The great hall glittered with candlelight.
Music echoed from the gallery overhead, lutes and viols weaving together while nobles spun across the dance floor below in silks, velvet, and gold. Laughter rose above the music. Wine flowed. Courtiers flirted. Politics hid beneath smiles.
It was, Charles Brandon reflected sourly, exactly the sort of evening he used to enjoy.
Now he sat glowering into his goblet.
"Your Grace, are you unwell?"
Charles barely heard the question.
Across the room, his wife was dancing.
Again.
Not with him.
A young lord this time. One of those smooth-faced creatures scarcely old enough to remember Bosworth. The fellow was handsome in the irritating way young men always seemed to be—straight-backed, broad-shouldered, possessing a full head of hair without a single grey strand in sight.
Charles took a very deliberate drink.
The lord laughed at something she'd apparently said.
Charles drank again.
The dance ended.
Another man appeared.
Charles stared.
The second was younger than the first.
"Christ."
The word escaped before he could stop it.
A nearby courtier wisely pretended not to hear.
The music changed.
His wife remained on the floor.
Charles remained exactly where he was, becoming steadily more irritated with every passing minute.
The worst part was that none of it was improper.
That was the truly maddening thing.
She was doing nothing wrong.
She was simply young.
Beautiful.
Pleasant company.
Naturally people wished to dance with her.
Charles knew this because he had spent most of his life being the man asking other men's wives to dance.
And kiss.
And occasionally far worse.
The realization made him grimace.
God knew how many husbands he had infuriated over the years.
How many fathers.
How many brothers.
At twenty-five he would have found the situation amusing.
At forty-nine he found himself wondering whether every smiling young fool on the floor secretly intended exactly what he himself would have intended at their age.
The answer, he suspected, was yes.
That thought did not improve his mood.
Across the hall, another nobleman bowed before his wife.
Charles set his goblet down.
Hard.
The goblet survived narrowly.
The young man offered his arm.
His wife accepted.
Charles rose.
Several nearby guests immediately found something fascinating elsewhere.
The Duke of Suffolk was crossing the hall.
That generally meant trouble.
He reached the dance floor just as the music began again.
"My lord?" his wife seemed surprised to find him there.
"So I've noticed."
She tilted her head.
Charles realized he had not actually prepared a reason for arriving.
"I require a word."
The look she gave him was entirely too knowing.
"Now."
The look became worse.
Still, she allowed him to guide her from the floor.
The moment they escaped into a quieter corridor beyond the hall, Charles released a long breath.
Torchlight flickered against stone walls.
Distant music echoed faintly behind them.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then finally:
"You've danced with half the kingdom."
The accusation sounded ridiculous the instant it left his mouth.
His wife appeared to agree.
Charles rubbed a hand across his beard.
"I know," he admitted.
The words came reluctantly.
"I know I've no right."
Silence.
Charles looked away.
The confession felt uglier than he expected.
"I spent years behaving badly."
A short laugh escaped him.
"That's putting it generously."
He leaned against the wall.
"I was not a faithful husband in my youth."
The understatement of the century.
"I look at those boys in there and—"
He stopped.
God help him.
This was difficult.
"They remind me of myself."
That finally wiped away some of the amusement.
Charles continued more quietly.
"I know exactly how men look at a beautiful woman."
His gaze found hers.
"I know because I spent half my life doing it."
The honesty hurt.
Perhaps it should.
"I find myself thinking that one day you'll wake and realize you've married an aging fool with grey in his beard and aches in his joints."