Page 14 of The Duke’s Duet

Melody stood before the mirror in Brightwood House's music room, adjusting the fall of her deep burgundy silk gown.

Tonight felt different from previous concerts - perhaps because of what had almost happened in Vauxhall Gardens, perhaps because of the Italian impresario's presence in the audience. Or perhaps because she knew, with the bone-deep certainty of a musician who had found her perfect counterpart, that tonight's performance with Brightwood would be extraordinary.

They hadn't spoken of that moment in the gardens - that almost-kiss beneath coloured lanterns. But something had shifted between them during rehearsals. The careful distance they'd tried to maintain had dissolved, replaced by an intimacy that went beyond mere musical understanding. Every glance held meaning, every shared breath carried weight.

"Miss Piper?" Simmons appeared in the doorway. "His Grace asks if you're ready to begin."

Melody's heart skipped at the formal message. Earlier, she'd caught Brightwood playing alone in the music room, lost in some private melody. The passion in his expression had stolen her breath - gone was the rigid control he usually maintained, replaced by the real man she'd glimpsed in the gardens.

He'd sensed her presence and turned, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

For a long moment, neither had spoken. Then he'd smiled - that rare, genuine smile that transformed his entire face - and spoken with simple certainty.

"Tonight will be special."

Now, following Simmons into the crowded ballroom, Melody felt the usual pre-performance anticipation heightened by her awareness of Brightwood's presence. He stood at the pianoforte, elegant in evening black that emphasised the breadth of his shoulders. Their eyes met across the space between them, and that now-familiar spark of connection flared to life.

She took her position beside the instrument, noting how he shifted slightly to accommodate her presence, as if they were two parts of a whole finding their natural alignment. The audience's quiet murmur faded as the Dowager Duchess made her usual introductory speech, but Melody barely heard the words. She was too focused on Brightwood's hands on the keys, on the subtle tension in his frame which spoke of carefully contained energy.

Then he began to play, and everything else disappeared.

Their first piece flowed perfectly, his accompaniment supporting and enhancing her voice as if they'd rehearsed a thousand times over years, instead of mere days. When she took a slight liberty with the tempo in the second movement, his fingers followed instantly, adjusting to match her interpretation.

The connection between them grew stronger with each piece. Melody found herself taking more chances, pushing the boundaries of traditional interpretation, knowing instinctively that Brightwood would follow. And he did, his playing becoming more passionate, more expressive, until the music they created together seemed to fill the room with pure emotion.

During a particularly challenging aria, Melody dared to glance at Brightwood's profile.

Gone was the Duke's usual mask of careful control. In its place was an expression of such open passion that it made her breath catch, nearly causing her to miss her entrance. But he sensed her momentary falter and adjusted seamlessly, his music cradling her voice until she found her way back into the piece.

The audience seemed to lean forward as one, caught up in the magic they were creating. Even the Dowager Duchess' usually unreadable expression had softened into something approaching wonder. And there, in the front row, Signor Bianchi was gesturing enthusiastically to his companion, clearly impressed by what he heard.

But it was their final piece that truly showcased how far they'd come together. A complex work that required perfect coordination between voice and piano, it built through increasingly emotional passages towards a climax that demanded both technical precision and passionate interpretation.

As they approached that crucial moment, Melody felt rather than saw Brightwood shift slightly on the bench, preparing. Their eyes met briefly over the music, and in that instant of connection, she knew exactly how to shape the phrase. Her voice soared through the intricate runs while his fingers danced across the keys, each enhancing the other's performance until the music seemed to take on a life of its own.

The final notes hung in the air like stars, perfect and bright, before fading into absolute silence. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then applause erupted - not the enthusiastic appreciation of previous concerts, but more - genuine, overwhelming acclaim.

Melody curtsied, her pulse still racing from the performance. When she straightened, she found Brightwood watching her with an intensity that made her cheeks warm. But before either could speak, they were surrounded by admirers.

"Magnifico!" Signor Bianchi pushed through the crowd, his face alight with excitement. "Such passion, such perfect harmony! My dear," he seized Melody's hands in his, "you must come to Italy. I insist! Such talent cannot be confined to London drawing rooms."

She felt Brightwood stiffen beside her, but kept her focus on the impresario.

"You're very kind, Signor."

"Kind? No, no - practical! I offer you six months, beginning in autumn. Five concerts in Florence, then Rome, Venice... full artistic control of your programs, of course. And the fee..."

He named a figure that made her breath catch. It was more than she earned in a year of London performances.

"I... that's very generous..."

"Generous? Bah! It is investment in true artistry. And there will be other opportunities, other patrons. Italy understands music, appreciates passion. You will be a sensation!"

More people pressed forward - Lady Sophia bubbling with enthusiasm about the performance, Captain Winters expressing gratitude for another successful concert, various members of society offering compliments that seemed, for once, genuine rather than condescending.

Through it all, Melody remained acutely aware of Brightwood's presence, though he'd stepped slightly away to speak with his mother.

The Dowager Duchess' expression was troubled as she spoke to her son, her eyes occasionally darting towards Melody and the still-effusive Signor Bianchi.

"You will consider my offer, yes?" The impresario pressed a thick envelope into her hands. "All details are here. Take time to think, but not too much time. Such opportunities, they do not come often."

Melody's fingers closed around the envelope, feeling the weight of possibility that it contained.

Everything she'd worked for, everything she'd dreamed of professionally, was within her grasp.

So why did her heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vice?

*****

Melody sat in her father's study long past midnight, still wearing her concert gown, the envelope from Signor Bianchi lying unopened on the desk between them. The room held the comfortable shabbiness of long use - worn carpet, shelves overflowing with musical scores, the old pianoforte that had seen thousands of lessons. Every surface spoke of their precarious position between genteel respectability and genuine poverty.

"You haven't opened it." Her father's voice was gentle, understanding. He looked tired in the lamplight, the silver in his hair more prominent than she remembered. "Are you not curious about the specifics?"

"The specifics hardly matter, do they?" She traced the edge of the envelope with one finger. "He stated the main points quite clearly at the concert. Six months in Italy, beginning with Florence. Artistic freedom. More money than we see in a year."

"Then why do you look as if he'd offered you exile rather than opportunity?"

The question hung in the air between them. Melody rose, moving to the window where, again, rain traced patterns on the glass.

Her concert gown whispered against the threadbare carpet - burgundy silk that had cost more than she should have spent, chosen because she'd once heard Brightwood mention his fondness for that particular shade.

"Do you remember," she said finally, "when I was small, and you taught me about harmony? How you said some notes were meant to go together, that they created something greater than either could achieve alone?"

"Melody..." Her name emerged on a sigh. "Music is not life, my dear. No matter how much we might wish it were that simple."

"Isn't it?" She turned to face him. "When we perform together... Papa, I've never experienced anything like it. It's as if we can read each other's minds, anticipate each other's interpretations. The music we create together is more than just notes on a page. It's..."

"It's love." He said it simply, without judgment. "You've fallen in love with him."

The words struck her like physical blows.

She'd been so careful not to name this feeling, this ache in her chest that grew stronger every time she saw Brightwood, every time that they made music together.

"It doesn't matter what I feel." But her voice betrayed her, cracking slightly on the words. "He's a Duke. I'm nobody."

"You are not nobody." Her father's tone sharpened. "You are a talented artist, a dedicated musician, a woman of intelligence and integrity. But..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "But you are not what society would consider a suitable Duchess."

"I know that." She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting a sudden chill. "I've always known that. Even before... before Vauxhall Gardens."

"What happened at Vauxhall?" When she didn't immediately answer, he pressed gently, "Melody? What happened?"

"Nothing. Everything." She closed her eyes, remembering coloured lanterns and the warmth of Brightwood's hands holding hers. "We almost... he nearly... but Lady Pembroke warned us before anything improper could occur."

"Thank God for Lady Pembroke's discretion." Her father's voice held both relief and sympathy. "If you had been caught in a compromising position..."

"I know." The words emerged barely above a whisper. "It would have ruined everything - his reputation, the concerts, any chance of a respectable career for me."

"And yet..." Her father rose, moving to join her at the window. "And yet you're reluctant to accept an opportunity that would remove you from this dangerous situation. That would advance your career while protecting both your reputations."

"You make it sound so rational." She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. "As if it were simply a matter of weighing advantages against disadvantages."

"Isn't it? Let us consider the possibilities." He touched her shoulder gently. "If you stay, what future can you envision? Continuing the concerts until gossip makes them impossible? Watching him eventually marry some suitable young lady of quality while you perform at their wedding breakfast?"

Each suggestion felt like a knife to her heart.

"Papa, please..."

"No, my dear. You must face this squarely." His voice remained gentle but firm. "I've watched you these past weeks. Watched you come alive when performing with him, seen how your music has grown more passionate, more emotionally true. But I've also seen the toll it takes - how you practice his favourite pieces late at night, how you choose music that speaks of impossible love, how you light up at the mere mention of his name."

Melody turned to face him, surprised by this evidence of such close observation.

"I didn't think you'd noticed."

"I'm your father. Of course I noticed." He smiled sadly. "Just as I notice now how you're trying to convince yourself that Italy represents some sort of exile, when in truth it's the opportunity you've dreamed of since you were a girl."

She met his eyes, and the love and kindness she saw there nearly brought her to tears.

"But that was before..."

She stopped, unable to finish the thought.

"Before you found someone whose music matches yours perfectly? Before you discovered what it feels like to perform with someone who truly understands your artistic soul?" He paused, then added softly, "Before you fell in love with a man who, no matter how much he might return your feelings, can never act on them without destroying both of your lives?"

The truth of his words struck her hard, unforgiving.

She sank into her father's old armchair, suddenly exhausted.

"How can you be so certain that he returns my feelings?"

"My dear girl." Her father's voice held infinite tenderness. "I heard you perform tonight. It was kind of them to allow me to attend, for I desperately wanted to see that performance, to be certain… And I am certain now. No man plays with that much passion, that much emotional connection, without feeling something deeper than mere artistic appreciation. The way that he watches you when he thinks that no one is looking... it's clear that his heart is as engaged as yours."

"Then why..." She swallowed hard. "Why did he write to Signor Bianchi about me? Why arrange this opportunity if..."

"Because he's trying to do the right thing. The honourable thing." Her father knelt beside the chair, taking her hands in his. "He's offering you a chance at the career you deserve, while removing temptation from both of your paths."

"Honourable," she repeated bitterly. "Everything about him is honourable. His attention to duty, his care for his position, his determination to do what's proper rather than what his heart wants."

"And is that not part of why you love him?" The gentle question brought fresh tears to her eyes. "His sense of honour, his dedication to duty - these are integral parts of who he is. Would you have him be less than that? Would you want him to throw away generations of responsibility for a love that society would never accept?"

She closed her eyes, remembering Harper's face in the gardens at Vauxhall - the conflict there, the desperate longing warring with ingrained duty.

"No. No, I wouldn't want him to be less than who he is. Even if who he is means that we can never..."

Her voice broke.

Her father gathered her into his arms as he had when she was a child, letting her cry against his shoulder while he stroked her hair.

"Italy is not forever," he said finally. "Six months - time enough for both of you to remember who you are beyond this connection that you've found. Time for your career to flourish, for your reputation to grow beyond London's drawing rooms. And perhaps..."

"Perhaps what?"

"Perhaps time for society's rigid rules to soften slightly. The war changed so much when it showed us that courage and worth aren't limited to those of noble birth. In six months, who knows what might be possible?"

Melody pulled back, wiping her eyes.

"Now who's being unrealistic?"

"Maybe." He smiled gently. "But I prefer to think of it as hopeful. And in the meantime, you have a real opportunity before you. One that could secure your future, establish your reputation, and give you the artistic freedom you've always wanted."

She looked at the envelope still lying on the desk.

Inside were the details of everything she'd dreamed of professionally - artistic control, appreciative audiences, the chance to perform music which she chose, rather than what society deemed appropriate.

"I'll think about it," she said finally.

But they both knew that she'd already made her decision.

The only question was whether her heart would survive the choosing.