"Oh, we have, Your Grace," she cuts in happily before Lord Bridgerton can say anything. "What a happy occasion! Miss Eloise and yourself look so well together, if I may be so bold."

He smiles at Miss Edwina rather stiffly, bows to her improperly, and takes his leave. 

Voltur returns home to a house that should be deserted, save Talen and a handful of servants. 

Instead, like a madhouse or a zoo, it bursts with life. Maids and footmen scurry about the house, transporting items and trousseaus that Voltur does not recognise; some press their ears to the doors to the parlour, exchanging hushed whispers.

There are dwarves lounging about in work clothes, emerging from the kitchens with ale and food in hand. They greet him with, “Afternoon, yer Gracefulness!” and pay him little further heed.

Voltur knows these dwarves.

And there is a perfume in the air, a scent that Voltur has tried so desperately hard to contain, that now seeps into his own furniture like the plague. The smell of elf.

He hears that voice – the Lord Ophel, behind those parlour doors, through the sea of eavesdropping servants. 

“Thank you, Gimren. You may position the pianoforte just so, by the window.”

He smiles a fierce sort of smile. 

Oh how very adorable, the elf thinks it can win a game of strategy with him. 

He saunters into the room. 

"Lord Ophel. What a pleasant surprise. May I ask what all this is in aid of?"

He does not even flinch, greeting Voltur with a smile like sunshine. “Your Grace! Better late than never.”

A team of dwarves heave that grand piano into place with a ‘thud.’ The ground shakes, and paintings threaten to dislodge themselves from their hanging place.

“How kind of you to send our dear friend Gimren and his company to my home, to remedy the damage that was left some nights ago. And how especially kind of you to extend your repair order to… the entire estate.”

There is a scraping sound as the team of dwarves rotate the heavy instrument.

She is standing. Glowering. The scurrying dwarves give her a very wide berth.

His Grace the Duke Voltur smiles one of those gentle constipated-looking aristocratic smiles, and nods his head to Lord Ophel in a touching show of condescension. "You are most welcome," he drawls. "And what would be the purpose of your calling on me?" he asks in exquisitely polite feigned ignorance as dwarves drag in furniture around him. 

“Why, I have come to stay, of course!” He responds cheerfully, gesturing to his furniture being moved about the place. “Surely Your Grace in his generosity would not displace a fellow member of the ton and then leave them without dwelling?”

His voice and demeanour are innocent, but there is an edge to that question that Voltur’s bruised wrists recognise all too well.

“Besides,” he hums happily, walking up to Voltur. He places a friendly hand on his shoulder and squeezes, nails digging in just enough to keep him on his toes. “We have important lessons to complete, do we not?”

He grins a sharp grin. He doesn't care about furniture, or noise, or having the house remodelled overnight. He's slept on rocks most of his life. 

"Of course. Talen, won't you," he gives her a meaningful glance "attend very carefully to Lord Ophel's comfort?"

It is obvious that they intend to make his stay here as uncomfortable as possible. That Talen woman is ghastly.

Two can play at that game, little bull.

He smiles sweetly at her. “How kind of you both. Shall we dine together, then, Your Grace? There is much we must speak about.”

She has already had any sort of food and drink that could remotely be described as "delicate" removed from the house. The key to the wine cellars seems to have mysteriously been lost. A servant is out looking for a bagpipist. 

Dinner is going to involve stew. 

She does not care for these games, but if the elf wants to play them with her house and her Duke he is going to lose. Very, very badly. 

Oh, sweet darlings. This was all anticipated. Ophel is not so easily fazed.

…Well, he had not quite anticipated the bagpipist. That, the elf is quite certain, has caused his ears to bleed. He keeps tapping them to make sure, and he swear he spies a tiny spot of blood on his delicate fingertip.

“Human stew. How charming,” he hums, with a graceful smile that does not even remotely meet his eyes. “Was this characteristic of your mealtimes as a soldier, Your Grace?”

He had considered bringing his own chef, but it is so adorable when the little dukeling thinks he can fight back.

"I'm afraid not. Speak with Talen if you would like extensive detail about the logistics of military rationing. But this in fact is spiced with a certain rare plant from the southern jungles, which has... many uses."

He eats. The dwarves will enjoy it too, they can tolerate mild poisons very well. 

"You wished to speak of lessons?"

Oh gods why does his mouth burn???!!

What is wrong with them??!!

“Oh, how fascinating,” he responds vaguely, managing not to let on too much – beyond the fact that his eyes are now watering – just what kind of inferno his tongue has become.

When neither Talen nor Voltur are looking in his direction, he tips half the contents of his food onto the plate of the dwarf next to him. His neighbour continues to shovel it into his mouth happily, paying little notice to his meal of plenty.

“That was simply delicious,” Ophel comments after a long drink of… what he suspects might be something he doesn’t want to think about. He has consumed worse, in fairness. “But I am terribly full, now. I could not possibly have any more.”

He leans forward, the toes of his boot tapping lightly against Voltur’s. “Now. I hear you paid the Bridgertons a visit?”

Oh, he's enjoying this. 

He'd promote Talen, except he's pretty sure he can't any more. 

"I did."

He stares at him, ice cool despite the burning in his mouth. “Well, Your Grace?”

A dwarf belches appreciatively. Voltur smiles at him. 

"I explained the... unusual circumstances. I believe I was able to make some headway. Unfortunately, ah," I probably have to marry a girl I just met, "this 'Lady Whistledown' writer has written something which - for reasons I still do not quite comprehend - apparently mean I should marry Eloise." He coughs.

He is curiously quiet for a moment. “And are arrangements indeed being made?”

"Bridgerton says so. I don't even know what they are. Eloise and I are still trying to find a way out of it."

He nods slowly. “You will not marry for love, so you marry for duty. And yet you are not even willing to do that. Why?”

His brow furrows. "Lord Ophel. Until very recently I had been a soldier all my life. I never gave a thought to marriage until it was thrust upon me, and now I must consider the wellbeing of my people. It is for Eloise's own sake that I seek to avoid it."

“Ah. Does she not wish to marry you, then?” The simple question is a weapon on Ophel’s tongue.

What on earth is going on. "No. She very emphatically does not."