‘We have a visitor,’ he said.

‘At this hour?’ said the Marchioness, aghast. ‘Tell them to come back tomorrow.’

‘But, my lady,’ said Mr Penguin, ‘it is the King.’

CHAPTER 15

THE DINING ROOM was still for a beat, two beats, three – before Cath’s mother launched herself from the table.

‘Whealagig! What are you waiting for? Get out there and greet him!’

‘Er – right. Of course, darling.’ The Marquess tossed his napkin on to the table and followed Mr Penguin to the parlour.

‘We’ll be right there! Do not let him leave!’ The Marchioness rounded on Catherine, plucking some of her dark hair forward to hang in wavy locks over her shoulders. She pinched Cath’s cheeks. Dipped a napkin corner into the nearest water glass and scrubbed at Catherine’s mouth.

Catherine squirmed. ‘Stop it! What are you doing?’

‘Making you presentable! The King is here!’

‘Yes, but he hasn’t asked for an audience with me.’

‘Of course he hasn’t asked for an audience with you, but that’s clearly why he’s here!’ Cupping Cath’s face in both hands, her mother beamed. ‘Oh, my precious, precious girl! I’m so proud of you!’

Cath frowned. ‘Just a moment ago, you were—’

‘Never mind a moment ago, the King is here now.’ Pulling away, her mother shooed at her with both hands. ‘Come along. To the parlour. Here, chew on this.’ She plucked a mint leaf from a bouquet on the sideboard and shoved it into Catherine’s mouth.

‘Mother,’ she said, chewing twice before pulling the mint leaf out. ‘I’m not going to kiss him.’

‘Oh, stop being such a pessimist.’

Catherine blanched at the very idea of it.

She was bustled through the doors and past her father’s library, into the main parlour where her father was standing with the King and the White Rabbit and two guards – the Five and Ten of Clubs – and . . .

Her heart leaped, but she silently chastised it until it sank back down again.

Jest stood at the back of the King’s entourage in full black motley, his hands behind his back. Though he’d been inspecting a painted portrait of one of Catherine’s distant ancestors, he straightened when Catherine and her mother entered.

A drumbeat thumped against the inside of her rib cage. She barely had time to catch her breath before a trumpet blared through the room and she jumped.

Jest’s yellow gaze fell to the floor.

The White Rabbit lowered the trumpet. ‘His Royal Majesty, the King of Hearts!’

‘Your Majesty!’ cried the Marchioness. Cath followed her mother into a curtsy, trying to gather her scattered composure. ‘Your visit honours us! Would you care for some tea? Abigail! Bring the tea!’

The King cleared his throat, smacking his fist against his sternum a few times. ‘Thank you warmly, Lady Pinkerton, but your husband already offered and I already declined the kindness. I do not wish to take up too much of your time.’ He was smiling, like usual, but it was an awkward, nervous smile, not the joyful one Cath was used to.

He would not look at her.

She felt sick to her stomach and was glad, for once, that her mother had sent the dessert away.

‘Oh, but won’t you at least sit, Your Majesty?’ The Marchioness gestured at the nicest chair in the room – usually the Marquess’s seat.

Whipping his red cloak behind him, the King nodded gratefully and sat.

In unison, the Marquess and Marchioness sat on the sofa opposite him. Only when her mother reached up and yanked her down did it occur to Catherine to sit as well.

The guards stared at the wall, their club-tipped staffs held at their sides. The White Rabbit looked a little crestfallen that he hadn’t been invited to sit too.

And Jest –

Mute and still and impossible for Cath to keep her eyes away from. Scoundrel and flirt he may be, but against her better senses, she felt as drawn to him as ever. She stole glimpses of him again and again, like gathering unsatisfying crumbs in hopes they could be re-formed into a cake.

When the King did not immediately speak, Cath’s mother leaned forward, beaming. ‘How we enjoyed your tea party this afternoon, Your Majesty. You indulge us so in this kingdom.’

‘Thank you, Lady Pinkerton. It was a splendid gathering.’ The King pushed the crown more securely on to his round head. He seemed to be preparing himself.

Catherine, stick straight and uncomfortable on the edge of the sofa’s cushion, prepared herself as well.

He would ask for her hand.

Her father would agree.

Her mother would agree.

That was as far as her thoughts would go.

No, she must imagine it all. It was happening. It was here.

The King would ask for her hand.

Her father would agree.

Her mother would agree.

And she . . .

She would say no.

The silent promise to herself made her dizzy, but she remembered the determination she’d felt during the croquet game and tried to summon it again.

She would be a picture of politeness, of course. She would deny his proposal with as much grace as possible. She would be obliging and flattered and humbled, and she would explain to him that she did not feel suited to the role of queen. She would say there was certainly a better choice, and though her gratitude for his attentions was limitless, she could not in good conscience accept him –