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Enzo blinked. “Sounds like an amiable afternoon.”
Fiore tried to imitate Enzo’s calm. “So… you’re not worried?”
“I’m a little surprised, I suppose,” Enzo admitted after some consideration. “From what Giovanna has told me Andrea is rather shy. All the moreso around me.”
“I’ve not made a bad impression, then?” Fiore asked before he could stop himself.
“Quite the reverse, I should think. Giovanna and Antonio adore their children above all else. If you’ve kept Andrea amused and safe from harm, then they’re likely overjoyed.”
That was something, Fiore supposed. Still, he resolved not to venture forth again without Enzo’s escort.
~
The pneumonia dissipated by the close of the first se’en-night. And by the end of the second, the chirurgeon declared Enzo’s wound well on its way to closing up.
Fiore ought to have felt happy. In many ways, he did. Once the initial shock of Enzo’s condition had waned and said condition had improved, he found himself relaxing into the quietude of country life. The view from every sharp-peaked window showed him a dark green expanse to rival the lagoon he’d left behind. No raucous revelers rang out overhead whilst he slept. No forced smiles for gentlemen who didn’t deserve them.
The gentleman who most deserved Fiore’s attentions at present, however, didn’t seem to want them.
There were gentlemen—more oft than many suspected—who wanted Fiore’s quiet companionship as much or more than they wanted his body. Some tired themselves out dancing with him on the crowded deck for hours before they dared venture with him below. Some seemed to occupy his bed for the simple privilege of conversing on his pillow afterward. Some of them Fiore even liked.
And while he found he very much liked the quiet companionship he enjoyed with Enzo in the hunting lodge—a pleasant extension of the queer sort of household they’d set up in his own quarters whilst he’d recovered from his appendectomy—he nonetheless remained unaccountably disconcerted at Enzo’s apparent lack of desire for him.
Fiore had beheld more of Enzo’s body than ever before since arriving at the lodge. He’d touched a great deal of it besides, assisting Enzo in almost every facet of dressing save drawers and ablutions. But he’d not been touched in return.
Enzo hadn’t even invited him to the hunting lodge. Not really. His name had dropt from Enzo’s lips in a fever and his sister—the duke—had mistaken it for the name of someone worthy to grace their ancestral halls. What must she have thought when Fiore arrived with his scarlet sash and no idea of his place. And now he was here with no hint as to his purpose or what he might do to prove his worth. If Enzo didn’t want him for carnal purposes he had no idea why he’d not been sent on his way.
While Fiore pondered this in the wake of the chirurgeon’s visit, Enzo ran a hand through his hair and grimaced.
Fiore supposed his wound pained him. “More anodyne?”
“No, it’s just…” Enzo twined a lock of hair between his fingers, looking abashed. “Overdue for a wash.”
“Oh.” Fiore supposed it must prove difficult for Enzo to wash his own hair when his wound precluded raising his arms over his head. A spark of inspiration struck. “May I?”
Enzo hesitated.
“You did as much for me when I was convalescing,” Fiore pointed out.
“It was nothing.”
“It was everything,” Fiore insisted. “Please. Allow me?”
Enzo relented with a smile.
A quarter-hour saw the kettle over the fire, the wash-stand dragged before the hearth, a towel draped over a chair, and Enzo there seated, leaning his head back into the basin of warm water whilst Fiore worked a lather through the floating ebony tendrils. With Fiore’s assistance he’d removed his shirt; the drawers remained. Lest he catch a chill, Fiore supposed. Fiore, meanwhile, delighted in feeling Enzo relax beneath his ministrations. How satisfied his sigh sounded as Fiore poured warm water over his hair. How he bit his lip as Fiore worked his fingertips over his scalp. How patiently he sat as Fiore untangled the soaked strands and combed them dry before the fire. To see Enzo so happy by his hand gratified everything Fiore had wanted these long nights.
And yet, as Fiore stood back to admire his handiwork, he found he craved more. “I could do below the neck as well, if you’d like.”
Again, Enzo hesitated.
“Not that I think you need it,” Fiore hastened to add. “It’s only—I meant, if you wanted—”
A soft chuckle escaped Enzo. “I know.”
The rekindling of hope softened the blow to Fiore’s dignity. “Then, perhaps…?”
Enzo bit his lip. “There’s something you ought to see first.”
