She herself thought about Alexander all the time, day and night. She swayed alarmingly between exhilaration at his obvious attraction, and sharp feelings of mortification at the idea of accepting his hand. She felt as if her imagination had been taken over by a genie who alternately produced intoxicating images of an unclothed Alex and desolate images of her future self, relegated to the house while her husband was out seducing other women. Probably in her own garden, she thought glumly.

Adelaide didn’t know where to start. “Your father and I have noticed,” she said finally, “that the Earl of Sheffield and Downes is paying you rather pointed attention.”

“Yes, he is,” said Charlotte.

“We … we felt,” Adelaide said stumblingly, “that you should know the circumstances of his previous marriage.”

“His previous marriage,” Charlotte echoed.

“You know that he was married before?” Adelaide asked.

“Yes, I met his daughter,” Charlotte replied.

“Oh,” Adelaide said flatly. She felt incapable of addressing the issue of the daughter. “Well, Alexander Foakes was married to a woman named Maria, Maria something. Your father knows her name,” she added hastily. “After a year the woman petitioned the Pope for an annulment of their marriage. On grounds of impotence.” She looked expectantly at her daughter.

“Impotence,” Charlotte repeated. “What’s that?”

This was what Adelaide had feared. She floundered into a tangled series of half-truths and euphemisms, none of which Charlotte clearly understood.

“Are you saying that he has no … no male part?” Charlotte asked sharply. “Because it’s not true.”

Her mother’s head swung up. Too embarrassed to meet her daughter’s eyes, she had been staring carefully at her folded hands. Now she looked straight at Charlotte. “And how do you know that?” she asked, rather grimly.

“He’s the one, Mama.” Charlotte’s hands were twisting unconsciously in her lap. “He’s the one from three years ago.”

“Ah,” said Adelaide. There was a small pause. “Impotent doesn’t precisely mean that the organ in question doesn’t exist, Charlotte. It simply means that it doesn’t function … properly.”

Charlotte had no idea what her mother was talking about.

“I can’t do it!” Adelaide cried in frustration. “This isn’t a proper conversation.” Her eyes strayed to Charlotte’s new portrait and she had a sudden inspiration.

“Perhaps you could ask Sophie about impotence? I’m sorry to be such a blunder-head, my darling, but these things are just not … not in my vocabulary. I explained the important things to your sisters because I didn’t want them to be abominably ignorant on their wedding nights. My mother said nothing to me at all, and the whole event was quite a shock.”

I bet it was, Charlotte thought grimly, remembering the stabbing pain she experienced in the garden. It was a question that had perplexed her ever since. How do women put up with all that pain, every night?