Well, at least he isn't the person here who'd most like to be elsewhere any more. 

She very clearly doesn't want to talk. Should he do something? Or would that offend this Lady Danbury? Oh, gods, his head hurts. He's not anxious to- oh, that was probably something political. 

He settles for a polite smile. 

Eloise goes for a smile. She bares her teeth instead, her eyes practically screaming.

Lady Danbury is going to kill her if she doesn’t go along with this. Maybe it’ll only be five minutes, maybe she can shrug him off to Anthony or someone and then make her escape— 

She looks at him at last. He is rather… tall.

“Your Grace, a pleasure.” She doesn’t sound particularly pleased. “Have you met my brother Anthony?”

Before either of them can catch up, Eloise has already charged ahead.

...Do the nobility... normally do this? 

"A pleasure to meet you as well," he begins, which sounds safe enough, it is after all what she said, when suddenly she's charging ahead towards a man who-

-is walking away from the elf - Voltur tries very hard not to stare again - with a sour look on his face. 

“Anthony! Anthony!” She whisper-shouts, grabbing her brother’s sleeve. “Please—”

He almost drops his list as Eloise jostles him. Impatiently, he turns towards her.

“What is it, sister?”

“You must—”

Voltur catches up to her, and Eloise returns to her best impression of a simpering maiden.

“Your Grace! This is the… brother in question. Anthony– Viscount Anthony. Bridgerton. Viscount… Bridgerton.”

He laughs, surprising himself. He smiles at her. 

"Thank you for the introduction. Lord Bridgerton," he says with a careful bow. Probably the wrong depth, but, well, not as bad as what she just did. "Your sister seemed most eager," is that right? Shouldn't it be 'very eager'? "for me to meet you."

He doesn’t have time for this.

Anthony matches the Duke’s bow. “You honour us, Your Grace. Duke… Voltur, am I correct? Your achievements precede you.”

Unsurprisingly, his sister seems to have vanished. He will add ‘speak to Eloise about her future’ to the ever-growing list of things he needs to do — and come to think of it, he really should speak with Benedict as well…

He frowns. Looks round. Is this normal?

"Thank you." That seems safe enough. "Your sister seems to have disappeared. I hope I did not offend her?" If he did just by being here then he is going to just turn around and walk away, Her Majesty probably can't afford a civil war just to have him marched to these accursed things by force. Probably. 

“Oh, pay no heed of my sister. She scorns any man within ten feet of her; I do believe her demeanour towards you was what she would consider to be friendly.”

Anthony scans Voltur, his eyes flitting up and down for a second. He straightens to match the Duke’s height – but falls short an inch or two.

“Please – do not let me keep you from dancing. I am certain I will see you at White’s this weekend, Your Grace.”

Would she, now. Gods, please let them not all be like this. 

This is a man who has never once had to fight for his life who thinks daddy's title lets him- he cuts off that thought, it isn't going to help .

"I look forward to it." He nods, and turns back towards Lady Danbury, slightly helplessly. 

She is going to have words with the Bridgertons. 

“…Ah, forgive me, where are my manners? In truth, I have been… occupied with the matter of selecting a viscountess; a duty you understand well, I am sure.” He smiles, if only out of politeness. “I do believe the man who rescued our country from civil war will have little trouble on this front.”

Oh no he has to choose a duchess??? Now??? Here??? He has met two whole women here and Lady Danbury scares him and Eloise - Miss Bridgerton? - literally ran away. 

"I am afraid that I have the disadvantage of knowing almost nobody here." He vaguely recognises one or two faces from the army, but he absolutely minimised any contact with the sort of officer who went to these things. "How goes your own search?"

He sighs, slipping his papers into a finely-embroidered pocket. “Rather tediously. I have found the ladies this season, as fine as they are, ceaselessly deficient in one quality or another. It is a great responsibility we carry, men like you and I. Our standards must be robust.”

...He hadn't even really thought about that. But of course. If he marries - he has to marry, he needs an heir - then he creates a Duchess. His choice affects his people, his lands. He nods, and leans in a little closer. "It is. You at least were born to your duties - I am having to learn very quickly. It is a great honour Her Majesty did me, and yet alarming to think of its import." He's finding his words a little easier now. Benedict's flask helps. "What did your standards make of the lord elf, then?"

“Indeed. Heavy is the head, my friend.” His stern gaze becomes almost approving. “You speak of Lord Ophel? A charming enough fellow, though I search not for a poet, and I question the seriousness of his intentions. The elves are a confusing folk. I prefer those that I can understand.”

You and me both, friend, he thinks fervently. 

He scratches his beard. "I wonder." He has an excuse now for his eyes to linger. "I do not know much poetry myself. And yet - a battle is often more than the sum of its parts." 

...Oh gods, he's contradicted a noble- wait, he is a noble. 

"There are plenty of scholars of history who could tell you much of how the soil conditions or troop compositions or what-have-you determined a battle, and yet Her Majesty does not employ them in her armies, for good reason. Some things can only be taken entire." He hasn't looked away from the elf. "I wonder if the choice of a wife might be the same." 

"My lords," she says ingratiatingly, appearing again, "might I take this moment to introduce Miss Sharma and Miss Edwina Sharma? Like you, Your Grace, they find themselves new to the ton."

Hmm. The Viscount Bridgerton would do. The Duke might be better, in theory, but - would the Sheffields accept him as fulfilling their terms? If it were a public matter, they would probably be forced to... 

She nudges Edwina forwards. 

She curtsies. Perfectly.

That woman, the elder Sharma. That was her, the mystery woman in that field, racing away from him on that chestnut mare like some kind of–

He bows his head low. Lower than he did for Voltur, the Duke notes. 

“My Ladies. A pleasure.”

His laughter chimes from down the colonnade.

Oh no, he recognises her. 

She draws herself back a little. Come on, Edwina...

"You are new, Your Grace?"