When Eustace found her there the next day, he exclaimed in surprise, as if he had not the least comprehension as to why she was not in bed. He wasn’t angry. Far from it. In fact he enquired after her health most attentively, questioning her to check whether the bed, or the mattress, was not to her liking, and asking what he could do to make her more comfortable.

Rosa had begun to wonder whether the night had really been as bad as she imagined. Perhaps Eustace had not been particularly kind, but he hadn’t been overly cruel, either. Had he? Her mind was a blur of confusion, and queasiness roiled in her stomach. She wasn’t sure what was usual in such circumstances. All she knew was that she had hated every sweating, grunting moment, and had no wish to repeat it ever again. She tried to tell herself that she would become accustomed to it in time. She had to.

But the next night was just as horrible. And so was every night that followed. Rosa came to shudder at the very idea of Eustace’s touch. His scented gloves made her feel ill, and the overpowering reek of the Macassar oil that he put in his hair was even worse. In the dim light of the bedroom lamps he did not even look like himself, or like any man at all. He seemed to her more like a pig, a boar – ugly, and red, and straining.

Now Rosa stood up from her writing desk and paced the drawing room. In spite of her unhappiness she still wanted to be a duchess, and she wanted Raven Hall and all it stood for. She wanted the collection of Canalettos and Rembrandts, the ormolu horses and Flemish tapestries, the Sèvres vases and Waterford chandeliers. And, of course, she wanted the hothouses full of her favourite flowers, the exotic and expensive orchids, the most coveted flower in the world. The bloom that men died for abroad every year. This was the position and status Rosa had been aiming for her entire life. Yet suddenly her corset felt too tight and there was no air in the room. Something had to change. Perhaps it was merely a question of talking to Eustace?

She froze as the idea occurred to her. Of course it was utterly unthinkable to broach such a subject. Her mother would probably faint away at the idea. And yet … what was it Eustace had said to her that night at the Winter Ball last year?

If there is ever anything you lack, no matter how small, then you must tell me at once …