Misguided Angel: A Parnormal Romance Novella

“Stella, this is Mavis Farley,” George said, still sounding rather odd. “My fiancée.”

Thank heavens Stella was an actress. “Fiancée?” she repeated, a smile of delight to fool the toughest critic blooming on her face. “Oh my heavens! I hadn’t heard!”

“No one has yet,” Mavis said, obviously put out in spite of her own fake smile. “I thought we meant to announce it this weekend, you naughty boy.”

“Stella is family,” George said.

“Yes, but we haven’t even told your uncle yet,” Mavis said. “No offense to Stella, of course.”

“Of course not,” Stella said. “And don’t worry; I won’t tell a soul.” She made herself kiss the horrid thing’s cheek. “Congratulations to you both.”

“How sweet,” Mavis said stiffly.

“Thanks, cuz,” George said, kissing Stella back.

“Now do come in to tea,” Mavis said, tugging him toward the steps. “Mummy and Daddy are dying to see you.”

“Actually, dearest, Stella and I were thinking of popping down to the pub,” George said. “If you’d care to come along—”

“George, don’t be crazy,” Stella interrupted. “You have to let Mavis show you off to the home folks.”

“Quite,” the other girl said, spots of color appearing on her cheeks.

“Besides, I’m really very tired,” Stella went on. “I think I’ll just have a nap until dinner.” She couldn’t resist giving him a wink. “See you later, cousin.”

As she went inside, she heard Mavis saying, “Isn’t that the one who’s meant to be a film star? She’s hardly what I’d call pretty enough for paying customers.” The footman closed the door behind her before she could hear George’s response.

“Can I get you anything, miss?” George’s valet, Stewart, asked. He was giving her a look of such perfect sympathy and understanding, she felt her mask start to crumble. “Shall I send you up a tray?”

“No, thank you.” She kept her head down and hurried to the stairs.

She made it all the way to her room before the tears broke free. “Miserable horse-faced witch,” she muttered as she locked the door behind her. What kind of world did they live in when a nice man like George got himself engaged to a beastie like that? She didn’t want him for herself, obviously. They were practically related. But still…the very idea of him saddled for life with that gargoyle…it was a tragedy, was what it was, and if she cared for him at all, she’d never let it happen.

?

?Which witch is that?” her maid, Sophia, asked. Sophia, who’d been born and raised in the great state of Mississippi, hated the English manor even more than Stella did and avoided the servants’ hall as much as possible when they visited.

“Draw me a bath, kid,” Stella said, kicking off her shoes. “You’ve got to help me armor up.”

“Going to war, then, are we?” the maid said with a grin.

“We are indeed.” She opened her wardrobe and took out the new dress she’d just received from Paris, a gift from the man whose attentions had put her on the run. It was a slinky black gown made of beaded illusion and not much else, very much a Hollywood dress. Wearing it in Henry’s dining room, she’d stand out like a flamingo in a chicken coop, and her mother would be mortified. With regret, she put it back in the wardrobe and reached for a modest flesh-pink satin instead, the gown of a perfect English rose. “And I’m expecting a bloodbath.”