My Bratty Wife

The blood from Byron’s self-inflicted wound had already begun to seep through the makeshift bandage of his handkerchief, a dull throb accompanying the sharp sting. He ignored it.

"We are hot on commander Thorne’s tail." It said.

The news from Elias, contained in that small, discreetly passed note, was far more significant than a few shards of glass in his palm.

"This should solve my immediate problem," Byron murmured to himself, his mind already sifting through the implications of Elias’s message. He pictured the scene of Thorne’s capture, this latest development smoothing out a troublesome wrinkle. "And once I find Thorne... yes, once Thorne is located and dealt with, this entire unfortunate business will be closed. Permanently. No loose ends, no damning evidence."

The name ’Thorne’ echoed in his thoughts, a persistent, irritating snag he was determined to eliminate. He folded the paper with his uninjured hand and shoved it deep into his waistcoat pocket, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

He turned to leave the premises, intending to find a quiet place to properly attend to his hand and further contemplate Elias’s report. Distracted by these thoughts, his gaze fixed on some distant point of his own devising, he failed to notice another mourner stepping back from a nearby family plot. He bumped into the person with enough force to make them stumble and drop a delicate black lace fan.

"Oh, forgive me," Byron began, automatically bending to retrieve the fallen object. "I’m terribly sorry, I wasn’t look—" His voice caught in his throat as he straightened, fan in hand, and his eyes met those of the person he had collided with.

Eleanor.

His breath hitched. It was as if the years had momentarily peeled away. He saw her face, truly saw it, and for a dizzying second, a forgotten warmth, a ghost of an old, painful ache, flickered deep within him. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes a startling shade of brown, framed by thick, dark lashes. Even in the somber black of mourning, there was an undeniable vibrancy about her. The last time he had seen this face up close, truly taken it in, was like a year or some months ago, he couldn’t tell which one exactly. She had just returned to Carleton for that grand ball hosted by the duchess, her eyes shining with anticipation, not for the festivities, but solely, exclusively, for Ryan.

Yes. Ryan. The name, as always when connected with Eleanor, acted like a douse of icy water on that fleeting spark of warmth. The momentary softness in Byron’s expression hardened, his eyes becoming shuttered, assessing. He remembered, with a fresh pang of old bitterness, that Ryan was the only sun in Eleanor’s sky.

He forced a polite, neutral mask onto his features and formally offered her the fan. "Lady Eleanor. My sincerest apologies for my clumsiness."

Her mourning dress, though simple black silk like Suzy’s, seemed to cling to her figure in a way that, to Byron’s eyes, accentuated her grace. It was less ornate than the Duchess’s gown, yet it possessed an understated elegance that he found himself grudgingly admiring. She wore no hat, her dark, glossy hair swept up in a style that highlighted the elegant line of her neck.