My Bratty Wife
Chapter 225 - Two Hundred And Twenty Five

Chapter 225: Chapter Two Hundred And Twenty Five

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.

Eleanor collected the fan, her fingers brushing his briefly. "It’s quite alright, Lord Byron," she said, her voice a soft sound. "I confess, I wasn’t looking where I was going either. Lost in thought, I suppose." Her gaze then fell upon his crudely wrapped hand, noticing the crimson seeping through the white linen. A small frown of concern creased her smooth brow. "Oh, you’re injured! What happened to your hand?"

Byron almost flinched at the genuine concern in her voice. It was a reminder of a time when her gentle nature hadn’t been entirely overshadowed by her single-minded pursuit. He shrugged dismissively, tucking his injured hand slightly behind his back. "A minor mishap. Still that clumsy little boy you used to tease, I’m afraid."

A faint, knowing smile touched Eleanor’s lips. "Yes," she agreed softly, a shared memory passing between them. "Some things never change, it seems." Then, her smile faded, her attention returning to their surroundings. "It’s a sad day."

"Indeed," Byron replied, his gaze sweeping over the remaining mourners. He decided to probe. "What brings you here, Eleanor? If memory serves, you never particularly liked Evan, even when we were children. You found him boorish, I believe was your term."

Eleanor didn’t dispute his assessment of her childhood opinions. Her brown eyes shifted, a familiar light entering them as she answered honestly, "I came because of Ryan, of course. To offer my condolences, to be here for him."

Byron’s internal sigh was almost audible to himself. Of course. Always Ryan. The old resentment, the feeling of being perpetually secondary in her world, tightened in his chest. "Well," he thought with a sudden surge of cold reality, "in the game of revenge, and indeed in matters of the heart, prolonged pining is not needed. It only brings one down, makes one weak." He felt a sudden, perverse desire to shatter her focus, to prick that bubble of devotion.

He allowed a small, almost pitying smile to touch his lips. "Ah, Ryan," he said, his voice deceptively gentle. "Such loyalty is admirable, Eleanor. But surely you’ve noticed... his wife, the Duchess Cassandra, is constantly by his side. Your presence here today, however well-intentioned, isn’t ever truly going to be noticed by him in the way you hope." He let his gaze travel over her, a subtle dismissal. "Perhaps it’s time to simply give up on that particular dream."

He delivered the words with a straight precision, aiming for the old, unhealed wound he knew lay beneath her composed exterior. He saw the flicker of pain in her brown eyes before they narrowed, a spark of anger igniting within their depths.

Good. He felt strangely good.

Without waiting for a reply, he gave a slight, formal bow. "Lady Eleanor." And then he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone amidst the trees, his cruel words hanging in the air between them.

Eleanor watched him go, her polite façade crumbling. His words, so casually delivered, so dismissive, struck a raw nerve. Give up? Why was everyone always telling her to give up? Davis, Ryan’s aide, had subtly hinted at it for years. Some of her own supposed friends. Even her own parents. Why should she be the one to relinquish her claim, her feelings?

"Why can’t she give up?" Eleanor whispered fiercely to the uncaring wind, her knuckles white as she clutched the delicate lace fan. "I met him first. I loved him first. I was his, before she ever came into the picture with her doe eyes and those unamusing dots on her face!"

Her anger coursed through her veins, fueling a desperate, reckless strength. He should be hers. Ryan belonged with her. Suzy was the interloper, the obstacle. "She should be the one to leave," Eleanor hissed, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "And leave she shall. One way or another."

The delicate struts of the fan groaned under the pressure of her grip. With a sudden, sharp crack, the fan snapped in two, the fragile lace tearing, the carved ivory splitting. She stared down at the broken pieces in her hands, her chest heaving, her beautiful lace fan was destroyed.