“I – I –” The marriage bed, the birthing bed, one leading to the other – it had all made sense in her head, and she had never reckoned with unpicking her assumptions, even doing what they had done. And she had not thought Timoleon Maxime would have let it come to this – she had supposed it more his choice than anything, and had not thought he had any interest in begetting children. But perhaps it made sense, that a man of such giant ego would want to populate the world with miniature versions of himself.

Her horror at the thought of more than one Maxime in the world was impeded only by her horror at his spiteful darling, or her outrage when he thought to put his hands on her. Her eyes blazed, a silent how dare you. How dare he touch her, and use her, and send her flowers and stand here and laugh in her face? She grasped a fistful of his shirt in her hand, still fighting them temptation to shove him bodily. “Do something,” she hissed. “Fix it. Marry me, if you must,” Estelle spat, because he might have as about as much interest in marriage as she had supposed he had in having children, but surely – surely he would to help her now? They didn’t need to like each other, or care about each other, but surely he respected her more than he did some ugly streetwalker? Surely he knew that ruining her would only cause him more problems?

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