But he doesn’t sneer, which is kind of him. ‘We all need a dream for when the war is over,’ he says.

Realising that she is still fidgeting with the cap, Elizabeth drops it onto the table behind her. ‘I’m awfully glad that you’ll be joining us for Christmas,’ she says bravely.

‘Not as glad as I am,’ Philip says. ‘Dickie and Edwina are away and I have nowhere else to go. It would have been a very sad Christmas for me otherwise.’

Elizabeth doubts that. She is not a fool. She is sure Philip has lots of girlfriends who would be delighted to invite him to share Christmas with them. She knows he is only here at Mountbatten’s bidding. His uncle’s plans for an alliance with the House of Windsor are common knowledge but what Philip thinks of the idea is less clear.

Elizabeth knows what she wants.

‘Well, we’ll be a very small party so it’s lucky for us that you’re not at sea,’ she says, willing the stiffness from her voice.

‘My ship’s being refitted so I’m on shore duty for a couple of months.’

So he has been around for several weeks without coming to see her, Elizabeth notes dully. But then, what was she expecting? Yes, he writes sometimes, but they are not friends. They hardly know each other. He has filled a large space in her life, but whatever he may plan for the future, for now she occupies only a very small space in his.

Elizabeth may not know how to flirt but she has not been hosting lunches for the Guards officers at the castle without learning how to make conversation, and she has her pride, after all.

‘How do they keep you busy?’ she asks Philip.

‘Instructional courses mostly.’ If Philip notices the coolness in her voice, he gives no sign of it. ‘Deadly dull, to tell you the truth. I can’t wait to get back to sea. It feels all wrong to be kicking my heels here when other chaps are still out there fighting.’ He stops. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded rude and ungrateful. I didn’t mean that I’m not glad to be here,’ he says. ‘Here at Windsor, I mean. With you.’

There is a tiny moment of silence. With you. Elizabeth is very conscious of the stickiness of the greasepaint on her face. The satin tights have become crumpled and twisted at one ankle and the collar of the jacket is chafing her neck.

‘I understand,’ she says, achieving a stiff little smile. Crawfie is hovering and the babble of overexcited voices from the cast behind them is growing louder and more boisterous. Her parents must have left.

She gestures down at her costume. ‘I’d better change,’ she says, hardly knowing whether she is glad or sorry to bring the conversation to a close. There is something about Philip that makes her nervous. She is drawn to him almost against her will. He reminds her of a stallion, alluring and dangerous at the same time, a horse she longs to ride but one which might easily bolt.

‘Of course.’ Philip steps back. ‘I’ll see you later, I hope?’

‘Yes.’ Her mouth stretches into an artificial smile. ‘Yes, I’ll look forward to it.’

Chapter 4

Uncle Dickie must have got it wrong, Philip thinks as Elizabeth turns away. He’s seen little evidence that the princess is ‘very taken’ with him. She strikes him as stiff and serious … and yet … and yet, he is sure that he caught an intriguing flash or two of warmth and humour, quickly buttoned down.

It might be pleasing to try and coax out that side of her, he muses as he strides along the dark, frigid corridors.

Elizabeth has grown up, that is for sure, but she is still very young. She isn’t a beauty like Osla, Philip thinks, but she has a curvaceous figure, wonderful skin and her eyes are extraordinary – a clear, true blue. And when she was on stage, her smile lit up the Waterloo Chamber. Philip finds himself hoping he can make her smile like that again.

He stops at the end of the corridor. Left or right? The corridors in this part of the castle seem to go on forever, firmly closed doors on either side. Windsor Castle is subject to blackout regulations as much as anyone else and there is only the occasional, dim bulb to light his way after he has brushed aside the offer of an elderly footman to carry his bag.

‘I’ve got a pair of hands,’ he said shortly.

The footman looked offended, but he must have been over seventy by Philip’s reckoning. Is he supposed to walk empty-handed along miles of corridors while an old man struggles with his bag?

Only sheer stiff-necked pride prevents Philip retracing his steps to ask the footman for help after all.

When he eventually finds his room – HRH Prince Philip of Greece is printed by the door – he unpacks his bag and lays his meagre wardrobe out on the bed. Thank God for uniform, he thinks, picking up his much-darned socks with a grimace and tossing them onto the chest of drawers with his underwear. His dinner jacket is shiny with age and the trousers patched. Whichever footman has the dubious pleasure of looking after him will not be impressed.

Shifting the clothes aside, he throws himself down onto the bed and lights a cigarette.

Well, the country is at war, he reasons as he blows a circle of smoke into the chilly air. They can’t expect him to turn up in an immaculate outfit. There is no way he can afford new clothes even if he could get the clothing coupons. The royal family will have to take him as he is.

It’s not as if Windsor Castle is the lap of luxury either. It might be imposing from the outside but its thick stone walls make it unforgivingly cold inside and with its treasures in storage it feels more like a grim fortress than a royal palace. The chandeliers have been taken down along with the great paintings. The state rooms are shrouded in dustsheets or converted into offices. No fires are allowed in the castle bedrooms, he’s been told, and all he has for light is a single, flickering electric lightbulb. Between the blackout and rationing and the need to set an example of sharing the country’s misery, the conditions are far less comfortable than at the Mountbattens’ flat.

But he’s not here to be comfortable, Philip reminds himself. He’s here to make himself appealing to a princess.

He smokes for a while to distract himself from the cold. The truth, Philip can acknowledge to himself, is that he is slightly miffed that Elizabeth didn’t seem more delighted to see him. After all those painstakingly written letters, he has assumed she would fall over herself to welcome him. That may have been a mistake.

It’s galling to think his uncle may have been right about the need to come to an understanding with Elizabeth sooner rather than later. There’s a coolness to her, a reserve Philip recognises but didn’t expect. He may have to work harder to charm her than he thought.

He doesn’t need to commit himself yet. Philip stubs out his cigarette and links his hands behind his head on the pillow. Nothing is going to happen until the war is over, in any case, and he is far from ready to settle down. He is only twenty-two.

On the other hand, he is a prince. Elizabeth is a princess. He will need to marry one day, as will she. There might be worse fates.

He thinks of his father in Monte Carlo, with his fraying collars and cuffs. Of his mother living in that bare flat in Athens, pawning her jewels to buy food for those even poorer than herself. Philip has known since he was nine that he would have to look after himself. He will come into no vast inheritance. He has his title and that is it.