She does relax fractionally. She wasn't very worried, but you do have to be a little worried that maybe the kind of person who can end a civil war can also start one. She didn't think Voltur was going to demand satisfaction from the Bridgertons, or start a feud against them, but... well, it is a relief.

She doesn't let it show.

"General Voltur you have been in town for two days and you have already come to blows with a gentleman. One dreads to think what you might take it into your head to do next."

"Ma'am?"

She closes her eyes and sighs. 

In the depths of deepest rumour, in barest whispers from twisted revenants in the layered vaults below the earth, in the forbidden ruins of the lost Old Kingdom, there is enough for an inquisitive mind to guess that indeed in the days of Raikoth there was mortal magic beyond the Ninth Circle. She once considered devoting her life to piecing together, from hints and smatterings, a shadow of that glorious past. And then she decided that being queen would be more fun. But it would have meant she could have Compelled the entire country to do as she said. 

"You will make an actual effort. You have won a war and slain a dragon, you are a man of parts, it is not beyond you to engage in civil conversation with high society if you put your perfectly capable mind to it. Learn to behave, or I will have to teach you, and then I will be very annoyed and I am very good at making my displeasure known. That will be all."

"Ma'am."

He nods respectfully. 

"Thank you for your support, Your Majesty. Oh - Miss Eloise Bridgerton had some interesting ideas for making the ton better." He withdraws the copy he had written, in fine calligraphy, of Eloise's notes. "I'm sure it would make little issues like this much less frequent, if it please Your Majesty."

He flees makes a tactical withdrawal. 

Dearest gentle reader,

Much is made of the so-called vulgar mushrooms, those who have good fortune in the world of mere trade, and yet discover - unhappy strivers! - that a high position in society is a prize rather more hard-won, and beyond barter; and yet one new arrival in the ton, most unusually, finds himself at once elevated from the very gutter to a rank exceeding any but Her Majesty the Queen herself, purchased with a currency far older even than gold: blood.

While none could question Her Majesty's decision, it seems that the precipitous ascent of the newly-created Duke Voltur has already caused grave disturbance, for a man of battle does not readily lay down arms. I refer, of course, to the positively shocking animosity suddenly developed between the fledgling Duchy of Volturgard, and one of our most beloved families, the Bridgertons...

Gods, there's nothing for it. 

There is a house on the edge of Mayfair that does not look like it once did. A dozen different flowers bloom across it now; its trees grow now in graceful shapes, as though bowing respectfully towards the door.

His carriage draws up outside. 

There are no servants in attendance outside. 

Well, the hell with it. 

He gets out of his carriage his own self, thank you very much, and makes for the door. 

In the perfume of this garden is the faintest scent of something old and terribly beautiful, something lost and precious like a memory of youth. 

He stands for a moment, a little dazed. 

And then he simply knocks. 

The door opens, seemingly by itself. The very fabric of the house welcomes Voltur inside.

The light inside is warm and soft. That perfume is everywhere he turns, the same sweetness he can’t seem to get out of his old clothes, and it clings now gently to his skin. Strange and beautiful plants, kept indoors, reach towards large windows like the hands of a lover. Paintings line the amber-yellow walls.

The sound of a pianoforte beckons him further inside.

Of course his house is like this. Another set of clothes for the special drawer. He doesn't want everything he owns to smell of elf. 

He follows the enchanting sound, almost dreamlike. It's like nothing he's heard before, but then, the only music he used to hear involved a lot more chanting. 

He wanders into the room. 

The elf-lord’s back is turned to him. His hair is loose and golden, falling past his mid-back in waves. The sun shines upon him through a skylight of stained glass.

As though in a trance, he plays, and does not seem to notice Voltur’s presence. 

He just stands, and stares, and waits. 

Maybe this won't be so bad.

...it's beautiful. Everything. The house, the music, the elf-lord himself. Beautiful. 

He finishes the song, and turns.

The last time Voltur saw him, at the Bridgerton Ball, they were both in their finery. Now, Lord Ophel wears only a loose shirt and some breeches. It suits him more, somehow. 

There is a copy of Whistledown on the piano.

“Duke Voltur.” He rises, bowing his head. “I have been expecting you.”

"."

...Why isn't he saying anything. 

Ophel was expecting him??

He clears his throat. "I... Would like to take you up on your offer. To... Teach me."

He's staring. 

He smiles.

With an elegant hand, he lifts up the pamphlet resting where his sheet music should be. “Are you familiar with a certain Lady Whistledown, Your Grace? I admit, when I first arrived here, I did not think much of her. But I do now find her columns to be rather fascinating.”

The elf crosses the distance between them, politely offering the paper to Voltur. “Tell me, did the Viscount deserve it?”

"I am not." He takes the paper, glances at it. Spots his own name, something that's probably "Bridgerton". Of course. 

"Deserve what? I didn't even touch the man. And I wasn't going to hurt him very much even if I'd had the chance." He's seen too many young men wounded already, thank you. 

“Ha. And this had nothing to do with a certain Miss Eloise, of course?” He looks at Voltur like he is reading every single one of his little micro-expressions. It’s a little unsettling, being… scanned.

"She held him back. I really didn't understand what all the fuss was about." He still doesn't. Obviously Anthony doesn't approve of having to talk to a commoner, but he wouldn't have thought he'd be that blatant about it all of a sudden. 

He hums thoughtfully, having seemingly procured a glass of wine out of nowhere. He offers it to Voltur. “Do you wish to court the girl?”

He takes it, sips. 

...

...Actually, it isn't bad. It isn't bad at all. 

All right, one point for nobby drinks. 

"I only met her the day before yesterday."

Lord Ophel hums again, going to sit down. “Typically, when one brings scandal upon a lady, it would be the gentlemanly thing to marry her.” He gestures for Voltur to sit opposite.

"Bring scandal upon her? By the gods, man, all I did was take her out for a drink. I thought I was supposed to be a duke now? What's wrong with being seen with me?"

He sighs softly. 

“The rules of the ton may seem arbitrary, but at their core, they are built upon the very human concepts of honour and protection. You brought an unmarried lady out with you, unchaperoned, in the middle of the night, without the knowledge of her elders, into a rather… grimy establishment, I have heard. You got her drunk. She is, most likely, already suffering for it, and that is beyond the very real possibility that you might or might not have taken… liberties with her. You are new to this society, Your Grace. Its people have yet to trust you.”

His face wrinkles in honest confusion. "What? I was there. She was perfectly safe."

“I know.” He seems to take pity. “That is, in truth, a large part of the problem. You were there. You took her away. You were alone with her.”

"Ah. Yes. I see." He takes another sip. "And titled or not, my manners are too common for her family to be associated with me?" That doesn't sound quite right, but what does he know. 

“More that… you have not yet learned the way they operate. Anthony Bridgerton is an awful man at times, but he only ever acts in the best interests of his family. A more loyal patriarch you could not find.”

He pauses.

“What happened? Truly.”