Not like when Philip is there.

She refuses to let herself watch the door for his arrival and deliberately turns a shoulder away from it, adjusting the fur stole she wears against the chill. It is only recently that she has been included in evening engagements and she still feels a little as if she is dressing up in her mother’s clothes.

She is laughing with Porchey when a prickle in her spine makes her look over her shoulder in spite of herself to see Philip walk in. He’s wearing his naval uniform and brings an energy with him, almost as if he is charging the air by standing there. The sight of him clogs the breath in Elizabeth’s throat and her heart starts to slam uncomfortably against her ribs.

Instinctively everyone turns to look at him. Philip seems quite unfazed by the short silence that greets his arrival. It is broken by her father who goes over to welcome him and introduce him to his private secretary, Tommy Lascelles. Tommy has a stern gaze and a quelling manner but Philip gives no sign of being intimidated, chatting easily as he accepts a glass proffered by one of the elderly footmen who have been persuaded out of retirement for the duration of the war.

The King stands with them but he looks tired and diminished next to Philip’s vigour, Elizabeth can’t help noticing.

‘Who’s that?’ Porchey asks, following her gaze.

‘Oh, that’s Philip.’ She is proud of how steady her voice sounds.

‘One of the Mountbattens, isn’t he?’

‘His mother is. He’s part of the Greek royal family. His cousin, George, is King of Greece but they’re all in exile at the moment.’

Porchey studied Philip’s fair hair. ‘He doesn’t look very Greek,’ he commented dubiously. ‘He looks like a bally Viking!’

‘I think they’re connected to the Danish royal family too. And the Russian one.’

Porchey doesn’t look impressed. He is an aristocrat, heir to the Earl of Carnarvon, and sturdily British.

‘Come and meet him,’ Elizabeth says, just as Philip turns away from Tommy and the King and heads determinedly towards her. The slam of her heart picks up and she pins on a bright smile.

‘Hello,’ she says.

‘You look very nice,’ says Philip and his pale eyes rake her from head to toe. ‘Blue becomes you, ma’am,’ he adds with a small smile that drives the colour into her cheeks. She feels Porchey stiffen beside her.

‘Thank you,’ she says nervously. ‘Honestly, I’d rather be in jodhpurs and a jumper.’

Philip’s brows rise in amusement as she clears her throat. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Henry, Lord Porchester? Everybody calls him Porchey. Porchey, this is Philip.’

When the two men shake hands, they put Elizabeth in mind of two dogs circling each other, bristles up.

‘In the Guards?’ Philip asks, nodding at Porchey’s uniform.

‘Yes.’

‘Seen any action yet?’

There is a touch of gritted teeth in Porchey’s reply. ‘Not yet, no. I’m with a training battalion of the Grenadiers. My first stint is here, guarding the sovereign.’