Philip has sent her flowers, a simple, unostentatious bouquet that sits on the dressing table and reassures her almost as much as the ring itself. She saw his face last night when her father was informing him that Tommy Lascelles would sort out a private secretary for him.

Elizabeth is well aware of how hard it will be for Philip to adjust. He may be royal but he has no conception of how carefully regulated his life will become. It will be up to her to make sure he doesn’t regret his old life too much. She mustn’t make any emotional demands, she reminds herself. She will need to reassure him she hasn’t forgotten the agreement they made at Balmoral.

But still, they are betrothed. At last! While Bobo fastens her favourite pearl necklace around her neck, Elizabeth studies her reflection in the cheval mirror and sees an excited girl in a beautiful dress. She is wearing the white tulle gown that she wore in South Africa to the ball held on her twenty-first birthday. It sparkles with diamante and sequin embroidery, reflecting her mood.

‘There now.’ Bobo settles the fastening at the nape of Elizabeth’s neck and stands back to admire her handiwork. ‘You look happy.’ She smiles at Elizabeth’s reflection.

‘I am.’

‘I’m glad for you.’ Bobo has been dressing Elizabeth since she was a little girl, since before Elizabeth knew she was a princess. She has an uncanny ability to tell what her charge is thinking. ‘He’s a fine man. Just be sure you make yourself happy, as well as him.’

‘I will.’ Elizabeth turns from the mirror and kisses her dresser on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Bobo.’

Bobo pretends to shoo her away. ‘Now go and enjoy your betrothal party.’

Philip is waiting with the King and Queen in her mother’s sitting room when Elizabeth and Margaret join them. His expression when he catches sight of her makes Elizabeth’s heart bump hard against her ribs, tangling up her breathing. There’s a beat when the temptation to throw herself into his arms is almost overwhelming, but that isn’t the way a princess behaves, particularly not in front of her parents.

She has to content herself with a decorous kiss on the cheek but allows herself to breathe in the distinctive smell of Philip – clean skin, clean linen – for a dizzying moment before she draws away.

Philip’s eyes are warm as he smiles down at her and she lets herself hope that he has done the same and used that brief kiss to remind himself of the softness of her hair, the fragrance of her skin. When their eyes meet, it is as if they have had a whole conversation, as if he has told her she is beautiful, and she puts her hand on his arm as they make their way through the private quarters to the concealed door that leads into the White Drawing Room.

They pause at the door and Elizabeth takes a breath as she always does before an occasion. It is just a breath but it is enough to don an invisible armour over her shyness. But this time Philip is with her. His hand closes over hers on his arm and the warmth of his clasp seeps into her as she smiles gratefully at him.