Caution: May contain spoilers for Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss...

Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss - Deleted Scenes

Prologue

The Viscountess Takes On a Project

Oh God, this is all wrong, thought Elenor Alden, Viscountess Dayle. A shiver ran through her as the butler took her wrap and handed it off to a waiting footman. I am not ready for this. Her three score years lay like a leaden mantle on her shoulders as she tilted her head and listened to the deadly quiet of the house. Heaven knew she felt old; old and tired and heart sore, but surely she was not so far gone as to mistake the day of Lady Ornesby’s party?

She had been bribed, threatened and cajoled before she had agreed to end her mourning and make an appearance today, and now she found herself alone in the cold marbled foyer. Alone, that is, except for the retreating footman, the stiff butler, and suddenly her hostess, who was gamboling towards her like a merry milkmaid.

Lady Ornesby—gamboling? She looked again, but the plump baroness had reached her side and was gripping her hand in obvious excitement.

“Elenor, my dear, you must forgive me, but I asked you just a tad early. I have a wonderful surprise and you must be the first to see it!”

“Then, by all means Portia, proceed,” Lady Dayle said with a bit of wasted irony, for her friend had already taken her arm and was propelling her towards the drawing room. With a theatrical flourish that would have put Mrs. Siddons to shame, Lady Ornesby threw open the doors herself and announced, “There now, you may see for yourself.”

Bewildered, Lady Dayle went in, only to halt in complete wonderment.

The transformation was complete. The viscountess had sipped countless dishes of tea in this very room, and had long ago learned to ignore the oppressive atmosphere. Paneled in dark wood and heavy with elaborate moldings, the room had also suffered from Portia’s predilection to display every bit of bric-a-brac ever collected by an Ornesby ancestor.

But no longer. Instead, she walked slowly into the very picture of understated elegance. The walls were hung with a rich russet, while the rug underfoot and the newly upholstered furniture glowed with warm autumn colors. Dark moldings were transformed with a coat of paint and a bit of gilt highlighting. Gilt frames on a few tasteful paintings echoed the effect.

Lady Dayle sank into a chair in a nearby cozy grouping, her head still turning to take it all in. It was formal, yet very welcoming. It was beautiful. It was not what she expected of Portia Ornesby.

“I’m all agog, Portia,” she admitted. “You have done wonders. I had no idea this room was so big.”

“I know!” crowed Lady Ornesby, clasping her hands together in delight. “Is it not the most wonderful thing you’ve ever laid eyes upon?”

“It is indeed. But, who . . .? How was this all accomplished?” She saw the shuttered look that dropped over her friend’s face and said with mock severity, “You never did this on your own, Portia Ornesby, or it would have been done years ago!”

“You’re right, of course, but those answers are part of another surprise, and this time, my dear, you shall have to wait and discover it with all the others.” Her smiling face grew more serious. “But I did want to tell you most seriously how helpful this project has been.”

The plump baroness took the seat next to Lady Dayle and continued. “Do forgive me for meddling, my dear, but I’ve counted myself your friend for nearly two score years—Heavens, but it all feels so close, does it not? I just mean to say that I feel I have earned the right to some plain speaking with you, and I hope you feel the same.”

She did not pause to be reassured. “You know how much I’ve missed my darling daughter Emily—if only Northumberland were not so far away—but truly, I have felt ever so much better since I’ve become embroiled in all this,” and she waved her hand to encompass the room. “It would be just the thing for you as well, dear. I sincerely believe it! Forget all the grief of the past two years and lose yourself in a large, satisfying redesign project.”

Lady Dayle hardened her heart against the stab of pain delivered by those casual words. Portia was only being kind, in her own way. Very privately, she thought that missing a married daughter was one thing, and reconciling oneself to the death of your eldest son and heir, and the husband who shortly followed him to the hereafter, was quite another. Hardly the sort of thing to be glossed over by redecorating. She was saved the discomfort of a reply, at least, by the arrival of a group of guests.

The baroness rose to bask in the cries of surprise and admiration as ladies began to filter into the drawing room. Her intentions were well meant, even if her sensitivity was not what it might be. Lady Dayle knew that Portia could have organized a grander evening entertainment to unveil her new décor. She also knew that the afternoon gathering of ladies for a sumptuous tea was at least in part planned to help ease her back into local society. She could at least repay Portia’s efforts by putting on a pleasant face for the ladies of Blackford Chase.

It proved easier than expected. Everyone was kind, and conversations were for the most part simple and direct, with none of the careful treading on eggshells that she had come to dread. She had found, over the last two years, that the worst part of being in mourning was the discomfort so many felt just being in her presence, as if she were a mere conversational slip from insanity.

But there was surprisingly little awkwardness today. Lady Ornesby’s surprise helped, of course. The drawing room was a grand success and every lady present wanted to know who had accomplished the miraculous transformation.

“Wonderful, is it not?” Lady Dayle asked Mrs. Chester, the vicar’s wife. “Who could have expected that Portia’s cluttered room could comfortably fit so many of Dorset’s finest?”

“Who indeed?” agreed Mrs. Chester. “Why look, even Lady Esther has come out.”

Lady Dayle did look, and saw Lady Esther Westby greet Portia with a vacant smile. Lady Esther, sister to the Earl of Cranbourne, was something of a legend in Blackford Chase. She had suffered a disappointment in love at an early age and had never quite recovered. Vague, easily distracted, but always pleasant, she was a permanent resident at a small holding of her brother’s, situated a few miles outside the village. Seldom was she seen beyond its boundaries.

“How nice to see her out enjoying herself,” Lady Dayle answered Mrs. Chester. “But who is that striking young lady with her? I don’t recall seeing her before.”

Mrs. Chester’s mouth tightened. “It is Miss Westby, her niece.”

“Cranbourne’s niece?” Lady Dayle was much struck. “But it seems impossible. The last I recall meeting her, she was in short skirts and long braids.” Not so now. Lady Dayle watched the girl take her turn to greet her hostess. She was lovely and perhaps a bit exotic, with heavy ebony hair, and smooth skin with just a slight olive tint. Lady Dayle thought of the three plain daughters still at home in the Chester’s tiny vicarage and thought she knew why the vicar’s wife seemed suddenly a bit sour.

“What a change from the adorable little hoyden I recall,” she continued. “She was great friends with my Charles, you know, and quite as capable of mischief as he.”

The viscountess saw Mrs. Chester exchange glances with her particular friend, Mrs. Findlay, and wondered just what it meant. “I have been out of the social whirl for quite some time, I know, but it surprises me that I haven’t met the girl in so long,” she remarked.

“Perhaps not so odd, my lady. She is not really received in the village. She keeps close to home for the most part.”

The note of grim satisfaction in Mrs. Chester’s voice stirred Lady Dayle’s protective instincts to life. “Not received—that lovely girl? Why ever not?”

Mrs. Chester mistook the sharpness of the viscountess’ tone. “Oh no, my lady, there is no particular reason, at least no scandal attached to her name, if that was what you were thinking. At least, none other than the scandal of her parent’s marriage.”

The viscountess was familiar with the tale. “If I recall correctly, it was hardly a scandal.” And also if she recalled correctly, the Chesters had not even lived in Blackford Chase at the time.

Mrs. Findlay leaned in close. “Her mother was Italian, you know, though her father met her in America. She somehow convinced him to stay there and take up a trade.”

“He went into the shipping business owned by the girl’s family. Not so great a crime for a younger son, in my opinion. Lord Cranbourne was a proud and foolish old man to have allowed it to lead to an estrangement.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Chester, though her tone did not convey her agreement. “In any case, the family never was reconciled to the situation. Yet the present earl was forced to deal with the consequences of it when the pair of them died. And you must know,” she said confidingly, “they say she is the reason that Lord Westby never stops here. I don’t think he’s seen the girl above twice in the last thirteen years. It is whispered that he cannot bear to look upon the foreign cast of her features. It must be a painful reminder of his brother’s disgrace and death.”

“What perfect rubbish,” Lady Dayle said. “It would be far more apt to connect the pursuit of politics and the pleasures of town life to Lord Westby’s absences.”

“Why then, does he not invite the girl to stay with him in London? Why has he not bothered to bring her out? He pays the girl no discernible notice at all. No,” said Mrs. Chester decisively, “I say his feelings about her are more than evident.”

“So, if her own flesh and blood do not bother to spare the girl any consideration, then why should the good ladies of Blackford Chase? I confess myself to be deeply disappointed, Mrs. Chester. I would have expected better, especially from you and your family. Where is your Christian charity?”

At last Mrs. Chester realized the dangerous waters she was treading. “My lady! I hope. . .” she sputtered, “I mean, I haven’t...”

But Lady Dayle had heard enough. “That is precisely the problem, Mrs. Chester. You haven’t. However, I think I will.”

She swept away, sure that the hypocritical harridan found her anger incomprehensible. But the tragedies in her own family had altered her outlook, striking off blinders she had not known she’d worn. Conformity had been a cold companion indeed these lonely months. She had followed the dictates of society all the many years of her life and it hadn’t spared her from misery.

She thought of her two grown sons and their attempts to move past the family’s losses. Charles had become utterly absorbed by the title and its responsibilities, while Jack buried himself in his books. She had helped her boys as best she could; now each of them struggled in his own way to get back to life, to find some measure of happiness. As did she.

Lady Dayle glanced across the room again. The Westby girl was not happy. She accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and set about discovering why.

There appeared to be no good reason. Casual questions revealed vague disdain but no concrete motivation behind it. The girl was pretty, foreign born and isolated. This appeared to be the full catalogue of her sins. The more Lady Dayle learned of the matter, the more ashamed she became; ashamed of the townsfolk, ashamed of herself for not becoming aware of the situation sooner.

Miss Westby, on the other hand, had nothing to regret. Always politely greeted but never warmly welcomed, her alienation stood out in the small gathering. Yet she handled it well. She cruised the room with poise and grace, examining the new décor, even adjusting a drape or object here and there, and she talked a good deal with Lady Ornesby.

The baroness, indeed, appeared to be the one person completely comfortable with the girl. One might even call her solicitous. She repeatedly called her over and listened with obvious attention when she spoke. All together it struck a suspicion in Lady Dayle, and the viscountess was perhaps the only one not surprised when the Lady Ornesby gathered her guests together and announced with ceremony that it had been Miss Westby who had designed and overseen the redecorating of the beautiful drawing room.

Lady Dayle waited in some suspense to see the guests’ reaction. As might have been expected, many of the ladies experienced a sudden warming in their attitudes towards the girl. Apparently such talent and good taste—offered to Lady Ornesby at no cost—outweighed such trifling considerations as a foreign mama and a neglectful uncle.

The true test, however, would come with Miss Westby’s reaction to her new admirers. Perhaps it would not be surprising if she snubbed their self-serving efforts at reconciliation. But Lady Dayle was pleased to see the girl handle it all with equanimity. Only an occasional quirk of her mouth betrayed her; otherwise she was all that was polite and gracious.

It was that evidence of good nature that settled the matter for Lady Dayle. Her mind churning with plans, she sought out Lady Ornesby. She was tired of being tired. Done with feeling old and extraneous. It was time to start living again and it would feel oh, so good to be needed. Yes, perhaps a project was exactly what she needed, but one of a far more interesting nature than Portia had anticipated.