Jest offered Catherine his arm and she slipped her fingers into the crook of his elbow. She was baffled at how much easier it was to breathe now. Maybe she’d been overreacting. Well, not to the King’s near proposal, but to the way her dress seemed to be strangling her.

They passed through the garden’s arches. The rosebushes fell behind, replaced with towering green hedges that thundered with the fiery bolts of lightning bugs.

‘I hope you’ll understand if I ask for your discretion,’ she said, wishing her heart would stop pattering. ‘This has been a most unusual encounter for me.’

‘Far be it for me to intrude upon a lady’s untarnished reputation. But to be clear, which part of our encounter should remain undisclosed?’ Jest watched her from the corner of his eye. ‘The part when you fainted in the grass and I heroically revived you? The part where we took an unchaperoned stroll through the gardens?’ He clucked his tongue in mock disapproval. ‘Or perhaps the part where you confessed to having had a dream about me, and that I must be quite a scoundrel to hope it wasn’t as boring as you’ve suggested?’

She leaned against his arm. ‘All of the above?’

He brought his free hand to her fingers, patting. ‘It will be my greatest pleasure to be secretive together, my lady.’

They hopped over the guard gryphon’s tail – he was sleeping, as always, against the garden gate. His quiet snores followed them halfway across the lawn.

‘So long as we’re sharing secrets,’ she said, ‘may I ask how you did it? The trick with Mr Rabbit?’

‘What trick?’

‘You know. When you pulled him out of Jack’s hat.’

Jest frowned, his expression mildly concerned. ‘Sweetest Lady Pinkerton, I fear you’ve gone mad in this short time we’ve known each other.’

She peered up at him. ‘Have I?’

‘To imagine that I pulled a rabbit out of a hat?’ He stooped closer, his forehead conspiratorially close to hers, and whispered, ‘That would be impossible.’

She smothered a grin, trying to morph her expression into something equally devious. ‘As it so happens, Mr Jest, I’ve sometimes come to believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’

His feet stalled all at once, his face turning to her, bewildered.

Her grin fell. ‘What is it?’

Jest’s eyes narrowed, studying her.

Catherine cowed beneath the inspection. ‘What?’

‘Are you sure you aren’t the one the King is in love with?’

It took a moment, but when the laugh came, it was honest and unforced. The idea that the King might wish to marry her was one thing, but the thought of him being in love with her was an entirely different realm of absurdity.

‘I assure you, he’s not,’ she said, still smiling, though Jest looked unconvinced. ‘What does that have to do with believing impossible things?’

‘It just seems like a queenly sort of thing to say,’ he said, offering his arm again. Cath took it, though with more hesitation. ‘And, well, impossible is my speciality.’

She peered up at his profile, his angled features, the mask of kohl. ‘That,’ she said, ‘seems entirely believable.’

He looked pleased. ‘I’m flattered you think so, Lady Pinkerton.’

They reached the cobblestone drive at the main entrance to the castle, where dozens of carriages were waiting for their lords and ladies. A cluster of liveried coachmen were smoking pipes beneath the torches on the other side of the courtyard. One of them yelled out when they saw Cath and Jest approaching – ‘Hoy there, what’s been all the commotion about?’

‘Commotion?’ Jest asked.

‘Nothing but gasps and squeals coming from the castle for the last half hour,’ said the coachman. ‘Been thinking one of them candles might’ve lit the place on fire, what with their short fuses and all.’

Jest glance at Cath, but she just shrugged. ‘It must be all the hullabaloo over your performance.’ A carriage pulled up to them, the enormous black raven perched beside the driver. He must have gone ahead to fetch the ride for her.

One of the footmen, a tree frog dressed in a powdered wig and a royal red coat, double-breasted in gold buttons, came hopping across the courtyard to hold the door for her.

Jest offered his hand to help her into the carriage and she was surprised, as her foot hit the second step into the carriage, to feel the press of lips against her knuckle.

She glanced back.

‘Ah – I almost forgot!’ Releasing her hand, Jest removed his hat, bells clinking, and reached inside. He produced a bundle of long white cording. ‘These belong to you.’

Cath uncertainly took the ropes. ‘What are—’ She gasped. Her hand flew to her back, feeling around the fabric of her dress, detecting the boning of the corset, yes, but . . . not its laces. The back of the corset was split open the full width of her hand.

Heat rushed into her cheeks. ‘How?’

Jest danced back from the carriage as if he feared she would hit him, and she was suddenly considering it. The nerve!

He bowed again, as if he’d completed his final encore.

‘Fair evening, Lady Pinkerton. I hope you enjoy satisfyingly deep breaths during your ride home.’

Part mortified, part despicably impressed, Catherine marched up the last step and slammed the carriage door shut.

CHAPTER 8

CATHERINE AWOKE TO THE SOUND of her parents’ carriage returning home, the clomp of the horses’ hooves on the drive loud and distinct against the muffled backdrop of ocean waves. She didn’t know how many hours had passed, but it was still dark outside, and she dug herself deeper beneath her covers, yanking the quilt up past her nose. Her head was drowsy with fog and sleep. She had the sensation of sleepy tendrils clinging to her from some far-off dream. Arms lowering her on to a bed of rose petals. Fingers tracing the contours of her face. Kisses trailing down her throat.