A silver flask, encrusted with sapphires, appears under Voltur’s chin. “Here. Looks like you need a swig.” 

A man with unkempt brown hair – and traces of paint under his fingernails, Voltur can see – offers him a wide, crinkly smile.

He shields their exchange with his body, the kind of frame that is fit but has never toiled a day in its life, and it is as though he doesn’t seem to realise that Voltur dwarfs him by far. The man gestures with his head and a grimace towards the hostess – his mother.

“Our secret.”

Oh thank fuck.

"Thank you," he says, and drinks. It's good. 

He feels wrong in his body, here - too muscled and calloused to be squeezed into these ridiculous ducal clothes - especially next to this man. 

...This very well-dressed nobleman who he has no idea how to talk to. 

"I am in your debt, it seems."

“Oh, goodness, no – you’re the one doing me a favour. Mother is holding me captive by the door to greet people as they come in. As long as I’m talking to you, my Lord, she can’t say I’m not playing the good host.”

That grin is so infectious. He holds out his right hand.

“Benedict Bridgerton.”

Right. All right. He can do this. It's so far outside his world, but so was his first battlefield, wasn't it? And his right elbow doesn't even ache any more. 

He takes the man's hand. His grip is strong, but his skin is so soft, like a baby's. Voltur grips it carefully, trying not to hurt him. "Voltur."

...He's important here. He needs to remember that.

“Voltur?” he echoes in a hum. “You don’t mean…” 

Benedict’s eyes widen. “Not Duke Voltur?”

The eyes of those nearby turn slowly.

Oh, gods. Can the ground swallow him now, please?

...He could break left and bullrush through that line of girls and be up the stairs before any of them have time to do anything, is his first incredibly stupid thought. 

There is absolutely some kind of etiquette for introducing yourself or telling someone your title or bowing or something and he knows none of it. 

Is the Queen here? She's probably watching, this is probably her idea of a hilarious joke. 

He nods awkwardly. "As of very recently, yes. That's me."

To the Bridgerton boy’s credit, he recovers fairly swiftly.

“Well, Your Grace.” He delivers a stage bow, twirling his hand in little circles. “Welcome to the ton.”

Voltur knew that they would look at him differently, now. But the way Benedict looks at him – it has changed, yes, with the revelation of Voltur’s title, but… his eyes sparkle with intrigue.

"The- the ton?" The town? "I mean - thank you." He tries to sound grave and dignified. He thinks. 

He doesn’t notice the faux pas – or at least, he pretends not to. Regardless, Benedict Bridgerton offers the easy way out.

“You are most welcome. Allow me to provide you with the run-down.”

Before Voltur realises it, the smaller man has an arm draped around his shoulders as though they were old friends. He smells the whiskey on his collar.

“That, over there, is Lady Danbury. Queen’s best friend. Absolutely terrifying woman. We all love her dearly. And them, over by the lemonade stands, the group of ladies with the bright orange hair – those are the Featheringtons. The shorter lady, Penelope, is a good acquaintance of my little brother’s – he should be riiiight over…” He shifts their position and points like he is identifying a military target. “There. That’s Colin, fending off some anxious mama or another. There’s also Anthony, my elder brother, looking rather like he’s bitten into a lemon– oh, no, that’s just his usual expression. Eloise is over there, trying to hide from our mother, and… Well, Your Grace. Has anyone else caught your interest? I’d be happy to be your own personal Virgil through the Inferno.”

His head spins with the number of names and connections and identical-looking nobs with all sorts of weird important positions. 

He has absolutely no idea what a virgil is but "inferno" sounds about right. 

"Your mother certainly sounds like a... an interesting woman," he manages, "for people to be so afraid of her." She doesn't look that scary, but then again he once met a two-foot gnome who killed a dozen men at once. 

The Queen's best friend is here? Her Majesty is a very clever woman. Surely she will be normal. "And can you tell me more about Lady Danbury?"

“Oh, none of us are afraid of her. She’s lovely. Best mother in the world. Perhaps a little too motherly at times, but she just wants the best for us, really.” He waves his hand. “Lady Danbury, on the other hand? We are definitely afraid of her. She’s got this thorny exterior but a heart of gold, or so I hear in myths and legends. We were all raised with her just… there, more or less, she’s practically our aunt. Been the Queen’s right-hand woman since queendoms became a thing, etcetera etcetera. If you’re looking for allies, Your Grace, she’s definitely one to make.”

His eyes brighten. “Oh, look! There, the one that’s just stepped off the dance floor – that’s Lord Ophel. Mother was beside herself with glee when an elf accepted an invitation to her ball, so he’s been getting quite a bit of attention. Can’t say I envy him.”

He's staring, isn't he. 

He... probably shouldn't do that, should he. 

It's probably some sort of violation of etiquette. 

He cannot take his eyes off Lord Ophel for a long moment, as the elf seems to float across the dance floor to a table, sips wine with sinfully curved lips, smiles prettily at a girl who looks like she may faint away in happiness. 

The elf is tall, and fair, and his every move seems part of a dance - he's never seen skin glow like that, like a jewel in candlelight, and in his limbs there is a power and strength beyond the merely physical. Something old, and right. 

"I can see why," he murmurs. 

She materialises next to them, for all that she walks slowly and with the aid of a stick now. There's a trick to it. It's like how she doesn't need it when she dances. 

"Mr Bridgerton," she says sharply, inclining her head. 

He snaps to attention.

“Lady Danbury! As radiant as ever.” He takes her hand and kisses it, his posture all of a sudden picture-perfect. “May I introduce you to His Grace, the Duke Voltur?”

Thank the gods for an out.

Ah, well, that explains it. 

She smiles widely. "Your Grace. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." She curtseys just a little, and looks carefully into his eyes. 

A hard man, but not stupid. Terrified, though. 

Oh good someone who isn't looking frightened of him or like something stuck to the bottom of their shoe. 

He tries very hard to remember his etiquette lessons. Do you introduce the higher-ranked person first? ...He's pretty sure that whatever his title might be, he shouldn't try to outdo this Lady Danbury customer. "Lady Danbury. I've heard a great deal about you."

Behind the esteemed Lady‘s back, Benedict shakes his head frantically. His hand makes sharp gestures under his chin.

Oh gods oh gods what did he do. He tries to carry on talking. 

"That is - Her Majesty speaks most highly of you." He's pretty sure she has actually mentioned a Danbury at some point and he is racking his brains trying to remember when.

"Does she indeed. How gratifying." She gives Benedict a flat look over Voltur's shoulder. "Am I correct in my belief that this is your first appearance since your ennoblement, Your Grace? I wonder what Mr Bridgerton has been telling you?"

Her eyes bore into him. 

Benedict gulps.

He looks left and right – a saving grace!

“Oh, would you look at that, more guests arriving! Well, my Lady, duty calls.”

He steps away, dignified at first. When Lady Danbury stops looking, he skitters.

The sapphire flask is left behind in Voltur’s hand.

She lifts an eyebrow. 

Typical Benedict, running- rather, stumbling away as soon as a difficulty arises. It's a habit Violet has often complained about. 

"Well, Your Grace. I wonder if you might allow me to introduce you to some dear friends of mine?"

This man is a commoner. Obviously. She's seen milkmen with more noble bearing. He rather reminds her of... someone she used to know. Except without the enthusiasm.

She affixes her arm in his - my, he is muscular, she thought Generals were supposed to be flabby men with jowls - and begins. 

The night is young, after all. Her duties as sponsor can wait a little. 

Ah. 

"Duke Voltur. May I present Miss Eloise Bridgerton."

Curses. She’s been spotted.

Eloise freezes, caught at the foot of the staircase. She spins around with a thinly-plastered smile on her face, tearing her fingertips from the bannister.

“Oh, Lady Danbury, I did not see you there. My Lord.” She doesn’t even look at him, curtsying like she is brushing an insect off her skirt. “I am afraid I–”

"His Grace the Duke Voltur is most anxious to meet his hostess and all her family for his first public appearance," she says in a voice like razor blades.