Page 10 of The Duke’s Duet

Melody had stared at the handwritten note that had arrived with her morning chocolate, her fingers trembling slightly as they traced Brightwood's elegant script.

‘I have reconsidered. We shall perform the duet tomorrow evening. Might you come early today to rehearse? – B.’

She'd read the words a dozen times, yet still could hardly believe them. After their heated discussion about the duet, after his initial refusal, after the way he'd avoided any mention of it in their subsequent rehearsals... what had changed his mind?

Now, a few hours later, standing in Brightwood House's music room, watching him arrange scores on the pianoforte with precise, careful movements, she hardly dared breathe lest something shatter this fragile moment.

"Your Grace?" Her voice emerged softer than she’d intended. "Are you certain about this?"

He turned, and something in his expression made her heart skip. Gone was the careful mask of Ducal authority, replaced by a quiet determination that transformed his features.

"Quite certain."

He held out the score for Marcello's ‘Heart's Surrender’ - the piece she'd suggested for their duet.

"Though we'll need to practice intensively. The harmonies in the final section are particularly challenging."

Melody moved closer, acutely aware of his proximity as she took the music from his hands. His fingers brushed hers in the exchange, and that tiny contact sent awareness shooting through her like lightning.

"I've been practicing my part," she admitted. "Just in case..."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Why does that not surprise me?"

They began with scales to warm up their voices, but even these simple exercises revealed their natural harmony. Their voices seemed to seek each other out, blending and twining together as if they'd sung together for years instead of minutes.

When they moved on to the actual piece, Melody found herself almost holding her breath between phrases, amazed by how perfectly their voices matched. Harper's rich baritone supported and enhanced her soprano, adding depths she'd never heard in the piece before.

They worked through the morning and into the afternoon, stopping only when Mrs. Williams insisted that they take refreshment. Even then, they continued to discuss interpretation, phrasing, and the subtle ways that they could make the piece their own.

"Here," Harper said, pointing to a particular passage, "if you hold this note just a fraction longer, I can adapt the tempo to match. It will make the emotion more immediate."

Melody leaned closer to see where he indicated, catching the scent of sandalwood that always seemed to cling to him.

"Yes, and then when the harmony shifts here..."

Her voice trailed off as she realised how near they stood, how his breath stirred the loose curls by her ear.

He stepped back quickly, clearing his throat.

"Shall we try it again?"

They sang until their voices began to tire, until the sunlight slanting through the windows turned golden with approaching evening. Until Melody knew with absolute certainty that tomorrow's performance would be either their greatest triumph or their most spectacular disaster.

For how could they possibly hide what passed between them when they sang together? How could anyone who heard them doubt that this was more than just music?

*****

The next evening, Melody stood in the small antechamber adjoining the ballroom, her heart thundering against her ribs.

Her gown of deep crimson silk rustled with each nervous movement, the rich fabric catching the light from the wall sconces and throwing warm shadows across her skin. She hadn't consciously chosen the colour to complement the formal black Harper would wear, yet seeing their reflection together in the long mirror earlier had made her breath catch.

They looked like two halves of the same whole, his darkness to her light, his restraint to her passion.

Through the door, she could hear the usual pre-concert murmur of conversation, louder tonight than at previous performances.

Word had spread about the planned duet, drawing an even larger audience than before. The familiar space had been rearranged to accommodate extra seating, and still footmen were bringing in additional chairs.

She caught fragments of speculation as various members of the ton filed past the doorway:

"...most unusual for a Duke to actually sing..."

"...wonder what possessed him to agree..."

"...quite shocking, really, to perform with a professional..."

"...lovely voice, they say, though of course one expects that of her kind..."

Each comment struck like a tiny blade, reminding her of exactly what they were risking. Harper's reputation, her own tenuous position in society, the success of the charity concerts themselves - all could be damaged by one misstep tonight.

She moved to the mirror, checking her appearance one final time. Her hair had been arranged in an elaborate style that emphasised the length of her neck - necessary for proper vocal projection, she'd told herself, though the way that Brightwood's eyes had lingered there during rehearsal suggested other considerations. Tiny garnets winked at her throat and ears, borrowed from her mother's precious collection of remembrances from better days.

A soft footstep behind her made her turn. Brightwood stood in the doorway, and the sight of him stole her breath. His evening clothes were, as always, perfectly tailored, the black superfine coat emphasising the breadth of his shoulders, the pristine white of his cravat making his features seem even more aristocratic. But something about his bearing was different. The rigid control he usually maintained had softened somehow, replaced by a quiet intensity that made her pulse quicken.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and for a moment the air between them seemed to crystallise, heavy with possibility.

"Are you ready?"

His voice was low, meant only for her ears, its rich timbre sending shivers down her spine.

"Yes." She was surprised by how steady her own voice sounded, when everything inside her trembled with awareness of him. "Though I'm not sure they are."

She gestured towards the door, indicating the chattering audience beyond.

"They don't matter." The simplicity of his statement caught her off guard. Coming from him - a man who had spent his entire life considering what others thought - it felt like a declaration of revolution. "Tonight is about the music. Nothing else."

But everything else hung between them, unspoken yet palpable - the way that his eyes lingered on her face, the slight tremor in his hands as he adjusted his cuffs, the heat that sparked whenever they stood too close. The music might be their excuse, but they both knew it had become something more.

The first half of the concert passed in a blur of familiar pieces and careful coordination. Melody sang her usual selections while Brightwood accompanied her on the pianoforte, their practiced partnership drawing warm applause. Yet there was a new tension underlying every note, a sense of anticipation that grew stronger as the evening progressed.

She caught glimpses of the audience between pieces - the Dowager Duchess in the front row, her face carefully neutral; Lady Sophia practically bouncing with excitement; Captain Winters leaning forward in his chair with intense interest. But mostly she watched Brightwood, the elegant line of his profile as he played, the controlled power in his hands as they moved across the keys, the occasional moments when his careful mask slipped, and real feeling showed through.

During the interval, they barely spoke. Words seemed dangerous somehow, too likely to break the spell that was building between them. Instead, they shared glances heavy with meaning, brief touches as they arranged the music for the second half.

When they retook their places for the duet, the audience fell so silent that Melody could hear the rustle of her own skirts, the soft sound of Brightwood's breath beside her, the subtle creak of the pianoforte bench as he settled himself. The air felt charged, as if lightning might strike at any moment. She watched his hands hover over the keys, noted the slight tremor in them that matched her own internal quivering.

Then he began the introduction, and everything changed.

His fingers moved across the keys with careful precision at first, each note perfectly placed, perfectly controlled. But Melody, watching his profile, saw the exact moment when the music caught him. The careful mask slipped, revealing the passion that he usually kept hidden, and his playing transformed from mere technical excellence into something alive with feeling.

Then she began to sing, and everything else fell away as his voice joined hers.

Their voices met and merged like two streams blending to form a river, flowing together with a rightness that took her breath away. The piece they'd chosen spoke of loyalty and honour, of choices between duty and desire, but underneath those proper sentiments ran a current of barely contained passion that neither of them could fully hide.

Each phrase built on the last, growing in intensity. When Brightwood's voice joined hers for the first harmony, Melody felt it like a physical touch. His baritone wrapped around her soprano, supporting, enhancing, challenging her to match his emotional depth. The connection between them grew stronger with each passing measure, until she could almost anticipate his every breath, every subtle variation in tempo.

She forgot about the audience, about propriety, about the difference in their stations. There was only this - their voices twining together, creating something more beautiful than either could achieve alone. She forgot to be afraid of revealing too much, forgot to maintain her professional distance. The music stripped away all pretence, leaving only truth.

In the middle section, where the melody passed back and forth between them like lovers exchanging promises, she found herself turning slightly to face him. His eyes met hers over the pianoforte, and the heat in them made her voice quiver on the next note. But he followed her instinctively, adjusting his accompaniment to support the slight tremor, turning it into an embellishment that made the phrase even more powerful.

As they approached the final section, where the harmonies grew more complex and emotionally charged, Melody felt herself falling deeper into the performance. Her body swayed slightly with the music, moving closer to Brightwood as if drawn by some invisible force. His playing had lost all traces of rigid control, becoming as passionate and free as anything she'd ever heard from him in his late night sessions.

Their voices soared together through the last phrases, building to a climax that left Melody trembling with more than just artistic satisfaction. The harmonies grew more intense, more intimate, speaking of things that proper society never acknowledged. Her voice wrapped around his, his around hers, until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

The final note hung in the air between them, perfect and bright, vibrating with all the emotions they'd poured into their performance. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Brightwood's eyes held hers, dark with feelings that had nothing to do with music and everything to do with the connection sparking between them. Time seemed to stop, the world narrowing to just the two of them and the lingering echo of their harmony.

Then the silence shattered as applause crashed over them like a wave, startling Melody back to awareness of their surroundings. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once - not the polite appreciation of previous performances, but genuine enthusiasm. She turned to curtsey to the audience, trying to steady her racing pulse, to regain some semblance of proper composure.

But she could still feel Brightwood's presence beside her as he rose to bow, could still taste the lingering sweetness of their harmony. Her skin felt too tight, too warm, every nerve ending alive with awareness of him. When she dared to glance his way, she found him watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

What had they just revealed to everyone watching? What truth had escaped in the music they'd made together? And most dangerous of all - what had they revealed to each other?

As the applause continued, showing no signs of diminishing, Melody caught sight of the Dowager Duchess' face in the front row. The older woman's expression was unreadable, but her eyes moved between Brightwood and Melody with sharp understanding.

They would have to face the consequences of this performance soon enough. But for now, with the audience still applauding and Brightwood's warmth still beside her, Melody allowed herself to savour the lingering magic of what they'd created together.

*****

The reception following the concert felt different from previous evenings. Melody noticed it immediately - a subtle shift in how people approached her, how they spoke to her. The usual condescension had been replaced by something closer to genuine curiosity.

"My dear Miss Piper," Lady Jersey's voice cut through the general murmur of conversation. "You must tell me where you studied. Such remarkable control in the upper register."

The question felt different from her usual patronising inquiries. There was real interest there, and something else - a weighing, an assessment, as if she were being measured against some unknown standard.

"My father was my primary teacher, my Lady," Melody replied carefully. "Though I was fortunate enough to study briefly with Signor Rossi when he visited London three years ago."

"Rossi? How fascinating. I heard him perform in Milan once..."

Lady Jersey launched into a detailed discussion of vocal technique that revealed far more knowledge than Melody had suspected she possessed. As they talked, Melody became aware of other changes in the room's dynamics. Where before she had been kept slightly apart from the ton's inner circles, now she found herself being drawn into their conversations, included in their discussions.

It was subtle - a slight turning of bodies to include her in their group, a direct question about her opinions on music, a shared smile at some witty observation.

She caught glimpses of Brightwood across the room, engaged in his own conversations. Their eyes met occasionally, each glance carrying the weight of their shared performance. The connection they'd forged through the music seemed to linger, making her acutely aware of his every movement.

"Miss Piper." Captain Winters approached, leaning on his cane. His face bore lines of pain, but his eyes were bright with genuine warmth. "I must thank you personally. These concerts have raised more funds than we dared hope for our veterans."

"I'm honoured to have been part of it, Captain."

"More than just part." He gestured with his free hand to encompass the crowded room. "Look at them all - society's finest, drawn here by your music. And now..." He smiled slightly. "Now they can't quite decide what to make of you."

"I'm not sure that I understand."

"Don't you? That duet..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It showed them something they rarely see in their world of careful manners and proper behaviour. Real feeling. Real passion. Real..." His eyes flickered toward Brightwood, "connection."

Melody felt heat rise in her cheeks at Captain Winters' knowing look.

"We merely wished to make the concert memorable, sir."

"Oh, it was that." His smile widened slightly. "Though perhaps not quite in the way that the Dowager Duchess anticipated."

At the mention of Brightwood's mother, Melody's gaze automatically sought her out. The Dowager Duchess stood near the fireplace, her amethysts catching the light as she moved. Though engaged in conversation with Lady Pembroke, her eyes constantly tracked between Brightwood and Melody, missing nothing.

Throughout the evening, Melody found herself increasingly aware of that careful scrutiny.

It wasn't hostile, exactly, but rather watchful - as if the Dowager Duchess were trying to solve some complex puzzle.

"Miss Piper!" Lady Sophia's enthusiasm cut through her thoughts. "That was magnificent! The way that your voices blended together... I've never heard anything like it. You simply must teach me that piece."

"I'm not certain that would be appropriate," Melody began, but the girl's eager expression made her soften. "Though perhaps we might find something similar for your range."

"Oh, would you? Mama has finally agreed to the lessons, you know. The Dowager Duchess spoke to her personally about it."

This was news to Melody.

She glanced again at Brightwood's mother, wondering at her intervention.

The older woman caught her look and inclined her head slightly, though her expression remained unreadable.

As the evening drew to a close, Melody found herself both exhausted and exhilarated.

Everything had changed tonight - she could feel it in the way that people spoke to her, looked at her, included her. Yet she wasn't sure if this change was for the better, or the worse.

"Allow me to escort you to your carriage."

Brightwood's voice behind her made her start.

She turned to find him standing closer than propriety strictly allowed, his eyes still holding that intensity from their performance.

He offered her his arm, and she placed her hand on the warm strength of it, feeling almost as if, that small touch was dangerous, as if something between them might burst into flames from just that.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

The walk to her carriage seemed both endless and far too short. Harper's arm was steady beneath her hand as he guided her, but that slight contact burned through the silk of her glove like a brand.

The night air had grown cool, but she felt feverish, every nerve ending alive with awareness of him.

At the carriage, he handed her up, his fingers closing briefly around hers. That simple touch sent sensation shooting up her arm, making her breath catch. Their eyes met, and in his she saw the same tumult of emotions that churned inside her - desire, confusion, fear of what they might be starting.

"Good night, Miss Piper."

"Good night, Your Grace."

But neither moved.

For a long moment they stood frozen, her hand in his, while the possibilities of what might be warred with the reality of what must be.

Then the main door of the house opened somewhere behind them, spilling light and voices into the night, and the moment shattered.

Brightwood stepped back, dropping her hand as if it burned him. Melody sank into her seat, her fingers still tingling where he'd touched them.

As the carriage pulled away, she caught one last glimpse of him standing in the lamplight, his face a study in controlled longing that probably was matched by her own.