Page 12 of The Duke’s Duet

Melody sat at her father's worn pianoforte, fingers hovering above the keys but not quite touching them. The instrument, though well-maintained, was nothing like the magnificent one at Brightwood House. Yet it held memories of countless lessons, of learning to match her voice to its slightly uneven tones, of developing the skills that had led her to where she was now.

Where she was now. The thought brought a bitter smile to her lips. Where exactly was that? Caught between two worlds, belonging to neither?

"My dear." Her father's voice drew her from her reverie. He stood in the doorway, morning light catching the silver in his hair, his expression heavy with concern. "We must talk about these concerts."

Something in his tone made her stomach clench.

"The concerts are going well, Papa. The veterans' fund has benefited considerably."

"So I hear." He moved into the room, settling into his favourite chair - the one where he'd sat through thousands of lessons. "I also hear other things. Things that concern me greatly."

Her fingers pressed down on the keys, drawing forth a discord that matched her inner turmoil.

"What things?"

"That duet..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "People are talking, Melody. About the... connection… between you and His Grace. About the way you looked at each other while performing."

"We were singing about emotional matters. Of course we appeared connected - the piece demanded it."

"Did it demand quite so much... intensity?" Her father leaned forward. "I've taught music for thirty years, my dear. I know the difference between artistic expression and something more personal."

Heat rose in her cheeks.

"Papa—"

"Let me finish." His voice gentled. "I saw your mother perform that same piece once, long ago. But she sang it with professional distance, no matter how passionate the music. What people saw on that stage the other night... that was something else entirely."

Melody rose from the pianoforte, moving to the window.

Outside, London was awakening - vendors calling their wares, carriages rattling over cobblestones, the endless pulse of the city that cared nothing for one woman's troubled heart.

"What would you have me do?" she asked finally. "Withdraw from the concerts? Leave the veterans without their funding?"

"I would have you guard your heart, my dearest girl." The pain in his voice made her turn. "His Grace may be different from other aristocrats in some ways - may truly appreciate music, may treat you with genuine respect. But he is still a Duke. Still bound by duties and expectations that we can hardly imagine."

"I know what he is, Papa." The words emerged more sharply than she’d intended. "I'm reminded of it every time that I enter that house, every time I see the way that some of them look at me - like I'm some curiosity they can't quite categorise."

"Then you understand why I worry?" He stood, moving to join her at the window. "Your sister told me how you practice his favourite pieces late at night. How you spend hours studying scores, choosing music you think will please him."

Melody shot a betrayed look toward the stairs, where she knew Clara lurked, probably listening to every word.

"I choose music appropriate for our audiences. For the concerts' purpose."

"Do you? Is that why you suggested that particular duet? A piece about duty warring with desire?"

She couldn't meet his eyes.

Because he was right - she had chosen that piece deliberately, had felt its meaning deep in her soul. Had hoped, perhaps, that performing it together might make Brightwood understand...

"My dear child." Her father's arm went around her shoulders. "I remember what it was to be young, to believe that talent and passion could bridge any gap. But the world doesn't work that way. Not for people like us."

"And what are we, Papa? Less worthy because we earn our bread through music? Less real because we weren't born to titles?"

"No. Never less worthy. But different. Living in a different world, with different rules." He squeezed her shoulders gently. "Rules that can break your heart if you forget them."

The morning light caught on the worn carpet, the carefully maintained furniture, the piles of music that represented their livelihood. Everything in the room spoke of respectable poverty, of making do, of maintaining appearances on limited means.

How different it was from Brightwood House's elegant grandeur.

"I don't love him," she said, but the words rang false even to her own ears.

"Don't you?" Her father's voice held infinite gentleness. "I've watched you perform together, that once that I could attend the concert. I've seen how you come alive when he's near, how your music changes when he accompanies you. That connection between you... it's rare. Beautiful. And terribly, terribly dangerous."

Before she could respond, Clara's voice drifted down from above:

"Melody! You'll be late for your rehearsal!"

The reminder sent her pulse skittering. She had to change, to make herself presentable for Brightwood House. To transform herself once again from a music master's daughter into someone who could move comfortably in Brightwood's world - even if the transformation was only surface deep.

"We'll speak more of this later," her father said, releasing her.

But his eyes held worry as he watched her hurry from the room.

As she dressed, choosing her most elegant morning gown - one of her new ones, bought with concert earnings - Melody tried to steel herself for the coming rehearsal. She would be professional. Distant. Would focus only on the music, not on the way that Brightwood's presence made her feel, not on the connection that grew stronger every time they performed together.

But her fingers shook as she pinned up her hair, and her reflection in the mirror showed cheeks already flushed with anticipation.

"Fool," she whispered to herself. "You're going to get your heart broken."

The worst part was, she wasn't sure it wasn't already too late for such warnings.

*****

The music room at Brightwood House felt different today.

The familiar space, with its elegant furnishings and perfect acoustics, seemed charged with unspoken tension. Melody paused in the doorway, struck by how the morning light fell across the pianoforte where Brightwood stood arranging music, his back rigid with careful control. Even from here, she could sense the change in him - the way that he held himself more formally, the precise, measured quality of his movements that spoke of deliberately maintained distance.

Had he heard the rumours too? Was that why he hadn't met her eyes when she entered, why his greeting had been so formally correct? The easy rapport they'd developed over weeks of rehearsals had vanished, replaced by something brittle and uncertain.

She moved to her usual position, noting how he shifted slightly away, maintaining a careful space between them. Even his clothing seemed chosen to emphasise their differences - his perfectly tailored coat and immaculate cravat a sharp contrast to her simple morning dress, fine though it was.

"I thought that we might begin with the Handel," he said, still not looking at her directly. His fingers moved over the music sheets with precise, controlled movements. "The execution in the middle section needs refinement."

"Of course, Your Grace."

The formal title felt wrong on her tongue after the intimacy of their duet, but his manner seemed to require it. She noticed his fingers still briefly at her words, as if the formality affected him too.

They worked through the piece mechanically, both of them focusing on technical precision rather than emotional interpretation. Their usual musical connection remained - their timing perfect, their coordination flawless - but the spark was missing. The joy. The freedom they'd found in creating something together.

Melody found herself watching him as they performed, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way that his jaw clenched when they reached particularly emotional passages.

He played beautifully as always, but with a controlled precision that reminded her of their very first rehearsals, before they'd learned to trust each other's artistry.

The morning stretched on, filled with careful movements and even more careful words. They worked through their usual repertoire, but everything felt wrong - too rigid, too formal, too empty of the passion that had made their performances special. When Brightwood suggested that they try a particularly challenging new piece, Melody almost welcomed the technical difficulty as a distraction from the emotional tension between them.

"The phrasing here seems awkward," she said, frowning at a complex passage. "Almost as if..."

"Here? Allow me to demonstrate."

Brightwood's fingers moved to indicate the passage, but she was already reaching to point at the specific measure. Their hands collided, then froze. The simple touch sent awareness shooting through her like lightning.

His skin was warm against hers, his fingers longer, stronger, yet somehow elegant. Neither moved. Neither breathed. The silence in the room grew thick with possibility. A shaft of sunlight fell across their joined hands, turning them into something from a classical painting - a study in contrasts and connection.

Melody could feel her heart thundering against her ribs, could sense an answering tension in Brightwood's frame. If she turned her head just slightly, she would be looking directly into his face. Would see if his expression held the same longing that was making her tremble inside.

Time seemed to stretch like heated glass, fragile and malleable. Their hands remained touching, neither advancing nor retreating, while the morning sun painted patterns across the pianoforte's polished surface. The rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only this moment, this connection, this silent acknowledgment of everything they couldn't say.

Then Brightwood cleared his throat and withdrew his hand, the movement almost too controlled.

"Perhaps we should try something else. The Mozart, I think."

But his voice had roughened slightly, betraying that the moment had affected him too. Melody drew in an unsteady breath, trying to gather her composure. The loss of his touch left her fingers tingling, aware of every place that their skin had met.

"Yes, of course. The Mozart."

They continued working, but something had shifted again. The careful distance they'd maintained at the start of the rehearsal had cracked, letting something more dangerous seep through. Every time their eyes met over the music, every time they moved in unconscious harmony, Melody felt that same awareness spark between them.

The Mozart proved particularly challenging - not because of its technical demands, but because it was a piece about love, about passion barely contained by proper forms. Brightwood's playing grew more rigid with each measure, as if he were fighting not just the music but himself.

"You're holding back," Melody said before she could stop herself. "The piece needs to breathe."

His fingers stilled on the keys.

"The tempo is precisely as marked."

"The tempo, yes. But the emotion..." She moved slightly closer, drawn despite herself. "You're playing it like you're afraid of it."

His head snapped up, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of real feeling in his eyes before the careful mask slipped back into place.

"Not everything requires emotional abandon, Miss Piper."

"No? Then why did Mozart write it this way? These phrases..." She reached past him to indicate specific measures, aware of how he tensed at her proximity. "They're meant to build, to grow more passionate, more urgent. Like lovers' hearts beating faster together."

She realised what she'd said too late. Heat flooded her cheeks as Brightwood's breathing changed, became slightly uneven. They were standing too close again, and the space between them felt charged, as if filled by sparks which might burn them at any moment, so charged was everything that they weren't saying.

"Miss Piper..." His voice emerged strained. "Perhaps we should—"

The door opened, admitting Mrs. Williams with a tea tray. The interruption felt like cold water dashed over heated skin. They sprang apart, Brightwood moving to the window while Melody retreated to the far side of the pianoforte.

The housekeeper's expression revealed nothing as she arranged the tea things, but Melody noticed that she left the door slightly ajar when she departed - a silent reminder of propriety which made Melody’s chest ache with fresh awareness of their impossible situation.

As they took tea, the silence between them grew heavier. Brightwood remained by the window, maintaining a careful physical distance that seemed to emphasise the emotional gulf widening between them. Melody watched his reflection in the polished surface of the pianoforte, noting how his fingers clenched around his teacup, how tension radiated from every line of his body.

When he finally spoke, his voice held a carefully measured quality that set off warning bells in her mind.

"I received an interesting letter this morning," he said, his tone too casual. "From Signor Bianchi in Italy. He's seeking talented performers for a series of concerts in Florence."

Melody's hands stilled on her teacup, a chill running through her despite the warm morning.

"Indeed?"

"He specifically mentioned seeking a soprano with..." Brightwood paused, as if choosing his words with extreme care, "…with passion and artistic integrity. Someone not bound by conventional interpretations. Someone who could bring fresh life to traditional pieces."

The words were perfectly chosen, perfectly proper, yet Melody heard the underlying message clearly. Here was an escape route being offered - a way to end whatever this dangerous thing was between them before it could damage either of their reputations.

"How thoughtful of him to inquire." She set her cup down with precise movements, fighting to keep her voice steady. The delicate porcelain made a tiny clicking sound against its saucer, betraying the tremor in her hands. "Though I wonder what prompted his interest in London talent particularly."

Brightwood didn't answer immediately.

He stood utterly still, silhouetted against the window, his profile carved in light and shadow. When he did speak, his voice held something she couldn't quite identify - regret? Resignation?

"Your reputation grows, Miss Piper. These concerts have brought you to the attention of many who appreciate true artistry."

"Have they?" She couldn't help the edge that crept into her tone, as sharp as the morning light cutting across the room. "And is that all that they've brought me to attention for? Or perhaps there are other... considerations?"

He turned then, and for a moment she caught a flash of something raw in his expression before his careful mask slipped back into place. The sight made her heart clench - he was struggling with this as much as she was, though he hid it better.

"Italy offers many opportunities for a talented musician," he said carefully. "Greater freedom to pursue one's art without... complications."

The word 'complications' struck like a physical blow. Was that all she was to him now?

A complication to be dealt with?

Had their duet changed everything between them, not just by revealing their feelings but by making those feelings impossible to maintain?

"You're very kind to think of my career prospects, Your Grace." The formality felt like armour, protecting her suddenly vulnerable heart. "Though I wonder if Signor Bianchi's interest is entirely his own, or if perhaps someone suggested that he might find suitable talent here in London?"

A muscle ticked in Brightwood's jaw, and his fingers clenched on the window frame.

"Does it matter? The opportunity remains valuable, regardless of its provenance."

"Yes, I suppose it does." Melody rose, gathering her music with hands that trembled slightly. Each sheet felt heavy with memory - their annotations, their shared discoveries, all the moments when music had brought them closer together. "Though I find it interesting that you mention it now, so soon after our duet seemed to cause such... comment."

"Melody." Her name escaped him like a breath, soft and pained. He took a step towards her, then stopped, his hands clenching at his sides. The morning light caught in his eyes, revealing a storm of emotion that he couldn't quite hide. "I only want..."

"What, Your Grace?" She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes directly. All pretence of distance crumbled in that moment of connection. "What do you want?"

The question hung between them, weighted with everything that they couldn't say. Sunlight caught the angles of his face, highlighting the conflict in his expression. For a moment, Melody thought that he might actually answer, might finally speak the truth that sang between them whenever they made music together.

Instead, he turned away, and she watched his shoulders straighten as duty reasserted its grip.

"I want what's best for everyone involved. The concerts must continue - the veterans depend on the funds they raise. But perhaps... perhaps some distance would be wise."

"Distance." She repeated the word softly, tasting its bitterness. "Yes, I suppose it would be. Wise, that is. Though I'm beginning to wonder if wisdom and music have anything in common at all."

She moved towards the door, her skirts rustling in the suddenly heavy silence.

But his voice stopped her before she could escape.

"Will you consider it? The opportunity in Italy?"

Melody paused, her hand on the doorframe. Without turning, she asked the question that burned in her heart.

"Will you tell me honestly why you want me to?"

The silence that followed was answer enough.