“If we put out a prize like that, and then found her because of it, surely it would be obvious that she would only be changing her story about us for those reasons? And it could take weeks, or months, or gods forbid years to find her, and to suddenly remind the ton of a story left behind in the past like that – that is entirely too suspicious.”

Men. They never think.

“Besides, Whistledown is fierce. I doubt we would ever find her, and I doubt even more that she would turn her pen so easily in our favour simply because we had the money to so rudely reveal her identity.”

"Ah. Yes. And I am not sure I could hide that such a great sum had come from me."

He frowns. From the other end, then. "Can you recall any circumstance at all - anyone you know or heard of, any rumour - in which a woman was able to escape such rumours without marrying the man involved?"

He shoots her a glance. "You respect Whistledown." It isn't a question. 

“What? No. I mean, I used to, but–” Eloise scowls. “I do not need to explain myself to you.”

There is one such circumstance she can think of, which she overheard Benedict and Anthony talking about one night while eavesdropping. She dares not repeat it.

“And no. Unfortunately, nothing comes to mind.” She sighs.

"...I see. Hmm. I will keep thinking."

The Queen might be able to do something and she might be inclined to if he asked very nicely. Or, more realistically, had something she wanted. 

But he wouldn't bet on it. 

"Eloise. In case we cannot actually come up with something in time - I am at least resolved to make this marriage as bearable as possible for you."

She falls quiet again, staring at the ground before her feet. 

So much of this terrifies her. She doesn’t want to talk about it like it’s… real. 

It can’t to be. There has to be a solution, she just hasn’t thought of it yet.

"I know it is not a pleasant prospect," he begins, trying not to be hurt - he didn't think she would consider it that bad - "and we will find a solution. But in the worst-case scenario - we ought to have a plan, I think."

“I– so much of it, it– could not work.” Her voice is as pale as her skin. “I could not have children, for one. I could not do that, could not… give you an heir.”

She had hoped she would at least have a few years on the marriage mart before it came to this.

She remembers that night, long ago. The screams of her mother, Daphne singing to her as if that would drown anything out. Childbirth terrifies her. She does not even know how one would sire a child to begin with.

And… gods, this man is massive. To have one of his babies inside her–

She feels sick, all of a sudden.

“I will not be forced.”

"I will not force you, Eloise." He feels vaguely unwell, and scratches his chin. "Producing an heir will be a substantial challenge, then. Perhaps... hmm. Perhaps another woman's child could be passed off as your own. It would be a difficult subterfuge, but possible, I think, if we were careful to sequester you when you ought to begin to show - pretend a great deal of shyness or perhaps illness on your part, acquire servants of the utmost discretion. Or rather, call in a great many favours from old friends. Not an insurmountable difficulty."

She shakes her head. “I could never hide such a thing from my family. Daphne, and Mother especially, would get all… involved.”

Eloise needs to talk about something, anything else. She can’t think about this right now.

“While we are here,” she tries, “we do still have the matter of the egg to discuss.”

"I see. We will have to invent some pretext for us spending some considerable time travelling far away from them."

He tenses. "The egg? What of it?" Does she know?

She blinks at him. “Did you forget? We were going to ask a wizard to help us with it.”

"-Ah. Yes. Of course. Do you, er, know any?"

What is wrong with him?

“No. Not any wizards that don’t answer to my family, at least. And you, Your Grace?” She reminds him of his title.

"Ah. Many. Some who fought beside me, but..." He glances around. "Eloise, this is the spawn of the Black Wyvern, no mere curiosity. The dragon was - a thing of a greater kind than us. We need a wise wizard indeed, and one of the utmost purity of heart. Such are - not many."

He walks past with his family, a lady on his arm, and a look in his eyes to rival Eloise’s. 

She turns towards Voltur with a grin. “Actually, I do believe I know just the man.”

He turns to look at the boy. Inclines his head, and waits for Eloise to introduce them. 

He frowns a little, slowing down. Why is the new Duke nodding at him?

…Why is the Bridgerton girl looking at him like that?

Eloise excuses herself from her family and scampers over, pulling Voltur in tow. She curtsies, prim and perfect and doll-like when she really wants to be.

“Lord and Lady Deneith,” she greets cheerfully, hoping and praying that they have not read Whistledown. “May I introduce His Grace the Duke Voltur? He wishes to have a word with your son about, um, court wizardly business.”

???

He remembers to bow back.

"Dr Deneith," he begins. How much for a consultation on a dragon egg? "A pleasure to meet you. I am told you are a practising wizard? Unusual among the ton."

His parents, and the girl on his arm whose name he can’t actually remember, step aside politely to allow them to speak. 

Wow, this new Duke is tall. Ambrose has to straighten his posture and tilt his head up to meet his eyes.

“Not so unusual. Quite common for second sons, I am told,” he responds, frowning at Miss Bridgerton. What is she scheming? “Is there anything you need, Your Grace?”

"Indeed." From what Talen told him, a Court Wizard is one of the highest honours he could bestow on a wizard, but Eloise has been and gone and said it now. "You may have heard that I am newly created; I am in search of a Court Wizard for appointment rather swiftly."

“And you’re asking me?”