All the Sweet Tomorrows by Bertrice Small Page B

of Whitehall Palace to a large room with walls of linenfold paneling and a fine parquet floor. The musicians were already set up in a corner of the room upon a small raised platform. Elizabeth and her party passed through a line of bowing courtiers as they walked to a gilt throne set up at the end of the room. The Queensat gracefully upon the red velvet cushion set upon the throne, and motioned Skye to one of the low maid-of-honor chairs by her side. The other women quickly found their seats, one being forced to stand behind the Queen’s chair; and the courtiers began to come forward to pay their respects to the Queen. Some faces were familiar to Skye, others were not, and she paid little attention to the pageant about her. It bored her. Court usually bored her. Only when most of the courtiers had paid homage to the Queen and the majordomo called out, “Edmond, Petit Sieur de Beaumont,” was her interest revived, and she looked up.
    Although her Kerry-blue eyes widened slightly, Skye gave no other sign of her surprise and shock, for the man coming toward her was one of the handsomest she had ever seen. He was also a dwarf. He was not misshapen like so many dwarfs, but rather well formed, and he was certainly dressed in the height of fashion. His doublet was made from cloth of gold, sewn all over with tiny golden brilliants and edged in gold lace at the neck and the sleeves. His short, round cloth-of-gold breeches were lined in stiff horsehair in order to puff them out fashionably. His stockings were gold silk, embroidered in gold brilliants and tiny black jet beads, and his flat-soled shoes were of gold leather with black rosettes. His short cape was of black velvet, lined in cloth of gold and trimmed in silver fox. At his waist hung a gold sword, proportioned to his size, and twinkling with rubies and diamonds.
    As he reached the foot of Elizabeth Tudor’s throne he bowed smartly. “Majesty,” he said in a deep voice, a rather large voice for one so small.
    “Welcome, Edmond de Beaumont,” Elizabeth said. “I hope that you have been enjoying your stay here in England.”
    “English hospitality is justly famous, Your Majesty,” was the reply.
    “Lady Burke, come forward,” the Queen commanded, and Skye rose from her low seat, and came to stand next to the Queen’s chair. “M’sieur de Beaumont, may I present to you Lady Skye Burke, who has agreed to go to Beaumont de Jaspre as your uncle’s bride.”
    Around them there was a hum of surprise.
    Skye curtseyed to Edmond de Beaumont, noting with some embarrassment that as she bowed low he was treated to a fine, indeed almost indecent view of her breasts. As she rose he said softly, “My uncle is a
very, very
fortunate man, Your Majesty.” Skye blushed to the roots of her raven hair, yet as she raised hereyes to Edmond de Beaumont, she saw that though his face was polite and serious, his violet-colored eyes were laughing.
    “I can only hope your uncle is as charming as his nephew, M’sieur de Beaumont,” she replied.
    “I do not think that charming is a word one would use in connection with Uncle Fabron,” was the reply, and again the eyes were laughing at her.
    “Oh, dear!” Skye said without thinking, and she bit her lip in obvious worry.
    Edmond de Beaumont burst out laughing. “Are you always so honest, Lady Burke?” he asked.
    “Our dear Skye is most candid, is she not, Dudley?” remarked the Queen.
    “Indeed, Majesty,” Dudley replied. “Lady Burke always says what she thinks. A most refreshing, and often stimulating trait, M’sieur de Beaumont.”
    Skye shot Dudley a look of undisguised venom, which Edmond de Beaumont was quick to note. Now why, he wondered, does the lady so obviously dislike the Earl of Leicester? Did he perhaps rebuff her? No, de Beaumont thought. She did not look like the type of woman who would chase after a popinjay like Lord Dudley.
    “You are to go with M’sieur de Beaumont, dearest Skye, for you will have many