He jumps, but springs forwards and catches her neatly. Then sets her down carefully on her feet. 

"Ah! Anthony, wasn't it? Good to see you again."

She gives Anthony a huge, perfectly casual smile. In reality, it is more like a grimace. Remembering her place, she quickly steps away from Voltur. “Brother! It is not what it looks like. The duke and I were just—”

He narrows his eyes at Voltur, and grabs Eloise’s arm and tugs her roughly behind him. He smells the alcohol on her, can smell it from a mile away. “Oh, I know exactly what it looks like, sister. You, Your Grace. You are new to this ton, and that is the only reason I am not challenging you to a duel this very instant. But if you have tainted my sister’s virtue, if you have so much as looked at her in the wrong way—”

“Anthony! Nothing like that happened!” Eloise cries out in disgust.

A muscle feathers in his jaw. He glares at Voltur. “You may be a duke in name, but you still bear the manners of a commoner. Stay away from my family.”

It might be the drink or he might just be sick of this, but something ugly flares up in him and he takes a step forwards, his lips stretching in a cruel smile. His voice is low, rough, no trace now of trying to talk like the nobs do. "Nah, these are manners of a Duke now. Know why? You're a gen'leman, you know what that word means in the old language, right? Warlord. Because all you lily-livered little bitches could do when the swords came out was cry. Never spilt blood before, have you?" 

There's something on his face now that's dark and wild, out of place with his fine clothes and neat-trimmed beard. His eyes aren't focussed on Anthony any more.

"The only reason I'm not showing you what a real fight looks like is because you're a little boy who doesn't even understand what he's threatening to do. So you don't scare me with your prancing about in padded jackets and your nasty words and your bendy little swords, and I'm not just talking about the fucking joke you call duelling. Maybe your great-whatever-grandad had some balls, but what have you done to talk to me like that, Viscount? You're lucky your sister's got brains or you'd all be fucked."

He yells and charges.

Eloise holds him back, but only barely. She sees a figure out of the corner of her eye– “Benedict, help me!”

What is happening?!

Benedict doesn’t waste time asking questions. He’s too drunk for that, after the night he and Anthony had—

He helps Eloise drag their brother inside, casting a look back at Voltur.

She looks back at Voltur too. Helpless.

Disappointed in him.

The door to Bridgerton House shuts heavily.

...

...

All right, he probably could have handled that better. 

There is shouting behind the door. Other voices join in. It’s too muffled for Voltur to make out – he hears Eloise’s voice just as loudly as Anthony’s, and Benedict’s, perhaps trying to mediate, and then– is that Violet? Lights come on in the parlour.

It is cold outside. Voltur can feel it even with the warm delusion of the drink. 

Right. He should knock on the door and explain and apologise, unravel this whole mess before it turns into some kind of stupid aristocrat feud or something. 

...Shouldn't he? 

Oh gods, what if that breaks a rule too. 

He hesitates. 

“You wish to be one of them. You seek integration,” the elf had said.

“I can teach you.”

Gods fucking damn it. 

He turns on his heel and strides away from Bridgerton House.

"Ah, Duke Voltur," she says warmly, as though this is a pleasant surprise and she hasn't kept him waiting in the Uncomfortable Hallway for the last twenty minutes. "Do sit down. Have some tea." It's the most complicated array of cutlery possible, which is technically only called for if she entertains an emperor or a deity, but then, she is the queen and she does what she likes. 

And she doesn't like to be subtle. 

"I trust you are settling in to life in the city well?"

Gods damn the woman. 

Well, two can play this game. She can play it better, but he saved her country and he's spent hours talking strategy with her and he's even, technically, fought beside her. Well, not beside her, she was under armed guard half a mile away from the battlefield while she cast her spells because apparently she can't do anything under pressure, but the point is, he's not scared. 

Mostly not scared. 

He ignores the silverware, grabs a handful of cake with his fingers, and answers with his mouth full, "Your Majesty?" 

Her lips compress into a thin line. 

This is one of the few downsides of being queen: one cannot rule alone, and one cannot rule without an army, which means one cannot perfectly control everyone. 

"There have been no issues?"

"Ma'am." His voice is very neutral. He looks at a spot just behind her left ear. 

"Lady Danbury told me a rather interesting story late last night, Your Grace. Very late last night, in fact. She was rather disturbed, it seems."

"I'm sorry to hear it, Your Majesty. Lady Danbury was very kind." Still so so neutral. He chews cake. 

"Lady Danbury had me awakened, in fact, to tell me that she was afraid for the future of the Bridgerton family, after certain rather scandalous events. Between you and the Viscount."

"Not sure what she could have meant, Your Majesty. I have no quarrell with anyone."