Page 1 of The Duke’s Duet

Harper Devereaux, Duke of Brightwood, stepped through the ornate doors of his London residence with a heavy sigh. Though the gentle April breeze carried the scent of spring blossoms through the streets, his afternoon at White's had left him with a throbbing headache. The endless discussions of Parliament, horse racing, and the latest on-dits had been particularly tedious today.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace," Simmons, his butler, materialised in the foyer, accepting Harper's hat and gloves with practiced efficiency. "I trust your afternoon was pleasant?"

"Hardly," Harper replied, straightening his already immaculate cuffs. "Has anything of import occurred during my absence?"

Simmons' face remained impassive, but Harper detected a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

"The Dowager Duchess awaits your presence in your study, Your Grace. She mentioned a matter of some urgency."

Harper suppressed a groan. His mother's ‘urgent matters’ typically involved attempts to draw him further into society than he cared to venture. Since inheriting the Dukedom three years ago, he had fulfilled his responsibilities with meticulous attention — managing his estates, participating in the House of Lords, maintaining the family's standing — but he preferred to do so from the periphery of social affairs.

"Very well. Bring tea to the study."

"At once, Your Grace."

Harper made his way down the corridor, his footsteps muffled by the thick Aubusson carpet. The familiar scent of beeswax and leather greeted him as he opened the door to his sanctuary. His mother sat in one of the wing chairs near the fireplace, her posture as regal as ever, despite her advancing years. Catherine, Dowager Duchess of Brightwood, was a formidable woman whose delicate appearance belied her iron will.

"Brightwood," she acknowledged, using his title as was her custom. "I was beginning to think you intended to spend the entire day at your club."

"Mother." He bent to kiss her cheek before taking the seat opposite. "Simmons mentioned that you had something urgent to discuss?"

The Dowager Duchess arranged her dove-grey skirts with careful precision.

"Indeed. I have been contemplating our position in society."

Harper immediately tensed. Such openings rarely boded well.

"Our position appears perfectly secure to me," he replied cautiously.

"Secure, yes, but not advancing." Her shrewd eyes assessed him. "You have done admirably in maintaining the Brightwood legacy, but there is more to be done if you wish to enhance our standing."

"And what, pray tell, do you believe requires enhancement?"

"Your reputation as a patron of worthy causes." She leaned forward, her voice warming with enthusiasm. "I have had the most excellent idea - a series of charity concerts to benefit war veterans."

Harper blinked.

"Concerts?"

"Five of them, spaced throughout the Season. With peace now restored to the Continent, society has been rather quick to forget the sacrifices made by our brave soldiers. Many have returned wounded, unable to support themselves or their families."

Harper's brow furrowed. While he had no quarrel with supporting veterans — indeed, he already contributed generously to several funds — the prospect of organising public events filled him with dread. Such affairs would require precisely the sort of visibility he preferred to avoid.

"Surely there are more efficient ways to assist veterans. A direct donation, perhaps?"

"Money alone is not the point." The Dowager Duchess dismissed his suggestion with a wave of her hand. "These concerts would serve multiple purposes. They would raise funds, certainly, but they would also remind society of its obligations to those who fought for England. More importantly, they would establish you as a man of compassion and cultural refinement."

A footman entered with the tea service, providing Harper a momentary reprieve as he collected his thoughts. Once they were alone again, he poured for them both, though that might normally be his mother’s prerogative, using the familiar ritual to delay his response.

"I appreciate your concern for my reputation, Mother, but I've little interest in hosting a series of musical entertainments merely to polish my social standing."

The Dowager Duchess accepted her cup, her expression turning serious.

"This is not merely about social standing, Brightwood. Consider Captain Winters."

Harper stilled. Captain James Winters had served with distinction before losing his leg at Waterloo. The son of a gentleman farmer, he had returned to find his family's modest estate nearly ruined by poor management in his absence.

"What of him?"

"I encountered him in the park yesterday. Despite his injury, he refuses assistance, insisting that he can rebuild his family's fortunes himself. His pride does him credit, but pride will not feed his younger siblings or repair their home." She set her cup down with a decisive clink. "He is but one of hundreds in similar circumstances. These men deserve more than our pity — they deserve our respect and our practical assistance."

Harper's resistance wavered. He had been fortunate to avoid military service himself, his responsibilities as heir having kept him at home while other men fought and died. The guilt of that privilege weighed on him at times.

"Brightwood," his mother continued softly, "you hold influence that could genuinely help these men. The concerts would attract those with both means and connections. Patrons who might offer positions, investments, or other opportunities."

Harper sighed, recognising the subtle manipulation but acknowledging the worthy cause.

"And I suppose that you have already begun planning these concerts?"

A smile of triumph flashed across the Dowager Duchess's face.

"I have made inquiries regarding suitable venues and potential performers. Brightwood House would serve admirably for the first and last concerts, with perhaps Lord Pembroke's music room for one of the others."

"Pembroke? You've discussed this with him already?"

"Merely in passing." Her innocent tone fooled neither of them. "He seemed quite enthusiastic about the prospect."

Harper closed his eyes briefly. The Earl of Pembroke had been his closest friend since their days at Eton. If he too supported this scheme, resistance would be twice as difficult.

"I presume that you have performers in mind as well?"

"Several. There is a soprano who has been causing quite a stir in more refined circles — a Miss Piper. Her father is a respected music master, and she has a voice that reportedly brings listeners to tears. She would be the featured performer, with a pianist to accompany her."

Harper tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, weighing his options. He could refuse, but his mother would simply find another avenue to pursue her objective. Better to maintain some control over the proceedings.

"Five concerts seems excessive," he countered. "Three would surely suffice."

"Five allows us to build momentum throughout the Season. The first to introduce the cause, the last as a grand finale, with three between to maintain interest." She paused, studying him. "You need not attend every rehearsal or manage every detail. Your name and occasional presence would be sufficient."

Harper recognised that he was being offered a compromise.

"And the proceeds would go directly to a fund for veterans? No diversion to other charitable causes, no matter how worthy?"

"Exclusively to veterans. I give you my word."

He drummed his fingers once more, then nodded curtly.

"Very well. I will sponsor these concerts, but I expect to approve all arrangements before they are finalised."

The Dowager Duchess beamed with satisfaction.

"Excellent! I shall begin making formal arrangements immediately. You will not regret this, Brightwood."

Harper rather thought that he already did, but kept the observation to himself.

"If that is all, Mother, I have correspondence to attend to."

Taking the hint, she rose gracefully.

"I shall leave you to your work. We will discuss the details further at dinner."

After she departed, Harper remained seated, staring into the cold hearth. The prospect of organising these concerts — of being the centre of attention, even for a worthy cause — filled him with a familiar discomfort. He had spent years cultivating a reputation for dignified reserve, for impeccable management of his affairs without drawing undue notice. These concerts would thrust him into precisely the sort of scrutiny he preferred to avoid.

With a sigh, he moved to his desk, intending to review the estate reports that had arrived that morning. Instead, his gaze drifted to the door that connected his study to a smaller chamber beyond. After a moment's hesitation, he crossed the room and unlocked the door.

The private music room was modest compared to the grand music salon on the first floor. A single pianoforte stood in the centre, its polished surface gleaming in the late afternoon light. Harper closed the door behind him and settled onto the bench, running his fingers lightly over the keys without pressing them.

This room was his secret. Not that his family was unaware of its existence — his mother had redesigned the house when she first became Duchess, after all — but they remained ignorant of the hours he spent here, finding solace in music that he could never express in words.

He began to play, softly at first, a melancholy Mozart sonata that matched his mood. As the music flowed from his fingers, he remembered his father's voice, cold with disapproval: ‘A gentleman may appreciate music, my son, but he does not perform it like some common entertainer. Your obsession with this instrument is unbecoming of your station.’

The memory of the riding crop striking his hands made his fingers falter on a passage. He had been fifteen then, caught playing when he should have been reviewing estate accounts. After that day, he had hidden his passion, indulging it only in private moments like this.

These charity concerts would bring him uncomfortably close to that forbidden world — the world of performers and musicians, of passion expressed through art rather than contained within rigid propriety. He would organise them, yes, but he would remain firmly on the side of patronage, not participation.

The music shifted beneath his hands, the Mozart giving way to something darker, more intense — Beethoven now, the composer whose work he admired but rarely played where anyone else might hear. There was too much emotion in these notes, too much of the raw feeling that the Duke of Brightwood must never display.

As the final chords faded, Harper closed the pianoforte with a gentle click.

He would do his duty - sponsor these concerts, make his appearances, support the veterans. But he would maintain his distance from the music itself.

That, at least, was what he told himself as he locked the music room door behind him.

*****

Melody Piper stood at the parlour window, watching evening shadows stretch across the modest London street.

Behind her, the soft notes of her father's pianoforte filled their small home. Though the instrument was far from new, Mr. Edmund Piper maintained it with meticulous care, ensuring that its tone remained warm and true.

"You're distracted today, my dear," he observed, pausing in his playing. "Are you concerned about the Duke's concert?"

Melody turned from the window, absently tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

"Not concerned precisely. Curious, perhaps. It's an unusual opportunity."

"Indeed it is." Her father shuffled through his sheet music. "Performing at Brightwood House could open many doors, particularly with the patronage the Duke can provide."

Melody crossed the room to stand beside the pianoforte, running her fingers lightly over its worn surface.

"I wonder what prompted a Duke to sponsor concerts for war veterans. From what I've heard, the Duke of Brightwood rarely engages in such public activities."

"The influence of the Dowager Duchess, most likely. She has always been known for her charitable endeavours." Mr Piper adjusted his spectacles. "Whatever the motivation, we should be grateful. This series of concerts will provide steady income for the next few months, not to mention the exposure to potential patrons."

Melody nodded, though her expression remained thoughtful.

The practical benefits were undeniable — her performances supplemented her father's teaching income, helping to maintain their modest but respectable lifestyle, and providing for her younger sister Clara's education.

Yet experience had taught her that performing before aristocratic audiences often came with complications.

"I received the music selections yesterday," she said, indicating a portfolio on the side table. "Mr. Fletcher will accompany me on the pianoforte. He seems competent enough, though we've had only one brief rehearsal."

"Fletcher?" Edmund frowned. "I'm not familiar with the name."

"He's recently arrived from Bath. Pleasant enough manner, though rather rigid in his interpretation." She smiled slightly. "I suspect we may have some artistic disagreements before the concert is done."

Her father chuckled.

"Try not to overwhelm the poor man with your 'interpretations’, my dear. Not everyone appreciates your creative approach to tempo and phrasing."

"Music should breathe, Papa. It should live." Melody moved to stand beside him, examining the score open before him. "What joy is there in perfect notes played without soul?"

"A philosophy that has served your voice well," Mr Piper conceded, "but one that has occasionally tested the patience of your accompanists."

Melody laughed, then sobered as she considered the upcoming performance.

"The audience will be entirely from the highest circles. I must be particularly careful of my conduct."

Mr Piper's expression grew serious.

"Indeed. Your talent may gain their admiration, but it will not protect you from improper advances. You must maintain professional distance at all times."

The warning was unnecessary.

At twenty-four, Melody had learned through bitter experience that many gentlemen viewed female performers as fair game for flirtation or worse, regardless of their actual station.

That her voice could move an audience to tears did not prevent some men from seeing her as little more than an amusing diversion to be pursued and conquered.

"I shall be the very model of propriety," she assured him, then added with a mischievous smile, "at least until I open my mouth to sing."

Mr Piper shook his head in fond exasperation.

"Come, let us rehearse once more. The Handel especially requires more refinement."

Melody positioned herself beside the pianoforte, drew a deep breath, and, as the sound of the pianoforte filled the room, began to sing.

The familiar ritual of practice engulfed her, and she pushed aside thoughts of Dukes and high society, losing herself in the music that had been her solace and joy since childhood.

Whatever challenges tomorrow's performance might bring, for now there was only the pure pleasure of her voice blending with her father's skilled accompaniment in the safety of their modest home.

Here, at least, she could be entirely herself, without fear of judgment or unwelcome attention.

Here, the music could truly soar.