‘Good of your father to lay on some comedy as well,’ Mountbatten murmured provocatively and Elizabeth had to press her lips firmly together to stop laughing.

‘Stop it!’ she muttered.

‘No, really. Everyone’s having a terrific time. Did you hear about one of our Indian friends who has been taking advantage of the plentiful champagne?’

‘No,’ she said with foreboding. ‘What happened?’

‘He took exception to the Duke of Devonshire for some reason. Or maybe he did have a reason. Poor old Ted took a punch on the nose.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘He’s all right,’ Mountbatten told her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘The Maharajah in question has been escorted off for a “rest”,’ he added and then leant closer. ‘We’re far enough away from dear Juliana … I think we’re allowed to laugh now, don’t you?’

The memory is still making Elizabeth chuckle when Philip comes up beside her later. ‘Hello, you, what are you giggling about?’

She tells him about Princess Juliana’s mishap. ‘It sounds so unkind, but it was funny!’

Philip grins. ‘Uncle Dickie’s right about the comedy. You know Beatrice Lillie?’

‘The comedienne?’

‘She outdid herself tonight. Apparently, she’d been told she wasn’t allowed to smoke in the royal presence – a message that seems to have passed your father by – but she was desperate for a cigarette. Of course, Margaret chose that moment to stop and talk to her and poor Beatrice didn’t know what to do with her cigarette. There were no ashtrays nearby and she could hardly grind it into the floor.’

‘Gosh, what did she do?’

‘Only stuffed it down the front of her dress!’ Philip’s solid body shakes with laughter. ‘I was watching as Beatrice tried to make polite conversation with Margaret while smoke drifted up from her cleavage. Some enterprising chap doused her with a glass of water. It did not go down well!’

Elizabeth puts a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle. ‘I wish I’d seen that!’

‘And I’ve just overheard Field Marshal Smuts trying to charm Queen Mary. Talk about brave!’

‘What did he say?’

Philip puts on a creditable South African accent and strikes a pose. ‘“You, Your Majesty, you are the big potato,”’ he quotes Smuts, pretending to shake a finger in Elizabeth’s face. ‘“All the other queens here are just small potatoes, but you, you are the big one.”’

Imagining her grandmother’s face at being compared to a potato, Elizabeth collapses into helpless laughter. When she looks up at him, smiling and wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes, Elizabeth surprises an arrested expression in Philip’s icy blue eyes. ‘What?’

‘I was just thinking that you’re to be the big potato yourself one day,’ he says.

‘Even big potatoes need someone by their side,’ says Elizabeth and Philip’s face relaxes into a smile.

‘I’ll be there,’ he says, ‘reminding you just what a wonderful potato you are.’

‘I hope so. A potato should go well with the little cabbage that your mother calls you.’ Tucking her hand into Philip’s arm, Elizabeth smiles as she surveys the crowded room. ‘Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, don’t they?’

‘They do. Even the big potato is in a feisty mood. That’s the good thing about weddings. It’s a chance to get families together. Half my relatives came over from Europe on the train ferry together and are all staying at Claridge’s. I went round to say hello the other night and the noise was unbelievable,’ Philip says with an affectionate grin. ‘They were all talking at the same time, as usual. They took over half the restaurant and spent the whole evening table hopping, drinking out of each other’s glasses, gossiping …’ His smile fades a little. ‘I couldn’t help thinking how much my sisters would have loved being there.’

Elizabeth leans into him in wordless sympathy. ‘I wish they could have been, Philip.’

‘I know.’ Philip squeezes the hand on his arm and makes an obvious effort to push the momentary sadness away as he brightens his voice. ‘But you’ll be glad to know that Uncle Dickie has at last persuaded my mother to abandon her nun’s habit for the wedding.’

‘Oh good. What is she going to wear?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ he says unhelpfully. ‘A grey dress, not a nun’s habit, that’s all I know.’ He eases his arm away so he can take her hand in a firm grip. ‘Now, come on, let’s go and dance. I’ve done my duty with every queen and princess in the room, and now I want to dance with my fiancée.’

Elizabeth pulls a face. ‘I’ve still got so many duty dances to do …’ she begins to protest, but she doesn’t pull her hand away as he steers her towards the ballroom.

‘Let them wait,’ says Philip.

Chapter 50

Kensington Palace, 20th November 1947

Philip studies his reflection as he shaves carefully. In his vest, boxers, and socks – new ones for the occasion! – he hardly looks an imposing figure, but appearances can lie. No longer is he Lieutenant Mountbatten. Unable to contemplate Elizabeth becoming a mere Mrs Mountbatten, the King touched him on the shoulder with a sword the previous afternoon and created Philip, Baron Greenwich, Earl of Merioneth and Duke of Edinburgh. Not only that, he is now a Knight Companion of the Order of the Garter, a sonorous title with ancient associations of unswerving loyalty to the sovereign. He is bound tight now, part of the royal family whether he likes it or not.

The King was trying to put a good face on it, but it is obvious he hates the idea of losing his daughter. Philip is uneasily conscious of a kind of primitive satisfaction. The King has lost, and he has won. He’s not proud of the feeling, but he is honest enough to admit it, if only to himself. Elizabeth is his, and the knowledge that she loves him – has loved him all that time! – is at once remarkable to Philip and insensibly steadying.

His valet, John Dean, is in the other room, picking invisible specks off Philip’s regulation blue uniform. ‘How are you feeling this morning, sir?’

‘Not too bad, considering,’ Philip says, running a hand over his jaw to check for stray bristles. ‘I wouldn’t mind another cup of tea, though.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Dean bustles out to get the tea while Philip buttons his shirt slowly. He can hardly believe the day has come. Uncle Dickie was emotional at the stag party last night … at the second private one anyway. The official one at the Dorchester ended at half past midnight with a ceremonial smashing of photographers’ flashbulbs, which had felt bloody good, Philip had to admit. The snappers took it in good part, not that they’d had much choice. Having shaken off the press, a smaller, select group including Uncle Dickie and his cousin David had continued partying until the small hours so Philip hasn’t had a lot of sleep. Thank God he was sensible and didn’t drink too much, he thinks. He wouldn’t have wanted to face Westminster Abbey with a massive hangover.

As it is, he has only a vaguely nauseous feeling and a churning gut.