It was rare that George put his feelings into words. In all the years of their marriage there had only been a few occasions when he had told her that he loved her, although it was obvious to her that he did.

‘And when I’m away from you, I miss you,’ she said truthfully. ‘But I did so want to see Thaddeus’s Paris exhibition, and you know how you hate being dragged around an art gallery.’

‘God, yes.’ George shuddered. ‘I don’t know which I would have hated more. The gallery or finding myself in France.’

She fought down the desire to say that if in the past he had troubled to learn French, then visits to France would be much more pleasurable for him. From the day they had married, she had always been careful not to remind him of how inadequate his education had been, and to constantly remind herself of all George’s good qualities. Basic decency was one of them; dogged steadfastness another. As Prince of Wales, he didn’t have many official duties, but those that he had he performed with painstaking care. Also, and unlike his father, he was a reassuringly faithful husband.

That he was so mattered to her, for something rather wonderful had happened between them, when they had been six years into their marriage. George had been performing his marital duty – something he was rather keen on – and May had been wondering how long it would be before he collapsed with perspiration from his efforts, when she had begun experiencing the most bizarre, pleasurable sensations. They had grown and grown until she had lost all control of herself and had given herself up to the most indescribable, all-engulfing pleasure.

‘Well, May,’ he had said minutes later, pushing himself up on his elbows and looking down at her with great satisfaction, ‘that was a turn-up for the books.’

‘Yes, George,’ she had said, blushing rosily. ‘It was rather, wasn’t it?’

A week after May’s return from Paris, the King cut short a holiday he had been enjoying in Biarritz with his long-standing mistress, Mrs George Keppel. For a long time he had been suffering from frighteningly severe bronchial attacks and breathing difficulties.

‘But this one is by far the worst,’ an anxious George said to May, after having visited his father who had taken to his bed in Buckingham Palace. ‘Motherdear has informed Maud, and Maud and Carl are already on their way to London.’