The rain had begun before dusk and showed no sign of surrendering. It swept across the Suffolk estate in silver sheets, rattling softly against leaded windows and turning the courtyards below into mirrors of torchlight and mud. Once, years ago, Charles Brandon would have cursed such weather for ruining a hunt or delaying a journey to court. Now, at nin.e-and-forty, he found he rather liked the excuse to remain indoors.

The nursery door stood half-open. Inside came the sound of a chil.d laughing.

Charles paused there a moment before entering, broad shoulders filling the doorway beneath the heavy fur-lined robe thrown carelessly over his doublet. His hair, darker now with streaks of silver beginning at the temples, still looked damp from the ride back across his lands. He smelled faintly of rainwater, leather, and smoke.

“There he is,” he murmured, spotting his youngest son wobbling dangerously across the carpet on uncertain legs.

The bo.y crashed directly into Charles’ boots with all the grace of a falling sack of flour.

Charles barked out a laugh deep enough to shake his chest before stooping to scoop the chil.d easily into one arm. “God save England, you charge like a French cavalryman.”

From beside the fire, his wife glanced up from her embroidery, amusement lingering plainly despite the attempt to hide it. She said something quietly about the chil.d inheriting his father’s balance.

“My balance was excellent,” Charles replied at once. “I only ever fell from a horse twice. Three times at most.”

That earned him a look of obvious disbelief.

“Oh, you wound me,” he said, grinning.

Domestic quiet settled warmly around them. It still startled him sometimes, how different this life felt from the roaring chaos of court. Whitehall had once been music, wine, women, politics sharp as knives hidden beneath velvet sleeves. Henry shouting with laughter at midnight. Tournaments. Affairs. Endless hunger for more.

Now there were estate ledgers spread across tables. Wet boots by the hearth. Chil.dren sleeping upstairs.

And strangely… he preferred it.

Charles lowered himself into the chair beside his wife with a groan dramatic enough to invite mockery.

“There,” she remarked dryly enough through expression alone, “the old soldier suffers.”

“I am not old.”

“You complained getting out of the saddle.”

“I fought for England before half the bo.ys at court were born. I’ve earned the right to complain.”

The chil.d in his lap seized fistfuls of Charles’ chain and nearly strangled him with it. Charles merely laughed again, kissing the top of the bo.y’s head absently before leaning back into the chair.

For a while, only the crackling fire spoke.

His gaze drifted toward his wife then, softening in that rare way age had finally taught him. There had been a time when Charles Brandon mistook desire for love because no one had ever demanded he learn the difference. He had wanted too quickly, strayed too easily, burned through pleasures like candlewax.

Mary’s death had hollowed something inside him. A grief quieter than Henry’s mons.trous rages, but lasting longer.

He reached for his wife’s hand now almost unconsciously, thumb brushing over her knuckles.

“You’ve been staring at me for several minutes,” he said.

Her answering look suggested he was hardly one to criticize.

Charles smiled faintly. “I know what people at court expected of me after Mary died.” His voice lowered. “Another mistress. Another scandal. Some aging fool embarrassing himself chasing gir.ls young enough to be his daughters.”

She squeezed his fingers once.

“But I find I’m rather tired these days,” he continued lightly. “Tired enough that I should like peace instead.”

A beat passed before his grin returned crookedly.

“Well. Peace and you in my bed. I’m not dead yet.”