Page 11 of The Duke’s Duet

White's usually offered Harper a refuge from society's endless demands - a place where he could retreat into the comfortable silence of the reading room or lose himself in a game of billiards. But this morning, the familiar leather chairs and tobacco-scented air provided no such sanctuary.

He'd barely crossed the threshold when the whispers began, following him like persistent shadows:

"...quite extraordinary performance..."

"...never heard anything like it..."

"...seems a bit beneath his dignity, wouldn't you say?"

The last comment came from Lord Rutland, a pompous older peer who had never quite forgiven Harper's father for some ancient slight. Harper ignored him with practiced ease, though his fingers itched to shape themselves into fists. Instead, he made his way to his usual corner, hoping to lose himself in the morning papers.

But the papers, it seemed, had other ideas. The social pages of the Morning Post contained a lengthy description of the previous evening's concert, with particular attention paid to his duet with Melody. The writer had waxed poetic about their ‘remarkable harmony’ and ‘evident artistic rapport’.

Artistic rapport.

Was that what they were calling it?

Harper remembered the way that Melody's voice had wrapped around his, the heat in her eyes when they'd exchanged glances over the pianoforte, the electric awareness that had sparked between them with every shared breath. Rapport seemed an inadequate word for what they'd created together.

"Well, well." Lord Pembroke's familiar drawl cut through his thoughts. "If it isn't London's newest musical sensation."

Harper looked up to find his friend watching him with that knowing expression that always spelled trouble.

"Hardly that."

"No? The Morning Post seems to think otherwise." Pembroke dropped into the chair opposite, uninvited but undeterred. "Though I must say, their description barely does justice to what actually occurred. I've never seen anything quite like it."

"It was just a performance."

"Was it?" Pembroke's voice dropped lower. "Because from where I sat, it looked rather more like a declaration."

Harper's hands tightened on the newspaper.

"You're imagining things."

"Am I? Then you might wish to tell your face to be less expressive when you sing with her. The way you looked at her during that final harmony..." He shook his head. "Half the ton was holding its breath, waiting to see if you'd kiss her right there on the stage."

The truth of his friend's words struck uncomfortably close to home. Harper had wanted to kiss her - had barely restrained himself from doing exactly that after their voices joined in that last, perfect note.

"Charles," he said quietly, warning clear in his tone. "Enough."

But for once, Pembroke didn't back down.

"No, old friend, not enough. Not this time. You need to hear this." He glanced around to ensure that they had some privacy before continuing. "The ton is talking. Some admire the artistic collaboration, praise your dedication to the charitable cause. Others..." He hesitated. "Others are suggesting less innocent motivations."

Ice formed in Harper's stomach.

"What exactly are they saying?"

"What you might expect," Pembroke replied carefully. "That you've found an... interesting way to pursue a dalliance with a beautiful performer. That she's using her musical talents to catch herself a Duke. That the whole charitable endeavour is merely a cover for—"

"Stop." Harper's voice emerged as a harsh whisper, his hands clenching into fists beneath the table. "How dare they suggest... She's an artist. A lady. They have no right—"

"Of course they have no right. When has that ever stopped the ton from speculating? From destroying reputations for their own amusement?" Pembroke leaned forward, his usual levity replaced by genuine concern. "You know how this works, Brightwood. Better than most. If they can't understand something, they'll create their own explanations. And what happened last night... that connection between you... it frightens them."

"Frightens them?" The idea seemed absurd. "It was merely a musical performance."

"Was it? Because I've attended hundreds of musical performances in my life, and I've never seen anything like what passed between you two on that stage. It was raw, real, passionate - everything that proper society pretends doesn't exist." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "You laid your hearts bare in that music, both of you. And now you're surprised that people noticed?"

Harper stared unseeing at the newspaper before him, remembering Melody's face as they sang together, the way that her eyes had held his, full of trust and something deeper that he dared not name.

The thought that their performance might damage her reputation made him physically ill.

"What would you have me do?" he asked finally. "Cancel the remaining concerts?"

"Good God, no. That would only confirm their worst suspicions." Pembroke sighed. "But perhaps... some distance might be wise? Limit your interactions to purely professional matters? And for heaven's sake, no more duets that make half the audience wonder if they're witnessing something they shouldn't."

The suggestion made perfect sense. It was exactly what a responsible Duke should do - protect both their reputations through careful propriety and emotional distance. Yet the mere thought of retreating behind those walls again, of denying the connection they'd forged, felt like contemplating voluntary amputation.

"She doesn't deserve this," he said quietly. "To have her reputation questioned, her artistry reduced to gossip fodder..."

"No, she doesn't. But she's a professional performer - she must have known the risks when she agreed to the duet." Pembroke studied his friend's face. "Unless... Brightwood, tell me you haven't let yourself develop real feelings for her."

The silence that followed was answer enough.

"Dear God." Pembroke ran a hand through his hair. "You have, haven't you? This isn't just artistic appreciation or physical attraction. You're actually falling in love with her."

"I don't know what I'm feeling."

But even as he said it, Harper knew it for a lie. He knew exactly what he felt for Melody - had known since their voices first joined together in perfect harmony. He simply hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge it until now.

"You need to end this," Pembroke said softly. "Before it destroys you both."

Before Harper could respond, Lord Rutland's voice carried across the room.

"Most irregular, wouldn't you say? A Duke performing love songs with a common musician? In my day, such a thing would never have been permitted."

Harper's chair scraped back as he stood, his movement sharp with barely contained fury. Pembroke's hand shot out to grasp his arm.

"Don't. You'll only make it worse."

"He called her common." Harper's voice emerged as a growl. "She has more genuine artistry in one note than that pompous fool has in his entire being."

"And defending her honour will only give credence to the worst rumours." Pembroke's grip tightened. "Think, man. Think of her reputation if you challenge someone over this."

*****

Harper stood at the window of his study, watching darkness gather in the garden beyond.

He'd fled his club shortly after Pembroke's warning, unable to bear the whispers and significant looks any longer. But even here, in his private sanctuary, he found no peace.

His mind kept returning to the duet, to the way that Melody's voice had twined with his, to the perfect harmony they'd created together.

The soft sound of the door opening made him stiffen. Only one person would enter without knocking - his mother had always claimed that particular privilege.

"I thought I might find you here." The Dowager Duchess' voice was carefully neutral. "You missed dinner."

"I wasn't hungry."

He didn't turn from the window, though he saw her reflection approaching in the darkened glass.

"No? Or perhaps you're avoiding the conversation you know we must have?"

That made him turn.

His mother stood in the centre of the room, elegant as always in deep purple silk, the amethysts at her throat catching the last light from the windows. But it was her expression that caught his attention - not anger or disappointment, but something more complex.

Understanding?

Sympathy?

Concern?

"If you've come to lecture me about propriety—"

"I've come," she cut in gently, "to talk about what happened last night. About what I saw - what everyone saw - during that performance."

"We created something beautiful. Even you must admit that."

His fingers traced idle patterns on his desk.

"Beautiful? Yes. The musicianship was extraordinary. The artistic connection undeniable." She paused, then added softly, "But we both know it wasn't just artistic connection on that stage."

Harper's fingers stilled.

"Mother—"

"Let me finish." She moved closer, her skirts rustling in the quiet room. "I saw your father look at me that way once. In a garden in Florence, when protocol and position meant nothing compared to the music we made together."

The reference to their own love story caught him off guard.

"That was different."

"Was it? Because I remember exactly how it felt to sing with someone and know that they saw past every carefully constructed facade to the real person beneath. To feel that perfect harmony and know it meant something more than just music."

Her words struck too close to home. Harper turned away, but not before she caught the flash of pain across his face.

"Miss Piper," she continued carefully, "is undoubtedly talented. Her passion for music is genuine, her artistic integrity beyond question. In many ways, she reminds me of myself at that age - full of dreams and determination, believing that love and music could conquer all obstacles."

"But they didn't, did they?" Harper's voice emerged harsher than intended. "Father changed. The music died. Duty won."

"Your father did what he had to do. What you must do now."

"Must I? Must I deny everything real and true in my life for the sake of proper behaviour? Become another empty shell of a Duke, going through the motions without feeling?"

"Is that what you think your father was?" His mother's voice sharpened. "An empty shell? He loved me until his dying day. Loved music too, though he couldn't show it. But he understood what you seem determined to ignore - that some things matter more than personal happiness."

"Like society's good opinion? Like maintaining proper distance from those beneath our station?"

"Like protecting those we care about." She touched his arm gently. "Have you considered what this attention will do to Miss Piper's reputation? Already the whispers have begun. Some say she's attempting to trap you into marriage. Others suggest a less honourable arrangement. Either way, her professional standing will suffer."

The truth of her words hit him like a physical blow.

He'd been so caught up in their musical connection, in the joy of creating something genuine together, that he hadn't fully considered the consequences for Melody's reputation.

"I would never let anyone harm her," he said quietly.

"And how will you prevent it? By challenging every person who speaks against her? By defending her honour in a way that will only confirm their worst suspicions?" His mother shook her head. "The ton can be cruel, Brightwood. Especially to those they consider outsiders. Miss Piper's position is already precarious - a professional performer who must maintain respectability to support her family. One hint of scandal could destroy everything she's worked for."

Harper’s fingers went back to his desk, gripping its edge as if it might steady him.

"What would you have me do?"

"Be what you must be. What your position requires. Complete the concert series with proper dignity and distance. Then..." She hesitated. "Then find a suitable match among your own circle. Someone who understands our world, who can help you bear the weight of your responsibilities."

"Someone like Lady Harriet?" The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. "Someone who thinks Mozart's works are 'simple pieces' and worries about maintaining proper posture while playing?"

" Someone who won't be destroyed by association with you." His mother's voice gentled. "Harper... my son... I see how this pains you. But sometimes the kindest thing we can do for those we care about is to let them go."

He closed his eyes, remembering Melody's face during their duet - the trust in her expression, the way that she'd let all her walls down, sharing her true self through the music they created together. The thought of deliberately withdrawing from that connection, of treating her with cold formality, made his chest ache.

"And if I can't?" The words emerged barely above a whisper. "If what I feel for her is—"

"Don't." His mother's voice cracked slightly. "Don't say it. Don't even think it. Such feelings can only lead to pain - for both of you." She moved closer, reaching up to touch his cheek as she always had when he was a child. "You are the Duke of Brightwood. Everything you do affects not just yourself, but everyone who depends on you - our family, our estates, our people. You cannot afford the luxury of following your heart."

The room fell silent except for the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle.

Each click seemed to emphasise the weight of duty pressing down on him, the impossibility of what his heart wanted.

"I understand," he said finally, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth.

But even as he spoke, even as he saw the relief cross his mother's face, he knew that he was lying.

Because understanding what he must do didn't make it any easier.

Didn't stop him from hearing Melody's voice in his mind, didn't ease the ache in his chest when he thought of treating her with cold formality.

His mother moved towards the door, then paused.

"Your father never regretted choosing duty over his personal desires. He found satisfaction in doing what was right, what was necessary."

"And you, Mother? Did you ever regret loving someone whose duty would always come first?"

She didn't answer immediately. When she did, her voice held an emotion he couldn't quite identify.

"Some loves are worth the pain they bring, my son. But that doesn't make them wise."

The door closed behind her with a quiet click, leaving Harper alone with thoughts of impossible choices and the memory of Melody's voice joining with his in perfect, heartbreaking harmony.