AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I would recommend an abbreviated visit regardless,” Enzo went on. “Less strain on your nerves.”
Fiore quite agreed. He wished he had his own clothes. While Enzo’s wrapping-gown was beautiful and perfectly appropriate for the Crooked Anchor, it and the nightshirt beneath were obviously too large for Fiore’s frame even if he weren’t withered. But there was nothing to be done for that on such short notice. At the very least Fiore wished he might not meet the duke abed. “Is there somewhere else in the house we might meet? Some kind of sitting room, or…?”
He trailed off, struggling to imagine the interior of Ca’ Scaevola beyond what precious little he’d already glimpsed. He doubted the duke would enjoy the alchemy workshop.
Enzo picked up where he’d left off. “The library is not terribly far from here. There’s a particular sofa which I think might prove suitably comfortable for an invalid.”
Fiore wished he had the strength to make the smile on his lips match the smile in his heart. “Lead on.”
The library might have left more of an impression on Fiore had the impending interview with the duke not preoccupied his thoughts. He had a dim impression that the collection, while smaller than the library at Wolf’s Head, would nonetheless prove far beyond even Gnaeus’s wildest hopes. But the library’s splendor only made Fiore feel all the more unworthy to occupy it in his diminished state.
Enzo settled him onto a velvet sofa. Fiore, bereft even of slippers, tucked his bare feet out of sight in the voluminous folds of Enzo’s wrapping-gown. He hoped the duke wouldn’t take offense at his poor dress. Beautiful as the wrapping-gown might appear, Fiore doubted anyone else had dared to meet her in so little.
This feeling of inadequacy did not dissipate when the duke herself entered the library swathed in a magnificent brocade satin gown.
Her gaze fell on him. For an instant her eyes flew wide in unmistakable alarm. But her self-command returned in force alongside an indulgent smile.
“Signor Fiore,” she said. “How wonderful to see you again—though I’d hoped we might meet under happier circumstances.”
As she approached, Fiore had a sickening feeling he ought to arise and bow to her. But before he could do more than shift in that general direction, Enzo stayed him with a hand laid feather-gentle on his arm and a soft smile besides.
The duke outstretched her hand to him. For a moment he thought she intended for him to kiss it, until he realized her upraised palm meant a clasp. He hesitated before offering her his unwounded left hand. She grasped it warmly and settled into the armchair adjoining the sofa.
Enzo sat down on the sofa itself, on Fiore’s opposing side. Fiore had rather hoped Enzo might put himself between Fiore and his sister as a sort of shield. It felt too transparent to even hint at such a wish now.
Not wanting to make another poor impression on the duke, Fiore managed a tremulous smile. He was not well-practiced in making himself pleasing to women in general—or in making himself pleasing in the sense of friendship rather than more amorous pursuits. But he did know that the one thing gentlemen liked to discuss most was themselves, and he suspected this might prove true across genders. To that end he asked the duke, “Your husband and children are all well, I hope?”
A smile as delighted as it was surprised sparkled across her features. Then she was off, divulging everything Fiore could possibly wish to know about a subject most pleasing to her. He learnt the name of Enzo’s niece—Quirina—and how she sought to imitate her uncle’s skill with a blade. He discovered to his alarm that the boy, Andrea, not only remembered his impromptu drawing lesson fondly but also wanted to continue his education in that vein. The duke-consort, meanwhile, divided his time between his children and looking after the estates during the duke’s however-brief absence.
“Forgive my impudence,” Fiore broke in when she paused for breath. “But pray tell me of your affairs in the countryside. Enzo has hinted at precious little.”
Which gave both the delightful reward of watching Enzo’s sister playfully scold him for failing to inform Fiore and also a rapid and very informative lecture on points of agriculture he’d never even considered before. The duke seemed most pleased to have a willing audience for her interests. Fiore dared to hope he might earn her approval yet.
“But enough about me,” she concluded, to Fiore’s astonishment. “Do you find Ca’ Scaevola to your liking?”
Fiore stared at her in stunned silence.
“Or rather,” she continued, adeptly making up for his lack of conversational fortitude, “has Enzo made you comfortable? Is the house too hot or too cold? Is there enough to amuse you in your convalescence? Are there any particular foods you might prefer?”
For a duke to ask a common-born courtesan even once for his opinion on a palazzo was unheard of. For said duke to continue peppering him with enquiries on whether or not the hospitality he’d received within said palazzo sufficed… Fiore couldn’t keep up, much less respond.
But the last question in particular rang in his ears.
Food had become something of a sensitive subject since his rescue. To tell the duke that he remained restricted to liquid fare for at least another se’en-night would reveal rather more to her than he wished about the specifics of his injuries. Despite his best efforts not to appear so lost as he felt, he found his gaze flick tellingly towards the safe harbor of Enzo.
And Enzo, ever gallant, told the duke, “He is on an invalid’s diet, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” she said to Fiore. “Is there nothing you might have to your taste?”
This, at least, he could answer with honesty. “I’ve enjoyed the sanguinaccio dolce.”
“Have you?” The duke seemed genuinely delighted. “Oh, wonderful—it’s Bettin’s particular talent. Our cook,” she added in response to Fiore’s ill-disguised confusion. “When you feel well enough to eat as you wish, do make your tastes known to her.”
Fiore vowed to do so.
“And do forgive me for exhausting you with conversation,” she added, to his further surprise. “I’m very glad to hear you feel welcome in our home. Pray don’t hesitate to call upon me if you require even the least thing to make you more comfortable. I’m afraid I won’t tarry in the city long, but you may always send me a note—unless…?” Her gaze fell to his bandaged hand.
“I’m not prevented from writing,” Fiore assured her. She didn’t need to know he’d learnt to write in a conservatorio. He wished only he could feel more certain his injury had inspired her doubts rather than his class.
