‘No.’ Across the room in two strides, Philip takes hold of her wrist and tows her back to the door, scattering assistants as he goes. ‘I really need to talk to you now.’

Elizabeth is still in her stockinged feet. The footman outside the door stiffens when Philip appears with a breathless princess. He steps forward as if to intercept them, but Elizabeth shakes her head and he falls back. If Philip is so determined to have his say, he had better have it.

She is practically running to keep up with him. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere we won’t be interrupted,’ he says curtly, striding past doorways with footmen standing to attention. He keeps opening doors at random, only to be confronted by startled faces. ‘How can this bloody palace have seven hundred rooms and still nowhere we can be alone? Ah, what about this one?’

He pulls her into the room and releases her so he can turn and shut the door firmly behind him.

‘This is where we feed the dogs,’ Elizabeth says, looking around as she rubs her wrist. It isn’t sore exactly, but she can still feel the imprint of his fingers on her flesh.

‘It’s empty,’ says Philip. ‘That’s all that matters.’

Elizabeth is feeling distinctly ruffled. She feeds Susan herself, after the footmen have set out the food in stoneware dishes, so she is familiar with the room. It is just a narrow kitchen, with the neatly washed dog dishes stacked on the draining board. ‘Is there any reason we can’t go to my sitting room instead of hiding in the dog kitchen?’

‘Because there’ll be some lady-in-waiting or Miss Crawford or somebody there and I want to speak to you alone.’

‘Well, we appear to be alone now.’ Her heart is slamming painfully against her ribs. Philip looks so agitated. Is he really going to break things off? Would he really do that to her? She composes her expression, inwardly bracing herself. ‘What is it that can’t wait?’ she asks in a chilly voice.

‘I had to see you. I had to tell you …’ Having got her here, Philip seems at a loss as to how to proceed. Breaking off with a smothered curse, he drags a hand through his hair. ‘I thought this would be easier,’ he mutters.

‘Tell me what?’

She can see him pull himself together with an effort. ‘I keep thinking about what you said,’ he begins again.

‘What did I say?’

‘You said you knew I didn’t love you.’

Elizabeth keeps her chin up, her guard up. ‘And?’

‘And you said you liked the fact that we’d always been honest with each other.’

‘That’s true.’

‘The thing is, Elizabeth … the thing is, I wasn’t honest. At least, I was honest, or I thought I was … Christ, I’m making a mess of this!’ Philip clutches his head with both hands before dropping them and looking directly at her for the first time. ‘I don’t think I was being honest with myself,’ he says more clearly.

Stepping closer, he takes hold of Elizabeth’s hands. ‘I do love you,’ he says quite simply after all. ‘I just didn’t know it.’

The breath seems to have evaporated from her lungs and she feels giddy from the lack of oxygen. Her fingers tighten around Philip’s for support. ‘I … I thought … you said we would be friends and partners, not lovers.’

‘I thought that’s what you wanted,’ he says.

‘Well, I could hardly tell you I had been madly in love with you since I was thirteen!’ she says almost crossly.

There’s a pause. ‘Thirteen?’ A smile is hovering around his mouth.

‘We played croquet at Dartmouth. You were showing off terribly.’

His smile is spreading. ‘You fell in love with me then?’

‘Well, not really.’ Her eyes slide away from his, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I was only thirteen, after all. But I was … fascinated.’

‘And later?’

She looks at him then. ‘Later, I realised you were the only man I would ever love. The only man who would ever see me for myself. The only man I would ever want beside me.’

‘Well, you kept that to yourself,’ Philip says, pretending astonishment, but he is grinning now. ‘How was I supposed to know that?

‘It was perfectly obvious to anyone except a bone-headed idiot,’ Elizabeth says but the tartness in her voice is betrayed by the smile curving her own mouth.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, suddenly serious. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t realise, Elizabeth, and I’m sorry it took me so long to come to my senses, but now I have, can we agree that we can be friends and partners and lovers? Can we forget all the pomp and the politics and make this wedding about us?’ he says. ‘I don’t mean cancel all the plans – God forbid! – but just that when we’re standing there at the altar in Westminster Abbey, it’ll be just you and me? Everyone else can watch a princess marry a prince – well, a mere lieutenant now – but I want to marry you, Elizabeth. Not a princess, not an heir to the throne, just you. And I’d really like it if you would marry me, Philip, bone-headed fool that I am, not Mountbatten’s nephew or an ex-prince of Greece or that cocky boy who showed off at Dartmouth. Just me. Will you do that?’

Elizabeth’s throat is clogged as she takes her hands from his to lay them on his chest and move closer with a trembling smile. ‘Just you and just me,’ she agrees as his arms come around her. ‘Yes, let’s do that.’

Chapter 49

Buckingham Palace, November 1947

A throng of bejewelled and bemedaled guests has turned the ballroom into a cheerful muddle of colour and noise. Chatter and laughter bounce off the gilded ceiling and merge with the music from the band tucked away in the gallery. The ball at Buckingham Palace is the last and most glittering of a series of celebrations before the wedding itself. Over the week, guests from around the world have been gathering in London and the last few days have been a whirlwind of social events that have left Elizabeth feeling breathless.

What a difference Philip’s declaration has made! Sometimes her happiness is so acute it almost hurts. Knowing he loves her has somehow made everything fall into place. All the petty tensions in the wedding plans seem to have evaporated and the palace, so tired and dreary after the war, has come alive again and for the past week has been buzzing with good-humoured preparations. Staff flit around, swathed in aprons, ferociously dusting and cleaning chandeliers and polishing silver. Stacks of gilt chairs line the corridors, ready for refreshments for the ball tonight, and then for the wedding breakfast. The scent of huge floral displays drifts in the air, mingling with that of furniture polish, while the sound of hoovering and musicians tuning up has become the norm.

Nobody can hear themselves speak and the dancefloor is a crush but everybody seems to be enjoying themselves so Elizabeth counts the ball a success. True, there have been a couple of incidents, but no good party is without those, or so they say. Elizabeth herself was dancing with Uncle Dickie when the plump Princess Juliana of the Netherlands slipped and fell to the floor where she lay, upended like a turtle, while the band trailed off and everyone froze. Elizabeth didn’t dare look at Mountbatten: she could tell he was trying not to laugh and if he did, she wouldn’t be able to help herself. There was an excruciating silence until the princess’s partner, the Duke of Gloucester, managed to help her, not without difficulty, to her feet and the band hastily resumed.