‘I’m fine, thank you, Your Majesty.’

‘Are you too warm? Here, Rabbit, take Lady Pinkerton’s shawl—’

‘No, thank you, Your Majesty.’

The King hesitated, his face eager to please, before slowly settling back. After a moment, he leaned forward so far off the railing that Cath had a strange urge to push him over, though the thought made her feel wretched. This man, she reminded herself, was not at fault for anything that had happened.

She wished he hadn’t made some assumptions, or made that mortifying announcement at the festival, but then, she was the one who had agreed to the courtship. She was the one who should never have let this carry on so long, not if she intended to reject him.

She had to reject him. She had to.

But thinking of it gave her a headache.

The King turned back to the Rabbit. ‘How long before the show begins?’

A rustling behind Catherine was followed by the ticking of a pocket watch – she wondered if it was the one Jest had given him at the ball, but she didn’t turn to look.

‘Five minutes, Your Majesty,’ came Mr Rabbit’s reply.

The King turned back, galloping his feet. ‘Jest, Lady Pinkerton and I are bored. Won’t you amuse us?’

Cath’s head snapped up. ‘That’s not necessary. I’m not bored at all, in fact.’

Jest looked at her – finally. She tried to smile, imagining they were accomplices in their understanding of the situation, but he flinched and turned away.

Withdrawing, Cath looked down at the mezzanine level. ‘I enjoy watching the people. Why – is that Mrs Quail? I heard she had a nestful of eggs a few months ago but it seems they’ve all hatched. What a darling little family they make.’

The King followed her gesture. ‘So it is!’ He clasped his hands beneath his chin. ‘I just love when they’re little, don’t you? The cute little cherubs, with their itty-bitty beaks and plump little bodies.’

He sighed and Catherine had to agree that the baby quails were adorable. She counted a baker’s dozen of them, taking up an entire theatre row.

‘How many do you want?’ asked the King, settling his elbows on the rail and dropping his chin into his palms.

She peered sideways at him. ‘Eggs? Or quails?’

‘Children.’ His face had gone ruby red, but his eyes were dreamy when he glanced at Catherine through his lashes. ‘I want a full suit of ten some day.’

Heat rushed up her neck, blooming across her cheeks. An impossible-to-ignore choking noise from Jest twisted like a knife in her stomach.

‘I . . . suppose I haven’t given it much thought,’ she said, followed by a painful gulp. It wasn’t entirely true. She thought it might be nice to have a family some day.

But not with him. Dear Hearts, not with him.

Jest thumped his sceptre so hard on the floor Cath felt it vibrating through her feet. Raven squawked and fluttered for a moment before settling down again.

Catherine and the King both turned.

‘I could use some claret,’ Jest said, looking at the King as if he dared his sovereign to deny him such a request. ‘Can I bring the happy couple anything while I’m gone?’

Cath’s heart pattered. ‘You’re leaving?’

The rest of her question shrieked in her head. He was leaving her alone? With him?

She was surprised at how much it hurt. After all, Jest had told her he wouldn’t compete with the King for her affections. He would stay out of it until she’d made her decision.

Every moment spent in their mutual presence made her feel like a spineless coward, but that didn’t change the fact that she didn’t want Jest to leave.

Coward, coward, coward.

The King started to bounce in his chair. ‘Aha! You see, Jest, she does wish for a spot of entertainment!’

‘Oh no, that wasn’t what I – heavens. It is rather warm in here, isn’t it?’

Some of the tension in Jest’s shoulders drained away. ‘Allow me,’ he said, swooping forward and assisting her out of her shawl before she could take a breath. His gloved fingertips were tender against her shoulders. She shivered.

‘I am of course happy to provide entertainment, if it pleases the lady,’ said Jest, hanging her shawl on a rack at the back of the theatre box. ‘Perhaps I shall offer poetic waxations on the lady’s buttercream frosting skin? Endless compliments on her hair like melted chocolate?’

Rather than be embarrassed at Jest quoting their ‘personal’ correspondence, the King happily kicked his heels. ‘That was from one of the letters I sent you, remember? Jest only had to help with that one a little bit.’ He straightened the crown on his head. ‘I was awful hungry after writing it.’

‘Fine literature does work up an appetite.’ Jest was no longer trying to hide his ironic tone, but he seemed in no danger of the King picking up on his mockery.

Catherine squeezed the arm of her seat, her body still rotated to face Jest. Mary Ann watched from the corner, pretending to be invisible. ‘To be honest, it wasn’t my favourite of the letters you sent. After all, I’m a lady, not a dessert.’

Jest’s cheek twitched. Cath didn’t bother to look at the King.

‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘poetry and gifts may have their place, but I find I’m more keen on those acts of courtship that retain an element of foolishness, and hint at impossibilities.’

A silence descended over their private booth. Jest’s lips thinned. He stared back at her and squeezed his sceptre. His eyes filled with quiet despair.