"Not quite- well. Not usually, no. I had only ever seen women in that light, but- well, there are exceptions." 

She stares at him, hard. “Stop being evasive. Of all people, I thought you were the only person I could trust to take me seriously, so– stop it. I am going to ask one more time: what does this have to do with Lord Ophel staying with you?”

Oh for- "I don't even understand it myself, Eloise! He- he and I- we were involved in that sort of way, a little, very briefly - and then he just turned up here, I thought little of it, it was - I think some sort of joke, I truly do not understand elves, I-" it feels so ridiculous to explain, "I had caused some damage to his house and arranged repairs in a way I knew would annoy him- and then he said it would be unfair on you to continue. We have not spoken much since." He trails off. 

“You were… involved with him. While… engaged. To me.”

Her head spins.

"Not - the way you are thinking. I kissed him once." He frowns. "Eloise - I know you have no interest in me as a man. I truly did not imagine this would trouble you? Why does it?"

“You– you– you kissed him. And– you cannot imagine why that would trouble me? I trusted you!”

It is getting difficult to breathe– stupid corset. 

“There are plenty of loveless marriages in the ton, yes, but it is a mark of honour to not– to not go about kissing other people, to not have a– a mistress, when you are promised to another! I… if you had not made me swear to keep your secret, this would give me every possible ground to end our– our sham of an engagement. You will not even allow me that.”

Eloise stands, backing away from him, a look of betrayal on her face. She holds the dragon protectively in her arms. “Do you know what the worst part is? I might have even given you my blessing, had you told me before.”

He squeezes his fists closed until his fingernails bite into his palms, and then unclenches them. 

Deep breath. 

He has fought dragons; this will not master him. 

He crosses the room to his decanter, pours out a measure of whisky.

"I - was under the impression that the men of the ton - well, at least pretended not to have mistresses, out of duty to their wives, who wished to have their men to themselves - but you do not want me, Eloise, you cannot say you ever did. So no, Eloise. I truly did not imagine this would concern you at all." 

He squeezes his eyes shut briefly. 

"I would say, if it would get us out of our engagement, then by all means tell the tale - except that I worry for the kingdom. This would - the ton might spurn me, but my men would not desert me over this, the Church would certainly not dissolve their oaths of service for it. And so the Queen and the ton would be in an impossible position - I fear further unrest - but I suppose it ought not to be my decision alone. If you think it best - then do so." 

He pours another measure, hands it to her. 

"I really did not think this false engagement would bind either of us. In case it is not clear - I would not consider it my business if you were involved with another man. Or woman, in fact."

She does not take the drink. As Voltur speaks, she watches him with that same expression of hurt on her face– until he utters those final words.

“A– a woman? Why would you even suggest that?”

His face changes. 

"Oh."

A number of things snap into place all at once. 

What this calls for is delicacy. 

"Eloise - it is all right. The ton is no more right about this than they are about women in general."

Eloise’s face hardens. “I do not know what you mean. Please leave me alone. I wish to spend some time with Edmund before I go.” Her words are uncharacteristically rigid.

He shifts uncertainly, clinging on hard. He squeaks. 

All right, the hell with delicacy. He stands his ground. 

"You know exactly what I mean. 'Pigs may not question why they live in mud, but the gods gave women reason, and they need only use it to see through the lies that surround them', wasn't it?" She'd written those words, he'd had Talen read them to him. "You're going to be a wizard, Eloise. You can't be scared of the truth. It just carries on being true anyway."

“Leave me alone.”

"I am disappointed, Miss Bridgerton."

He turns on his heel, and leaves. Goes to his quarters and beats a punching bag until his knuckles are raw. 

The elf comes back later that night. Eloise is gone.

He laughs dryly into the empty house, leaning against the bannister as drunken footsteps climb the stairs.

He appears, wraithlike, stripped bare to his waist. The lamplight gleams off his skin, his breath coming in gasps, a half-empty dwarfglass bottle clenched too tightly in one hand.

He stares at the elf for a moment. 

“What on earth have you done to your hands?”

"Hmm? Training. They'll heal. Heal back stronger. Where have you been?"

“Ending things with Wetherby.” He laughs again in that same way. “How convenient that your training were to fall today, after this afternoon’s issue of Whistledown. And with Miss Bridgerton nowhere in sight, of course.”

He arrives at the top of the staircase, where he can look Voltur in the eye.

“Some would call that self-harm, you know.”

"Some are fools who think too much and do too little. I will be stronger for this, not weaker. And so I need to be, it seems."

He frowns. “Idiot. You are hurting yourself.”

Ophel steps closer, reaching out with his hands. “Here. Let me see.”