"How kind of you, Lord Ophel," he manages after a moment. 

Should he accept? That... probably has diplomatic implications... it's suddenly quite hard to think. 

"I shall... bear your very considerate offer in mind," he says, and then avails himself of the Eloise Bridgerton strategy and flees. 

Voltur can’t get the elf’s perfume out of his tunic.

Luckily, he now has more clothes than he knows what to do with.

He is so very very unsure of this. 

He shifts in his incredibly fancy carriage, because Dukes apparently aren't allowed to use the legs the gods gave them, and straightens his new tunic for the hundredth time. 

"Duke Voltur," she'd said to him crisply the night before, "I do hope you have enjoyed your evening? Perhaps even made friends? I trust that you have been... informed of the tradition of calling hours..."

He rolls up to Bridgerton House. Fancy. Two men paid good money to just stand outside all day looking expensive and scary. He shouldn't even be allowed near a place like this-

He gets out, holding a bunch of flowers Talen had acquired for him on extremely short notice. 

He is announced. He is here to call on Miss Eloise. 

…What?

She snaps her book shut and shoots upright, crestfallen.

“A caller? For me? Are you certain?”

“Don’t look too pleased, sister.” He snickers, tossing an apple into the air.

Spitefully, she swats it from his hand. It tumbles to the ground, rolling to a stop at–

Oh, gods.

The Duke Voltur’s feet.

Eloise is mortified.

He raises his eyebrows and stoops to grab the apple faster than an even-more-embarrassed-looking servant can swoop in. 

"Miss Bridgerton. Good morning."

He glances over at Benedict with a feeling of some relief. He likes that man. He seems normal.

Benedict grins and tips an invisible hat in his direction.

She was focussing on a particularly tricky bit of embroidery, and a few moments' distraction has already led to disaster-

She stands up, all a-flutter. His Grace is the first man she's ever heard her daughter speak of in even neutral terms, and she is not going to allow her terribly foolish second son to spoil anything that might possibly be developing between them. Maybe there could be two Duchesses in the family?

"Oh, Your Grace, how kind of you to come," she twitters, hurrying forwards to distract from her daughter's helplessness. "Please, sit down- you must have some refreshment-" she had in fact heard it rumoured that the Duke preferred rather... indelicate beverages, and hastened to acquire some just in case. 

"Benedict, dear, why don't you go and speak with Anthony about that visit with Daphne and the Duke of Hastings..."

“What visi– ow!” Violet jabs him in the ribs, and he bounds away on this wild goose chase of his mother’s design. He winks at Voltur as he disappears down the hallway.

Oh no. She is left undefended.

Eloise swallows, and remembers to curtsy. It is a little less dismissive and a little more stiff than last time. “Your Grace.”

He nods respectfully. "I brought these for you."

They are very nice flowers. He has no idea where Talen got them. 

“…Peonies. Thank you.” She purses her lips. “I am afraid that I am allergic.”

Okay, that’s not entirely true, but she does feel nauseous every time Simon sends her sister flowers when she visits home, so it’s not entirely a lie either.

"Eloise Bridgerton no you are not."

She smiles ingratiatingly at the Duke.

He laughs, surprising himself. "I'll set them on the table, then, just in case."

Oh. That didn’t scare him off.

“Thank you,” she says again, a little more softly this time.

They are made to sit down. Eloise’s posture is awkward, and she clears her throat a few times. Her cheeks are tinged with pink. A servant offers her a glass of water, which she manages not to spill down her front. Is it warm in here? She feels very warm in here.

Nobody has ever actually called on her yet. Not that she’d ever let them before. She watched Daphne a few times last season, but the whole affair was just so dull and demeaning that she never really thought about actually being in that situation.

Pelor, help.

...Er. What exactly does he say now?

Oh, the hell with it, he was never good at this anyway, he'll just be honest.

"I enjoyed dancing with you last night. I had hoped to make up for my, ah, deficiencies in conversation this morning."

Her mother is so obviously eavesdropping. Pretending to arrange the flowers the Duke brought is getting her nowhere. Ugh.

“Right. Is this you doing that, then?” She… hadn’t meant to sound so biting.

Dancing with him had been alright.

He just grins at her. "I think it can fairly be said that it is me trying. Do you talk like this to everyone, or am I special?"

That was not appropriately noble of him, but he is not going to just stand there and take it like a helpless lump. 

She blushes, directing her glare to the floor. One day she will make the flagstones tremble.

“There certainly is something ‘special’ about you, I shall grant you that. Is riveting conversation all you have come for, then?”

She's easily rattled for a woman so fierce. "Yes, it is. Is an interest in intelligent conversation so surprising? Another special quality of mine, perhaps?"

He realises that, amazingly, he's starting to have fun here.