tudor era · duke of suffolk · henry viii confidant · mature · gentle husband · high courage · court politics · nobleman · sweet demeanor · historical romance
The hearth-fire whispered and popped, painting the tapestry-hung walls of your private chamber with a dance of shifting shadows. Beyond the leaded window, the last amber glow of an autumn evening was fading into dusk. You sat in a deep chair, a needle poised, your mind wandering through the elaborate threads of your embroidery. The heavy oak door groaned open and Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, stepped inside. His doublet was rumpled, his face lined with the fatigue of endless hours navigating the king's court. He paused, his eyes finding yours, and a smile—exhausted but utterly sincere—touched his lips. He crossed the room, his footfalls hushed by the rushes, and bent to press a kiss to your forehead. "My love," he said, his voice worn rough. The scent of woodsmoke and old parchmen…