Ruins of Starlight (Celestial Devotion #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

MORGANA

W ealth was something I came to respect. Not that of a gambler’s game or entrepreneur’s ruse, but the fortunes within the mind.

It was rare that I found myself venturing into the most elusive parts of society, and even rarer was that I found myself in awe of their grandiose celebrations. Tonight, Aerilunis’ most established and wealthy families joined in celebration of our eternal moon. My lips tugged into the ghost of a frown, but not a soul would know as I drew a fan over my face and wafted the brisk spring air across my features.

The eternal moon was as romantic as it sounded—in theory, at least. It was the beginning of a season of courtship, and if it weren’t for my unfamiliar Siren, I wouldn’t be gripping this burning invitation between my fingers and would have been turned away at the door. Tonight wasn’t about romance. Even the sort as transactional as familial wealth and status.

Ladies were escorted through the vast halls by their masked man of the house, may that be their father or the eldest brother who outlived him. The women’s faces, like mine, were adorned in the subtlest rouge that complemented the glow of candlelight and everlasting yearning. It was sick, in a way. Ladies were expected to flaunt it all, from the expensive gems laced around their necks to the smooth features of their faces, yet the men walked in plain, fitted tailcoats and obnoxious cravats tucked beneath even more obnoxious, frilly tunics.

My gentleman—not that of a caller or relative—had yet to make an appearance though. For that, many eyes cast down on me. Too many for my liking. I cursed silently against my tongue and moved through the crowds, the bodice under my high-waisted gown digging into the curve of my waist.

To think that other kingdom nations had far more elaborate celebrations to kick off a season of love than this? My eyes drew to the glass-paned ceiling, watching the full moon’s light bleed onto marbled floors. The music was perfect for only the most respectful of dances. I sighed, heart pounding against the stiff bones of my corset. Where in the bloody hells was Siren?

My eyes darkened as they swam across the crowd. Many were already dancing, the unfortunate few left alone and thrown aside, sulking with their even more disappointed mothers. What a miserable lot, truly—they had access to the best education, the finest arts, and the most beautiful architecture I’d ever been privy to, and they frowned?

I clasped my fan shut and ventured to fetch a glass of wine. They were tiny little things, but after snatching two and swallowing them whole, my nerves eased into pins and needles. A few disgruntled voices sounded from behind, but when I turned my pointed glare their way, they scurried off. Good. They ought to be wooing the men cowardly tucked beneath a mask in hopes of a dowry, status—whatever it was these families sought.

That was not in my cards tonight. It never would be, if I could have it my way. I just needed to find Siren so these mothers stopped looking at me like the vixen with two heads and a mouth that sought claim over their sons.

There was a small issue. I’d never met Siren. Not in person, no. We’d spoken in letters, sure—letters sent by mail with hopeless tips that drew us closer to a common goal. He knew what I looked like, putting him at an incredibly unfair advantage.

Bastard was probably grinning in a faraway corner at my ignorance.

Damn him to hells. If he was going to make this so difficult, then I’d continue on my own. I was already the vixen of the ball, a harlot who slithered her way into the banquet with the allure of a wilted rose.

Siren and I were searching for the same person: Lord Francis DeBurne, wealthy beyond measure but no better than a common thief. If he wasn’t here to help me, then I’d go on my own.

I took a daring step forward, on the precipice of the dance floor. Ladies and their callers’ quadrille dance was as much of a sight for sore eyes as it was dull. There was no passion, no eternal yearning between their polite stares.

The black, iron archways that stemmed from the tall walls to the ceiling cast magnificent shadows across the entanglement of bodies. The harmony of their promenades and turns could have stolen a breath, if it weren’t for the boring grins and rigid bodies. There were no hidden desires shared beneath quiet gasps. These people were here for a transaction, not love.

Regardless, I had to find a way to blend in if I wanted to effectively sneak around—otherwise, I’d get questioned and cast out long before any valuable information could be scavenged. I needed answers. If not for myself, then for Galen. Pain slithered around my heart, but it snapped at the gruff, hoarse greeting behind me.

“Quite mundane, isn’t it?”

“I’d rather watch the paint of a grimy brothel dry,” I responded before snapping my mouth shut. My wits chastised me for my outburst, echoing in my head. These weren’t my people. If I wanted to blend in, I needed to act… proper. I turned my head to capture the glistening silver mask that concealed the gentleman’s face. I could only see his eyes, but they squinted as if he were amused. “My apologies, sir… uh—” I stammered, unsure of the formalities. There were lords, barons, hellish princes. How did they know who was who with these damned masks?

Even without, I doubted I’d succeed at such a political game as titles. Not that I cared, but I had to act like I did.

“Which family are you with?” he asked, brushing aside my failed formality. He turned to face me, his hands still politely tucked behind his back. The warm light danced against the stark shadows of his face, but nothing lightened those mud-brown eyes.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. By the gods, where was Siren? He would have been my eldest brother, therefore silencing all questions about my birthright. But we had a story. One I needed to stick to, with or without him.

“My late father was Lord Tillington of Azulia, who later moved to Iskandia to wed my mother.” My cheeks flushed at the lie, gaze averting to the dance floor once more. It was a half-truth, at the very least. I did grow up in Iskandia. That was where the truth ended. Iskandia was far enough away, too, that a mere lord’s name would not be questioned.

“You’ve traveled quite a distance. Two more moons and you could have ventured to Azulia’s shores for their annual rite.”

I bit my tongue as I pondered my words. “I’ve heard stories of it, yes. This ought to pale in comparison.”

“Yet here you are.”

My cheeks flushed, and I turned back to face him. He’d not turned away, his hands still politely tucked behind his back. “Truth be told… my lord?” When he made no effort to correct me, my heart slowed its restless pursuit against my chest. “Right, my lord. Truth be told, my eldest brother needs me—well, he needs me wed.”

The words roused nausea deep in my gut, roiling over and over until gooseflesh raced down my arms. I’d never want this life. No, if I ever wed, it would be on my own terms.

The gentleman took a step closer, musk and day-old firewood overwhelming the senses. My nails dug into the meat of my palm, and I swallowed past the nerves. I needed to blend in, yes—but I did not wish to do it with him. His body, a hair too tall and inch too strong, loomed over me like an omen. I took a step back, nearly forgetting the proper ploy I was meant to play.

“An awfully absent brother for such dire terms, is he not?” he asked. When my lips merely parted in response, his eyes darkened. “It is unusual for the patriarch to leave such a gem to fend for herself against—” his focus turned to the crowd, the word gem lingering in the air like a veiled threat, “—these men. They’re all greedy. Seeking ways to fill their nest.”

“With all due respect,” I said, despite the absence of such a thing, “how can I be so certain you are not one of the rats seeking their fill?”

The man stilled, that rotten attention flicking back to me with the severity of a hawk. He blinked, and though I could not see his mouth, I knew he frowned. Despite the upset, he outstretched a hand. “Perhaps a dance would change your mind. I would hate for your reputation to be tarnished by an unsightly distress.” A pause, then his fingers flexed. “I understand how important reputation is to a lady of a crumbling house.”

I lowered my gaze to his hands, charcoaled ash smudged beneath his dirtied fingertips. I’d given him such small crumbs of this ruse, and he was already using it against me. I gulped, my fingers trembling. If this were away from wandering eyes, I’d have this man on his knees begging me not to take his tongue, but I was part of society tonight.

And ladies did not cut out tongues—even those as quietly bitter as his. If I were an actual part of this society, his words would have me a scared little mess, no doubt. My nerves were not of fear though. They were of unspent anger that he thought he could best me. So I returned my gaze to his, face as straight as a pin and colder than a winter’s breeze.

“And what do you know of my reputation, my lord ?”

I didn’t think the color brown could get so dark. His fingers curled into his palm, and he let it fall back to his side. Another step closer, another shared breath, another angered breath. His musk made my nostrils flare, my lips curl. His hand latched around the bend of my elbow, fingers digging into the soft flesh. I tensed—one swift move, and I could free the dagger beneath my gown and make him bleed red.

“I shall ask you again, Lady Tillington. May I have this dance?”

My eyes averted from his, watching the growing crowd turn their attention to us. Some whispered amongst themselves; the others merely stared with wide eyes. “You may not.”

His hold tightened, but not enough that I struggled to break free. I pushed beyond him in search of a way from the crowd, somewhere deeper in the shadows where I could figure out how to survive the wrath of wealth when all I’d known was darkness and dust. It was rare I let my nerves best me, but with each shallow breath, my lungs constricted. Did women truly go through this? Even if but once a season?

Were men truly this rotten when given enough coin to have sway?

I breached beyond unlocked doors into a corridor. It overlooked the sea, and as I found an open alcove, the breeze brushing through open bay windows, I collapsed against the railing. I couldn’t do this—not because of my lack of wit or poise, but because every single person in that room sickened me for different reasons. That could have been Lord Francis for all I knew, but fate would tell me soon enough.

It always did, sick little bitch it was.

I had one portrait to go off of—but with those masks, I’d never know more than his eyes and hair. And, unfortunately for me, brown, curly locks were far too common.

I closed my eyes to calm my breathing, recalling the information and picture Siren had mailed to me one moon ago. Was I a fool?

Sure, he’d given me the plan… the information.

But that was the last I’d heard of him.

By the hells, I was a fool. Siren had to have lost interest. Our plan had failed.

I needed to get out of here. I couldn’t do this without a patriarch, not in a society as backward and scrutinizing as this. This was leaps and bounds beyond what I was used to, but I could try again. There were always more creative ways to find wealthy men and their rotten secrets.

I turned on a heel and aimed for the door once more, but my nose slammed into a hard chest. I stumbled back, not without a curse, and turned my angered gaze up to?—

“Lady Tillington.”

Those mud-brown eyes glared down at me. I gasped, taking another step back to create more space, but his hand latched around my wrist pulled me back to him. “Get your hands off me,” I hissed.

“I do not do well with rejections in front of my equals,” he spewed down at me. “You should think well before turning against me.”

“I will do well when I have your tongue,” I spat back at him and stomped my foot onto his. He howled out, and when he lost his balance, I shoved him to the ground and made a leap for the door. His boot smashed into my knee. I collapsed onto the ground and yelped, the bones throbbing with each effort to move.

His fingers grasped my necklace and used it to yank me up, choking me briefly before the cheap gems shattered with the broken chain. I gasped and collapsed back to the ground, head smashing into the hard marble floor. Within seconds, he had me on my feet and my back pressed against the wall. His nose brushed my cheek, and I sputtered out gasps. I reached one hand for the skirt of my gown, trying to bunch the fabric so I could grab my dagger, but he snatched it and pinned it harshly to the wall. I braced my other hand to his chest and shoved.

I was not clumsy, but tonight I felt like I was a pirate without her sea legs. It was the way this bodice choked me at the waist, and the judgment that burned into me from those ladies and lords of the highest corners of our world. Agile and quick was my game—but tonight, I’d failed.

Even as resourceful as I was, some were just too strong for me. I tried to lodge my knee into his groin, but he caught it and spat in my face. “You wretch,” he hissed. “Wait until they hear of your soiled reputation, Lady Tillington. You’ll be forced into my submission then—no man wants ruined goods.”

His drool slipped down my cheek, and with narrowed eyes, all the manners I’d used to survive the night thus far vanished into the cold pit of my stomach. I leaned up to his ear, my breath a gentle whistle against his skin. “And nobody wants a man who does not respect his woman.”

I bit onto the earlobe so hard that blood covered the tip of my tongue. He howled so loudly that even the music outside those doors deafened into a forgettable hum. I shoved him back and raced to the door, but this lord’s strength was not a mere vision. He grabbed me by the back of my hair, yanking me back so hard I hissed.

So he didn’t understand what I meant with my teeth, so I’d show him with my blade. I cursed and yanked the blade out of its holster strapped at my thigh, pressed it against his throat, and straightened my posture as soon as he let off in response.

His gaze darkened. It only made me harshen my dagger’s grip against his skin. Blood prickled along the edge. “You will either let me go, or I will kill you. There is no other option.”

I could hear the sputtering gasp behind his mask, and if I thought hard enough, I could almost envision the way sweat lined his brow. A man like this wasn’t used to rejection, and he certainly wasn’t used to a woman fighting back.

A rush of mercy engulfed me. He was a miserable man, but killing him would only cause more commotion than what already existed. I waited a brief moment before backing away, my dagger pointed in silent threat. He watched. He waited.

Good.

So I turned, just as my back was about to press into the door, and lifted my dress to conceal my weapon once more. One way in, one way out—but if I moved fast enough, I could break away without more unneeded judgment.

Those grimy hands didn’t know when to stop though. It worked—despite my greatest attempt—and he slipped his hands around the hilt of my dagger and yanked it from my grasp. The sharp tip nicked my palm, and it was him who held the dagger against the center of my neck.

“Nobody will believe you,” he muttered. My brows knit upward—he thought I had enough care in the world to ruin his reputation? He lifted his mask, resting it on top of his head so I could see his vicious scowl. Those eyes, the scar against his jaw. My heart thundered in my chest. This was him—this was Lord Francis DeBurne. I was about to be murdered by one of the few men who had the ability to give me answers.

He rammed me into the alcove behind our backs, the only thing keeping me from tumbling out the railing that creaked beneath my weight. “But they’ll believe me when I say you fell.”

I couldn’t turn my head to look at the ground, but I could hear the whistling wind. I could feel the sea breeze against my skin from our starry shores. I held onto the railing for dear life, grasping for any way to weaken him further. To get the advantage and make sure mercy did not follow. I wasn’t one to enjoy killing, but if anyone deserved it, it was scum like him.

Just as he pushed on me, as if he were going to make good on that threat, a warm voice broke the ringing silence. “Lord DeBurne.”

Everything in his body stilled. He turned his head at the same rate as mine, capturing another masked man. His hair, a dark raven ink against pale skin, was politely groomed out of his face. He had the hint of stubble across his jaw, and unlike DeBurne’s mask, I could see his mouth. The planes between his lips and eyes, however, were covered.

“Go away if you know what’s good for you,” Lord DeBurne hissed without letting up. The man took a step closer, his hands still tucked behind his back as if this were no more dire than an afternoon stroll. “I said get back!”

Lord DeBurne twisted his body and turned the blade to the other man. Mischief sparkled in the stranger’s gaze, and not once did he acknowledge me.

“I was coming to check on my intended.”

The air caught in my throat. His intended? I choked on the breath lodged in my throat when Lord DeBurne backed away from me two steps. Finally, the mysterious caller angled his head ever so politely my way, one gloved hand reaching from behind his back.

“Come, my dear. There are far too many snakes in the soil here.”

I stared at his hand, licking my dry lips. I had no reason to trust this man, but would he be quite so cruel as Lord DeBurne if he interrupted my assassination?

My blood ran cold, and I turned my attention back to Lord DeBurne. No, I could not leave him. I opened my mouth, but the mysterious caller cleared his throat.

“Darling?”

I blinked past the tears, feeling utterly hopeless. Would Lord DeBurne make an attempt at both of us if he knew I had no such intentions with this masked man? That it was a lie? I gulped. Lord DeBurne hadn’t moved his glare off my savior.

So I accepted the gloved hand, allowing him to guide me back toward the door.

“Your betrothed is a whore,” Lord DeBurne’s gruff voice broke the soul-shattering anxiety that consumed my senses. “And I will make sure every corner of our world knows it.”

The man stilled, sighing against his black mask. He angled his chin down at me, as if regarding me in a way to sum up my worth. I held his focus—not out of fear, but rather awe. His eyes were dark, but not the sort of dark that invoked terror like Lord DeBurne. His were akin to midnight, or shadows—and beneath the darkness was crimson red.

“A moment, my dear,” he said quietly before letting go of my hand and turning to Francis. I refused to turn and look my assailant in the eyes, but when the leather of his gloves cracked against his jaw and that heavy body thudded onto the ground, I jumped.

My heart raced, face paled. When the mysterious suitor returned, he offered his hand once more after straightening the loosened fingertips. I accepted, body numb as he guided me through the doors and back to the dance floor. I was intimately aware of the droplet of blood that beaded at the center of my neck, but he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a handkerchief. He swiped it against my skin, returned it to its place, and bowed his head toward my ear respectfully.

“It would be wise to dance,” he whispered. “If only for wandering eyes and speedy gossip.”

By all hells, what was I doing? I blinked, unable to tear my eyes from his as he regarded me once more.

I accepted his invitation, his hand concealing the tremble of my own, allowing him to guide me onto the floor just as the music faded into something far more intimate. This would be no quadrille. First, one hand splayed across the small of my back before mine intertwined with his other. The leather was cool against my skin, and although I put every ounce of concentration into following his lead, my mind wandered.

Who might look twice at me after I’d done my due diligence and shared a dance or two? Outside of those jealous few who pined for his hand, at least. My eyes flickered beyond him in an attempt to catch any envious stares, but there were none. People were engrossed by one another. Too much so to pay attention to the way my cheeks flushed. If anyone had noticed our commotion, it was unspoken.

We spun, round and round across the ballroom floor with the waves of bodies harmonizing together. Our bodies were so close, we all but shared each other’s breath. This was a stranger, but he regarded me like he knew of me—or my likeness.

As if this was not our first dance.

“Who are you?” I asked just loud enough to be heard against the brushing hum of music. I stammered on my words before continuing the question. “Why did you step in?”

A sly smile inched onto his lips. I was pleased that I could see that, at least—it made these masks a less brutal thing. “Do I seem like the sort of person to let a woman get murdered?”

The shadows in his eyes danced at the question. “Perhaps.”

“Smart woman,” he said and spun us around, our hands politely bound together as if a candle was pressed between them. Too fast, and the flame would fade. “My name is not of your concern.”

I hummed. His happiness stretched across his face at the sight of my glower. “Then neither is mine, and it would be wise to keep it off your tongue.”

“The season has only just started, and we have already faded away? Our fathers worked hard for our arrangement, Lady…” He hesitated, arching a brow.

This lie was somehow far more interesting than the one Siren had forged on paper. “A name for a name.”

He paused, and with the drop of the music, he dipped me backward so strands of my hair fell from the loose braid. “If we are to make our separation believable after such strenuous arrangements, names may be in order. You may call me Aster, little dove.”

Aster. I squeaked out a hum at the term of endearment—so unique, and sweeter than dear and darling . I allowed him to straighten my posture as the music faded.

“Lady—” I paused. A foolish part of me wanted to tell him my true name, if only so he knew who he truly saved in the corridor, but my chest constricted around my heart in silent warning: no . “Lady Evelyn Tillington,” I lied. His gaze sparkled with question, and his lips puckered.

“Well, Lady Tillington.” A step back, the only sounds of gentle chatter and shuffling feet as they parted from the dance floor. “Slap me. Storm off. Whatever you do, make it believable.”

I blinked, my mind wandering to Lord DeBurne. He was right there . But as a servant pushed beyond the doors behind me, his body was gone. Before they swung shut, I caught a glimpse of their greedy little hands picking up one of the shattered gems off my necklace. Anger boiled in my chest, and when I faced Aster once more, I bared my teeth.

“You’ve ruined this,” I said loudly enough to capture the attention of a few bystanders. It was a whole truth—but my anger did not reside in him. It resided in my own failure. If it were not for Aster, I would be flattened in the gardens outside. “For that, I will never forgive you.”

“Then fly away,” he said. “Little dove.”

Every part of me stilled. The racing heart beneath my chest, the blood in my veins, and the whirring anxieties that screamed inside my head. Lord DeBurne was gone, Siren had abandoned me, and my act had crumbled. I unfolded the fan attached by a string on my wrist, but the thin wood splintered and cracked.

It must have broken in the strife.

Aster smirked at it, but I fanned myself as if it were no matter. I turned on a heel and escaped the scrutiny of curious eyes, racing out of the banquet hall in search of fresh air and a way out of this bodice.