Page 1 of Regency in Color

Designing His Duchess

Gabrielle Carr

“Never try to emulate them. Their friendship is as false as their words are flattering. They call you the OBA (ordinary ball companion).”

Lady Juliana Drake swallowed the cruel truth in the Duke of Hersthire’s words. She was the misfit of Society. But not for long. With fierce determination and a plan--of sorts--she intends to shed the horrid moniker, and she’ll use the Duke to do it. Surely, the devilish rake had taken off enough fashionable dresses to know how to help her pick one out.

All she has to do is keep from undressing him first...

Chapter One

London

June 1817

To take Lord Emsbury’s money, or not to take Lord Emsbury’s money? That was the question Colin Lewis Francis Latham, Duke of Herstshire, contemplated as he glanced through eyes half-cast from too much drink and a fair bit of indifference, at the young earl across the card table.

At some point during the game of faro they’d been playing with the three other gentlemen, whose names now escaped Colin, the conversation had turned to who would win in a bare-knuckle match between Tom Molineaux and Tom Belcher. From there, it had spiraled into boasting of each gentleman’s sporting prowess, and finally into Lord Emsbury wagering ten pounds that he could withstand the hardest blow to the face Colin had to offer.

The scrawny man’s skeletal face begged to differ.

Pearls of sweat glistened on Lord Emsbury’s forehead, subverting his weak performance of confidence. He discreetly dabbed at the offending moisture with the cuff of his dress coat, no doubt hoping Colin’s inebriated brain would keep him from noticing the slight act of apprehension.

Colin did notice.

Which was why he currently deliberated whether or not to hold the young man to his foolhardy wager. Plus, he rather enjoyed his membership to Brook’s. He could very well imagine having it revoked after boxing the future Duke of Willfolk. Then again, Colin was no longer a second son. He was the bearer of a title many generations older than Lord Emsbury’s and possessed a fortune many times larger. For that reason alone, his membership would remain secure.

That settled it.

Colin emptied the remainder of his fourth—or was it his fifth—glass of brandy in one gulp. If the young man wanted to squander his inheritance on frivolous gambling, who was he to deny him the privilege?

He removed his coat and draped it over the back of his chair. “This won’t be pleasant, but you look like a weeper, so I’ll give you half strength,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. His bleary gaze took in Lord Emsbury once more. “Maybe half of half strength,” he amended.

Lord Emsbury stood. A cherry hue crept from beneath his cravat up over his pale face. “You wound me, sir,” he said, his head held high. “I have more strength of character than to sob after taking a measly punch, even if to the face.”

The corner of Colin’s mouth curled. He hadn’t missed Lord Emsbury’s emphasis on the word measly, and for it, his respect for the young earl grew. A man who maintained such a haughty bearing even as he quaked in his boots was either brave or a fool. Although one could argue those were two ways of describing the same character trait.

Colin unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. He inclined his head to Lord Emsbury. “Apologies. Let us prove your rugged constitution so that we can return to our card game.”

“Yes, let’s.”

Lord Emsbury marched around the table and stopped before Colin, arms stiff at his side, back fire-iron straight. He angled his head to the right, presenting the left side of his face for its impending punishment.

Men left their tables, and others poured into the gaming room, gathering around to watch the spectacle. They pushed close until Colin barely had room to cock back his arm.

“I have two that Lord Emsbury goes down,” someone in the crowd shouted.

“Three for me,” another added.

“Three that he loses consciousness.”

A stifled collective laugh rolled through the gathered men. More bets poured in, shouted from every direction. If he weren’t so far in his cups, Colin might have felt bad for Lord Emsbury.

Unfortunately, the brandy did what it was supposed to—numb his soul and shut off his humanity.

Colin rolled his shoulders then lifted his fists, ready to get on with it. He squinted, attempting to turn the three blurry Lord Emsburys into a single, more solid one. His target a little more in focus, he drew back his right arm and swung, using what his drunken brain gaged to be much-reduced force—although whether his perception mirrored reality was debatable.

“How odd,” Colin mumbled to himself.