He's turned away towards the sound of that enchanting laughter.

"It truly is so kind of you to have come, my lord," she twitters, sherry held in quite a tight grip as she looks up at the elf, trying very hard not to think anything untoward. "I do hope it is all to your satisfaction?" If it isn't then she will personally replace her entire staff.

“My Lady, I am having the most delightful of nights,” he assures her, his voice like a melody. 

“In my experience, however… the hostess is often so occupied with ensuring that all is perfect that she neglects to enjoy the fruits of her labour herself.”

Ophel bows and offers an arm. “A dance, perhaps?”

Oh. Oh. She- oh dear. She feels rather warm. 

For a moment she envies Eloise that dratted fan.

"Oh, how kind, my lord," she manages, taking his proffered hand with fingers that manage not to tremble. 

He's so warm, and strong. She melts into him. 

She remembers dancing like this. 

He feels how they watch him. Let them. He smiles at the Dowager Viscountess as he leads her, and the lights catch in his eyes. 

Their love must have been great.

There is a spin midway through the dance, and partners interchange. Violet is passed to another.

She is rather young. Good childbearing age, at least – rather beautiful, if he might say, and there is only one way to know whether her mind is as bright as those large eyes of hers.

He can be charming when he wants to be.

“A dance, Miss Edwina?”

She squints.

Oh- oh, it's happening, isn't it? This is it- she mustn't panic! 

She glances briefly at Kate - she'd been thinking she ought to approach the Duke, until Kate had nudged her towards the viscount - and then back to Lord Bridgerton.

"I would be delighted, my lord."

All of a sudden he's left alone with Kate and Lady Danbury as the next dance begins. 

Well, that did not go well. 

He glances around helplessly - perhaps Miss Sharma would dance? She's certainly beautiful, seems to know Lady Danbury, seems vaguely sensible-

Oh no. She's not sure the Duke would work as a prospect - maybe the Sheffields would accept him or maybe Edwina could convince him to support mother, but she cannot afford to take chances - but she still should not provide competition for her own sister. 

She turns abruptly towards Lady Danbury. 

Oh. 

He wishes they'd just openly say they don't like him because he's a filthy commoner. He wouldn't even blame them. He'd just like to know who his enemies are, thanks. 

He takes another sip from the flask and scowls. 

If she does not take this opportunity now, somebody else will. They are already closing in on perhaps the only suitor left in London who has not yet slipped through her fingers.

He is rather handsome, in a common sort of way.

“Your Grace,” she steps in – graceful, sultry, swanlike. She blinks long eyelashes up at him. “I do not believe I have yet had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

She bats her eyelashes, holding out a perfect hand. “Cressida Cowper.”

She just appears in front of him, and for a moment he's taken aback. She has that sort of aspect that always made him hesitate when fancy carriages came down the street - that kind of confidence - and it takes him a moment to find words. 

"Voltur, Duke of Volturgard," he returns, inclining his head what he thinks is the right amount. 

There's a Cowper in the army. Gutless little man, but cunning. He was a Colonel until Voltur came along and pointed out his talents lay elsewhere and insisted hard enough for the powers that be to give way. Family must be rich.

Well, at least it gives him someone to talk to. 

...What does he say?

Ah, yes.

"Would you care to dance, Miss Cowper?"

A prim smile, not an unladylike grin. Her mother stares coolly from behind the Duke’s shoulder.

Cressida Cowper remains perfect, in the same way a glass gemstone glitters a little too brightly.

She curtsies. “I would be honoured, Your Grace.”

He was taught how to dance, at least. He knows how to actually do the motions, the footwork comes easily to him, but he always just feels silly. Back and forth, twirl, waving his arms around for pointless reasons... Gods, this is humiliating. The pressure of dozens of eyes on him is like physical heat. 

She relishes the watchful gaze of the ton. They stare at her, entire groups of them, as she twirls prettily and marks her territory.

“You dance well, my Lord,” she purrs, stealing the chance to lean into him. Her neck is swan-like; her perfume is too sweet. “One could easily imagine you were born to be nobility. Tell me, are your heroics truly as I hear?”

The girl is giving him the kind of look he'd usually associate with starving wolves. 

...Does this mean she likes him? He's heard stories that the nobs marry each other like merchants trade goods, but she does sound interested. 

He twirls her neatly. She's so light. None of these people have an ounce of muscle on them, or scars, all soft like eiderdown...

"That depends. What have you heard?"

He’s either guarded or rude. No matter. She’ll wear him down.

“Why, Your Grace, certainly not enough. Tales of your… strength, however, certainly ring true.” Her touch lingers on his arms, and she injects a dainty little laugh into her speech, like there was a joke Voltur missed. “I should care to hear them from the man himself.”

So... She wants to hear about his campaigns?

Perhaps this isn't going to be as awkward as he thought. 

"Well, when you hear people talk about the war, you must understand it was at first more like a series of small wars - our western border was practically undefended, so bandit raids were forcing local lords to pull their men into defence, which others could use as an excuse to shirk sworn service to Her Majesty, which gave the rebels cover for a while. And there were more and more disappearances, whole villages dead or worse overnight because of the things coming out of the wilderness to the west... And Her Majesty's armies were," not a complete mess tactically but strategically a nightmare "in dire straits, so I began by moving to weaken the long-term viability of any possible insurrection by..." 

He can happily talk about this for a while. He will describe some of the unimagined horrors of the wilderness, some of the gorier battles he's been in and won against all the odds.

Cressida’s face straightens and falls. Her pale porcelain skin manages to turn white, and even a little green at the edges.

How is she supposed to respond to such ghastly conversation? Does he not know it is impolite to darken a lady’s mind with such topics? 

An unconvincing smile is the best she can do, curled in all the correct ways without even remotely reaching her eyes. “Aha.”

They twirl, and much to her relief she is passed to another. That Eloise takes her place – good, Cressida knows the Bridgerton girl is not interested in marriage, so she will not pose much of a threat.

She will approach the Duke again, soon, in some different way. As foul as his tongue is, he is as handsome as his title.

He passes her to him. 

The world slows for a moment. A piercing flash of too-blue eyes – they meet Voltur’s, disarming him entirely. Their fingertips brush in the sweep of the movement.

And then Eloise is in the arms of the Duke, and the Lord Ophel claims another partner, and they continue to dance separately as though their paths had never once crossed and never will again.

He tears his eyes away, conscious of the sudden hammering of his heart. 

Damn elves. He's heard the stories, they all must have - unless the gentry don't tell them, maybe. They say elves can put a spell on you with a look. 

He swallows. 

"Miss Bridgerton," he manages with a small smile, noting that at least her hands are sort of sweaty and awkward too, "It seems you have not quite managed to make good your escape." 

...Was that too pointed? Probably. But she did run away from him, after all. 

Lady Danbury is a terrifying sniffer-dog of a woman–

“Hm?” She looks up at him, wide-eyed, from where she was keeping a close eye on her feet. Her forehead is damp with sweat. “Sorry. Concentrating.”

That gets her a small grin. "Miss Bridgerton, I promise you, you cannot acquit yourself worse than me when it comes to dance. Do not worry so much about it."

Oh. Good. The elf was so graceful that she felt like a lumbering pig in his arms.

“If we step on one another’s toes, let’s just pretend it didn’t happen, shall we?”

If she were anything like these other girls, she could say that this Duke has a nice enough smile. Happily, she isn’t.