eyes somewhere neutral, somewhere that it would appear to others you were staring into his eyes.

“Remember what I said to you the first time we danced like this?”

“We’ve never danced like this, your grace.”

“You are right; our titles, or rather your title, has changed but are we not the same people?”

You fell into the trap and met his eyes.

“Are we, your grace?”

Simon peered deeply into your eyes as if he were looking for that very answer.

“I am told we have our entire lives to figure it out.”

Feeling your face beginning to shift to give away your inner feelings, you looked away, back to his ear.

“Stare into my eyes.”

They were words he’d said before, in the exact manner. You ignored his instruction, though the urge to obey pulled at your willfulness.

“Jemilla,” Simon said in a low, deep voice.

“Stare into my eyes.”

You caved and darted your eyes to his. Simon held it for a few moments.

“If this is to work, we must appear madly in love,” he said.

The words garnered almost the same reaction as it had the first time he’d uttered them. The only difference was you were well aware that appearances were not nearly all that they seemed. It had worked a little too well, and now you were married and so far from madly in love.

By the end of the evening, your feet hurt from all the walking around and dancing, and your head throbbed slightly, probably from the music and being unable to eat even one bite due to the anxiousness that had plagued you all day. After you’d said your goodbyes to your siblings, mother, and friends, you climbed into the carriage with Simon, unsure just where you were heading. You didn’t pay too much attention to the darkness outside the window because your head was too caught up in thoughts of what was to come.

You fiddled with your gloved hands, your bouquet that you’d nearly stroked all buds from all in an effort to take your mind off of things. After thirty minutes in the bumpy carriage, you saw a large tree pass by. You looked around you, trying to figure out where you were.

“Where—where are we?”

“One of my estates, Briarvale, Simon answered.

“Briarvale. I thought we were going to Clyvedon?”

“No, Clyvedon is quite far, much too far to travel tonight. Briarvale is the in-between point. We will stop, rest for the night, then continue on and should reach Clyvedon by late afternoon next.”

You nodded and lowered your eyes. “I should have made you aware of the plans before. I am afraid I am so used to consulting no one I did not stop to realize I now might have to. I apologize.”

He didn’t sound angry about it, just remorseful. Maybe he was being sincere. When the carriage stopped, the jarvey opened the door and helped you out. Some torches lit the entire walk path to the front door, where two servants were standing at either side of the door. Simon stepped out beside you and cleared his throat.

“After you, your grace.”

You walked ahead while taking in the large home before you. It was two times bigger than the one you’d spent half of your life in, and you imagined Cleyvdon would be four times larger than this one. You never imagined marrying this wealthy. Wealth was never one of your concerns at all.

“Welcome, your graces.”

You and Simon walked inside into the foyer.

“I will let you get settled,” Simon said before walking off, leaving you standing there and wondering where he was going.

One of the maids led you through the house to the stairs. As you climbed them, you took in the paintings on the wall and the wood’s shine. It was a well-kept residence. A few minutes later, the maid stopped in front of a door.

“Your room, your grace.”

“Thank you. what is your name?”

She looked surprised by your question, but she still answered. “Ingrid, your grace.”

“Thank you, Ingrid.”

She smiled and bowed her head, and waited for you to walk inside. When you did, the fire was crackling, making the large room very inviting.

“Is everything to your liking, your grace?”

You nodded. “Thank you, yes.”

Ingrid nodded, then walked out of the room, leaving you with your thoughts. You knew he would come, so you waited. You took the time to look around the room at the different paintings and objects and even examining the material of the sheets on the bed. Still, Simon hadn’t appeared. That was when your pacing began and did not stop. After pacing for quite a while, you finally stopped, then took off your shoes and waited some more. When another ten minutes passed with no Simon, you peeled off your stockings but hesitated to remove any more articles of clothing.

When you were sure you’d waited an hour more, you got annoyed and walked to the door. As soon as you opened it you saw one of the maids passing.

“Hello there.”

The young woman turned, startled, then dipped down to a bow.

“Your grace, is something the matter?”

You were embarrassed even to ask her this. “No, nothing is wrong. Have you—do you know where—has his grace retired for the evening?”

The maid gave you a curious look. No doubt she was thinking that you should know better than her. He was your husband, after all.

“Uh—no, ma’am. His grace is still in the study. Would you like me to deliver a message?”

“No! No. Thank you.”

You went back into the room, closed the door, and sighed out. She undoubtedly found it strange, and you worried you’d be the gossip of the house in the morning. You began undressing as you’d done plenty of times before then climbed into bed, leaving your petticoat on. Instead of going to sleep right away, you sat up and waited.

You didn’t know what was going on or what to expect, and that was the part that gave you the most anxiety and distress. After another hour, it was clear to see that Simon was not coming. You didn’t know what to think or feel. The very little you’d been told to expect still made no sense, especially since it hadn’t happened. Or had it? Your mother told you that your husband would take the lead. Had Simon taken the lead by staying away?

After going over it tens of times in your head, you snuffed out the candle that was on its last inch of life and lay down to stare at the upper canopy of the bed.

You were married, but his actions had proven the line was drawn, and you were on opposite sides with chasms between you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#pleasing the duke fic #rege jean page fanfiction #the duke of hastings fanfiction #regency fanfic #the duke of hastings x ofc #bridgerton fanfiction #slow burn fanfic

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onthebridle · 4 years

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2020 Poule d’Essai Des Poulains Preview

It’s been a while. A long while. But we are back and giving it another go!

A tumultuous year off the piste has gifted us a titanic tussle on it. When all was rosy in the Racing garden, the French Government scythed down the ParisLongchamp plan for the Poulains. Fear not as the affable, enigmatic and folically gifted Olivier Delloye cleared the table and pivoted to a charming corner of Normandy!

A straight mile for a Guineas? Wonderful idea! No UK or Irish based horses? Wonderful-(ish) idea! Not that they’ve won many recently anyway. No crowd? Well that’s pretty grim but rules are rules.

Onto the runners!

VICTOR LUDORUM

Shamardal this, Shamardal that. Shamardal for you and Shamardal for you too! Victor Ludorum (a Shamardal colt) was an immovable object from the Winners Enclosure throughout his 2yo career. ParisLongchamp was his particular playground of choice, breaking his maiden there by 3.5L (that could have been a lot more) and having his finest hour in the G1 Jean Luc Lagardere beating Group winners Alson, Armory and Ecrivain of whom we will encounter next.

Posters were up, the word was out. Victor was back. May 11th, ParisLonghcamp - tune your TV and watch the Prince on his pathway to his crowning.

Drawn on the Phillipe Chatrier court at Roland Garros and given his relaxed style of exiting the stalls it was not a shock to see him mid division and holding his own just off The Summit. The shock however came at the long sweeping bend at ~600-800m. Victor pulled the arms out of Mickael Barzalona’s sockets. Previously keen at this point in the Lagardere it was much more pronounced but he settled somewhat entering the straight. It would have been quite the effort to peg back The Summit who had set off with a wet sail and he was nursed home by Barza for 3rd. The crowning has been furloughed.

Undoubtedly below his best and suffering from ‘Fabre-itis’ that punished the Petit General’s yard in the opening week, an upgrade will almost be demanded from him and an upgrade he will likely give us. Barza was quoted as saying, “I’m not worried about what happens next” - so why should we be?!

ECRIVAIN

We’re blessed with 5 senses; sight, smell, touch, taste and hearing. The brothers Wertheimer know a few of these closely, nay, intimately and on a grander scale than most can imagine. Smell, the fine scent of their grandfathers Chanel No5. Taste, the vintage rouge of their Margaux & Saint-Emilion vineyards. Touch, their (ahem) tasteful swimwear and lingerie collection. Sight, the hands ticking on their Bell & Ross chronometers. The remaining sense is hearing. Hearing their name announced as the winner of the Poulains has been absent since Falco in 2008. A period too long for winners like the Wertheimers. Entraineur Carlos Laffon-Parias knows all of this well. Victory in 2008 belonged to him also. Much like their Margaux, it was a vintage year for the Poulains. Rio De La Plata simply could not get near him.

Ecrivain is his latest project. 2/2 to start his career, including a G3 on just his second run, he finished 4th in the Lagardere whilst both catching the eye and frustrating his patrons at the same time. For his comeback in the Fontainebleau, look to the previous sentence and multiply. Simon Rowlands’ Sectionals show he should have finished closer and he probably would have had he not taken the sceneic route through the Bois Du Boulogne. It was one you sensed that Maxime Guyon would want back.

He isn’t shy to the front of the field, often sitting in the passenger seat beside the pack driver so look for him to be on the scene again at Deauville. The orders from CLP were to “Wait, Finish and Not Hit” - one would imagine Max will hear different ones next time.

THE SUMMIT

Expecting Alson? Sorry not sorry.

Henri Alex Pantall trains the son of Wootton Bassett for Jacques Cygler at his staggeringly beautiful yard in Beaupreau around 400km west of Chantilly. The name Jacques Cygler may be memorable to you thanks to his wondermare export Sistercharlie.

The Summit does not have the sexy row of 1′s you get visiting the Victor Ludorum page or the 100,000€ fee you have to pay for a dance with Lope De Vega to produce Ecrivain but he has run, and run, and run. Up and down the distance ladder from 1300m to 1800m and another rung up to 2000m it seems the Cygler/Pantall equipe decided that the perfect spot is 1600m.

A win on his debut over the distance at Lyon Parilly and a second in a true slug fest at Saint-Cloud on poor ground he would never die wondering. Flash out the gate and prominent throughout is the method to which he lives by. This would prove to be a perfect tactic when teamed up with crack rider PC Boudot in the Fontainebleau. Yep you guessed it, the gates were open and he was gone. Out and away he played the field in a way Ivan Hajek would have been impressed with. Relaxed around the bends when others floundered, nose forward and ears back he sauntered to the 400m pole and found himself a length clear. That length then became three at the 200m pole and PC gave him a polite tap whilst observing those behind before giving it the full betting shop punter fist pump.

Pantall made it known he had grown and “thickened” over the winter. Another duet with PC Boudot has not materialised unfortunately but fear not, Olivier Peslier has been legged up and he isn’t shy of the Winners Enclosure. A victory here would complete the Poulains/Pouliches set for Alex Pantall and in consecutive years too. A summit thoroughly achievable.

THE OTHERS

Contenders, are you rrrrready?!

Alson - The first of Andre Fabre’s two other contestants, he was 2nd in the Lagardere sandwich under Frankie Dettori before going on to on to win a farce of a G1 Criterium International at ParisLongchamp beating Armory. This will be his first run under the Masters tutelage but without a prep run and the original aim of Newmarket, could this be a stepping stone to something like the St James’s Palace Stakes at the (not so Royal) Royal Ascot? Hard to trust.

Arapaho - It wouldn’t be a Classic without the navy of Mrs Sue Magnier now would it?! Andre Fabre’s third dart at the board was given a slight headache over 1400m by Mageva but he was plenty worth his win and has one of the most wonderful actions. Untested at the distance and uncertainty around his rider makes me uneasy on his chances. It would be a special day for his breeder; Mme Elisabeth Fabre. The choice of PCB, the interest has already rocketed and his price shortened.

Celestin - Twice a winner for Fabrice Chappet including a romp of a Listed win at Toulouse on foul ground he was competent in his return at Chantilly behind Reshabar for the local owner/breeders Normandie Pur Sang. It would be the sweetest of wins for them but a shock result.

Kenway - An admirable foe if ever there was one. Frederic Rossi’s charge has put his gloves on, mouthguard in and gone through the ropes with all of the big hitters listed above. A particular distaste for The Summit would be permitted given his 5th in the Saint-Cloud slugfest and the 4th in the Prix Fontainebleau. You won’t miss him - coming late with his head in the air and thick milky noseband pressing through. A place option at best.

Reshabar - Far from a penalty kick for Markus Munch it would symbolise a rapid rise for the son of Ifraaj who defied 59/1 odds to break his maiden in a Class 1 race at Chantilly. On the day he was quite brilliant from the front but the same strategy this time will undoubtedly come with company. Field’s rag.

Shinning Ocean (Supp) - The Prix D’Escoville winner was parachuted into the race by owner/breeders Normandie Pur Sang for a tidy sum. His performance at ParisLongchamp was a mirror to The Summit with Soumillon tugging the field along at a sedate pace initially. Coming down the hill at ~650m, the Belgian decided to find 3rd gear to go a length clear. The revs at 1000m had subsided again and the paced dropped as he was joined by Warzuzu. A slap round the chops at 1200m and he was gone. Two became four and peaked at five lengths clear before the cigar and slippers were out. Soumi is back for more and he has a score to settle with Ecrivain and is a very interesting runner for Christophe Ferland who is chasing his first Poulains!

THE VERDICT

Point 1: Pace will not be an issue. The Summit, Reshabar and Shinning Ocean aren’t ones for hanging around. Mix in the potential pacemaker angle of Alson and it’s a bit of a free for all that could get out of hand. In the passenger seat you’ll have Victor and Ecrivain with possibly The Summit joining them too should the pace dial needle push towards breakneck.

Point 2: Draw. Draw. Draw. The previous Poulains run at Deauville saw Brametot win from Stall 3 and The Gurkha from Stall 11. Helpful. Given the reduced number of horses we could see them all go to the middle or to the stand side rail or split into two groups. Given the temper of some runners and a wide track at Deauville you don’t want to be drawn next a basketcase but you wouldn’t mind a bit of pace either.

Point 3: Jockeys. Victor - check. Ecrivain - check. Kenway - check. Reshabar - check. The surprise came when Pierre Charles chose Arapaho over his Prix Fontainbleau companion The Summit who will now have the ever consistent, ever classy and evergreen Olivier Peslier on top. Alson is a gift for Cheminaud so the tactics on him still mystify.

All of these in mind I will unashamedly be sticking with VICTOR LUDORUM. Visually superb in the Lagardere and undercooked for his return expect a reinvigorated version and with the Petit General’s form turned up to 11 he is the one for me. It is difficult to see outside of the other major contenders filling the places and of the two I would count The Summit as his biggest challenger.

A Shamardal for France and maybe a Shamardal for England too?!

A final note - it was a real shame to lose Helter Skelter before this race as he would also have been a worthy adversary to those mentioned in the article.

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newstwitter-blog · 7 years

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BBC: Conservative Party fined £70,000 over election expenses

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The Conservative Party has been fined a record £70,000 for breaking election expenses rules.

The party insists its failure to report six figure sums it spent on trying to win three by-elections and the general election was an “administrative error”.

The Electoral Commission said there was a “realistic prospect” the money had given the party an advantage.

The Metropolitan Police is now looking at the evidence to see if the reporting omissions were deliberate.

The party broke spending rules by moving campaigners and staff from its national headquarters to boost local party efforts and not properly declaring their hotel bills and expenses.

The investigation, which followed Channel 4 News‘ investigation, found:

The Conservative Party’s 2015 UK Parliamentary general election spending return was missing payments worth at least £104,765

Separately, payments worth up to £118,124 were either not reported to the commission or were incorrectly reported by the party

The party did not include the required invoices or receipts for 81 payments to the value of £52,924

The party failed to maintain records explaining the amounts it invoiced to candidates in three 2014 by-elections, for work on their campaigns

The successful Conservative campaign in South Thanet to see off a challenge by then UKIP leader Nigel Farage at the 2015 general election was among those criticised in the commission’s report.

The Electoral Commission found the Conservative Party also failed to correctly report all expenditure on a national battlebus campaign, which helped David Cameron win a majority at the general election.

It has referred a possible criminal offence – of whether Simon Day, the Conservative Party’s registered treasurer until April 2016, “knowingly or recklessly made a false declaration” – to the Metropolitan Police.

Labour and the Lib Dems have previously been fined for breaking election spending rules prompting the Electoral Commission to warn that “there is a risk that some political parties might come to view the payment of these fines as a cost of doing business”.

Speaking at a charity event in London on Thursday evening, Mr Cameron said he had won the general election “fairly and squarely”, and that he was happy with a statement made earlier by Conservative head office.

The Conservatives said “there needs to be a review of how the Electoral Commission’s processes and requirements could be clarified or improved”.

Analysis – by Political Editor Laura Kuenssberg

Seventy thousand pounds is a lot of money, but in the context of a political campaign where millions of pounds are spent, it’s not exactly going to break the Tories’ bank. But the political cost of what might happen next is much higher.

Thirteen police forces are now looking at whether the mistakes made might constitute criminal offences. If that was to happen, there could be by-elections in seats around the country, that could seriously affect the PM’s unhealthily slim majority in Parliament.

And the whiff of financial wrong-doing is an odour no political party wants. But how likely is that actually to happen?

Senior Tory sources tell me they think it’s unlikely the mistakes, and there were plenty of them, will reach the hurdle for the prosecution. The CPS has to believe there is a good chance of a successful conviction, and while this is speculation, senior Tories don’t believe in most of the cases that’s likely.

Read Laura’s blog in full

Q&A: Conservative election expenses row

The Commission’s chief executive Claire Bassett told BBC Radio 5 live the investigation had taken much longer than necessary because of “some difficulties” in getting information from the Conservative Party.

She added that having had to get a court order to get information was “very disappointing”.

Electoral Commission chairman Sir John Holmes said: “Our investigation uncovered numerous failures by a large, well-resourced and experienced party to ensure that accurate records of spending were maintained and that all of the party’s spending was reported correctly.”

He added that failure to follow the rules “undermines voters’ confidence in our democratic processes”.

But senior Conservative MP Oliver Letwin said that spending record “mistakes” were probably down to “human error”.

Media captionCEO of Electoral Commission tells Today they don’t know if Tory expenses misreporting was deliberate

Media captionConservative MP Sir Oliver Letwin tells Today expenses misreporting probably down to human error

“I don’t think you should conclude from this that there is some great conspiracy,” he told BBC Radio 4 Today’s programme.

The Electoral Commission’s investigation covered the national party rather than spending by individual candidates, which local police forces have been looking into.

Twelve police forces have asked the Crown Prosecution Service to consider charges over election expenses.

BBC Political Editor Laura Kuenssberg said that if prosecutions go ahead “we could be looking at by-elections”.

In response to the Electoral Commission report, a Conservative spokesman said it had “complied fully… and will pay the fines”.

“This investigation and these fines relate to national spending by CCHQ, and the Conservative Party’s national spending return for the 2015 general election.

“As we have consistently said, the local agents of Conservative candidates correctly declared all local spending in the 2015 general election.

“CCHQ accepted in March 2016 that it had made an administrative error by not declaring a small amount constituting 0.6% of our national spending in the 2015 election campaign.

“Political parties of all colours have made reporting mistakes from time to time… this is the first time the Conservative Party has been fined for a reporting error.

“We regret that and will continue to keep our internal processes under review to ensure this does not happen again.

“Given the range of technical errors made by a number of political parties and campaign groups, there also needs to be a review of how the Electoral Commission’s processes and requirements could be clarified or improved.”

UKIP’s chairman Paul Oakden said: “As UKIP has always said, the laws are in place in order to ensure that big and wealthy political parties cannot buy British politics.”

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New Post has been published on News Twitter

New Post has been published on http://www.news-twitter.com/2017/03/17/bbc-conservative-party-fined-70000-over-election-expenses-34/