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, 20^th 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.

He is nervous.

But when Dean comes back with the tea, Philip brushes aside anxious queries about how he is feeling. ‘I’m fine. Raring to go.’

He is ready far too early. Even spinning out breakfast and then donning his uniform doesn’t fill the allotted time, and he is driven mad by Dean fussing around him and fiddling with his hair.