Versailles, where even the chandeliers gossip and the walls drip with ostentatious opulence. “This, madame, is Versailles,” a line rehearsed in the mirrors, spoken with a flourish, should anyone even dare to question the grandeur that swirls around like a never-ending masquerade.

Prince Coriolanus, ever the skeptic, raised within the somber, stately confines of Buckingham Palace, looked upon this French spectacle with a scrutinising eye. He not exactly enchanted by all things French. The land, the air, the folk, the flair, perhaps the pastries, but only perhaps.

The French king, as kings do, had a collection of children. His eldest son was to wed some Austrian princess, Marie-whatever, a detail so minor it fluttered away like an inconsequential whisper, definitely won't blossom into anything major. And as for Coriolanus? He was destined for the younger daughter… you.

Gold and marble, gold and marble everywhere, an excess that made his British sensibilities cringe. He was not in the mood for matrimonial ties, for binding contracts and foreign alliances, especially with the land of luxury. Yet here he was, in the grandiose Château de Versailles, his family a tableau vivant of stiff upper lips and suppressed yawns.

In a resplendent tea room, sweets piled high like the hopes of the starving populace outside, he awaited the entrance of his betrothed-to-be. He stared at the sugared confections with a detached air, an air of indifference that concocted with the perfume and rose scent that clung to the walls.

“Sit up, Coriolanus,” his father, the king, commanded, his voice as stern and unyielding as a corset.