"You have my word." 

He twirls her carefully, trying very hard not to think too much about how he must look doing this. 

She's a pretty girl. Why did she want to run away like that?

"Your brother seemed to be an... Interesting man. I wondered if you had a reason for introducing us."

She almost snorts. “Yes, ‘interesting’ certainly describes him.”

What is this man implying?

“No reason other than he was the only other member of my family in sight. If you have siblings, you’ll know.”

"I'm afraid I don't, any more."

There's an awkward silence. He clears his throat.

"So why were you so keen to pawn me off on your kin? Is my reputation so terrible? Speak freely, I am not an easy man to offend."

“No. In truth, I had little idea of who you were. I simply do not trip over myself at the idea of an eligible suitor.” She frowns then, doll-like. “If you do not mind my asking, what… happened?”

That still doesn't explain why she ran away. Something else must be going on here. 

"I do not mind. I had a brother and a sister. My brother was often sickly - we never could afford to learn why - and he perished of hunger in the lean year." It wasn't so long ago, really, that dismal summer when the harvest failed and a common soldier's wage had been as nothing. "I learned my sister had passed shortly after I was knighted at the Battle for Gescat South. She had fled her husband, when he was in a temper," as he'd learned when he'd returned as Sir Voltur and beaten the truth out of the man, "and... it was a cold night."

She’s completely stopped moving, her eyes fixed on the man in horror. It’s only when some other frustrated woman jabs her in the ribs that she remembers where she is, and forces her feet to move along with the beat that has slowed in her ears.

What does she even say to that?

“…Oh.”

...He does not seem to have a good record when it comes to conversation with women here, does he. 

"It is all right," he assured her. "It is not so very uncommon a fate. And it has been some time, now." 

“I’m not sure what I would do if…” 

If that had been her, losing her siblings like that. No matter how annoying Gregory gets, or how stuffy Anthony is, or how prissy-perfect Daphne can be–

She can’t bear the thought.

Eloise swallows. What would her mother tell her to say? “I’m– sorry. Um. For your loss.”

The song is over, and partners across the floor bow and curtsy to one another. She keeps her eyes fixed on him, her cheeks pink. 

He bows to his partner, a beautiful woman with red hair, and departs.

A small smile. "Thank you." 

He scratches behind his head awkwardly.

"I- Miss Bridgerton, I apologise. I did not mean to upset you. I fear I have said a lot of things wrong this night. I- truly, all this is foreign to me."

She looks left and right, holding onto her skirt in bunches. “It’s alright. It’s, ah… it’s my first time out too.” Her laugh is awkward.

He lowers his head. "I think you have done very well, considering, Miss Bridgerton."

He takes his leave. 

He wanders out to the balcony, glass of champagne in hand. 

It's a cool clear night, and he half-closes his eyes in appreciation as the noise and the light fade away behind him. 

Before Voltur knows it, the elf is standing next to him – the first of these nobles to match his height. He gazes at Voltur in casual interest, leaning against the balustrade.

“You have certainly caused quite the stir.”

His fingers tighten on the stonework, and he's suddenly horribly conscious of his too-big-too-clumsy body stuffed into this ridiculous costume. 

"Have I?" It's not the cleverest thing to say, but he's too busy trying not to glare. 

He eyes spark in amusement. “Yes. The newly-titled soldier-duke, still settling into his new shoes.”

He scowls. He should insult the elf back, but he doesn't know how in this godsforsaken 'ton'. "Really. I'm sure I regret the upset I've apparently caused."

He laughs, unfazed. It’s beautiful, like a rose unfurling. “I know little of any upset caused. I merely wish to offer my aid.”

You do, do you? "I see. You know, I do not believe we've been introduced."

“Oh, I already know who you are.” He drags his eyes over Voltur’s frame. “But of course.”

He bows. “I am Ophel. Son of Hyranon of Valdarin.”

He inclines his head very slightly. "And what do you mean by aid, Lord Ophel?"

The corner of his lip twitches. The expression disappears in a blink of Voltur’s eye.

“You wish to be one of them. You seek integration. Is that correct?”

He grinds his teeth. Right now the last thing he wants is to be like this smug prick. He never even thought about wanting this. He doesn't want to be one of them, he's just here and now he has to, it's not like he can just go home, if he left society the country might collapse. 

Time to be diplomatic.

"What are you getting at?"

“I can teach you.”