Page 15 of The Duke’s Duet

Dawn painted the gardens of Brightwood House in shades of pearl and gold, but Harper barely noticed the beauty around him. He'd been walking since first light, trying to exhaust his body enough that his mind might finally find peace. It hadn't worked. Every path, every carefully tended flower bed, every elegant statue only reminded him of his position - of the generations of Devereauxs who had shaped this place, who had lived and died maintaining the family's honour and position.

Honour. Position. Duty.

The words echoed in his head like a dirge, keeping time with his restless steps.

He'd played for hours after returning from last night's concert, trying to lose himself in music as he had so often before. But every piece he touched seemed to carry echoes of Melody - the way she interpreted phrases, the subtle variations she brought to familiar works, the pure passion she poured into every note.

Reaching the rose garden, he stopped beside the fountain that his grandfather had commissioned from Italy. Water trickled over carved marble, creating music of its own. Even that seemed to mock him - hadn't he and Melody walked here once, discussing how everything in nature had its own melody?

"You're being a fool," he muttered to himself, but the words held no conviction.

Because the truth - the truth he'd been fighting for weeks now - was that he loved her. Loved her passion for music, her fierce dedication to her art, her refusal to let society's constraints dim her spirit. Loved the way that she challenged him, pushed him, demanded that he be more than just the mask he showed the world.

The realisation didn't come as a shock. Perhaps he'd known since their first duet, since that moment when their voices joined in perfect harmony and something inside him had whispered 'ah, there you are’.

But knowing it, admitting it to himself, only made everything more impossible.

A Duke could not marry a music master's daughter. Could not raise a professional performer to the position of Duchess. Society would never accept it, no matter how talented she was, no matter how perfectly suited they might be.

The morning breeze carried the scent of roses - his mother's prized blooms, tended with the same careful attention that she gave to maintaining their family's position in society. He remembered her face at last night's concert, watching him perform with Melody. There had been concern there, yes, but something else too.

Understanding? Sympathy?

Moving deeper into the garden, Harper found himself at the small temple his ancestors had built as a folly - a replica of some ancient Greek shrine, its marble columns gleaming in the early light. He and Richard used to play here as boys, before duty and position had driven them apart. Before his brother had become the perfect heir, leaving Harper to his music and his dreams.

Now Richard was gone, along with their father, leaving Harper to bear the weight of centuries of tradition. To maintain the dignity of a position he'd never wanted, never expected to hold. To make the choices an heir must make - including the choice of a suitable bride.

Lady Harriet's face floated into his mind - beautiful, accomplished, perfectly trained in all the social graces. She would make an excellent Duchess. Would understand the responsibilities of the position, would never cause gossip or scandal. Would preserve the Devereaux name and reputation exactly as it had always been.

And he would die inside, day by day, knowing Melody was in Italy, performing for others, with other accompanists, knowing what they might have had together.

The thought of her in Florence, surrounded by appreciative patrons who understood art and passion, made his chest ache. She would flourish there. Would become the sensation Signor Bianchi predicted. Would probably never return to England, to the rigid society that recognised her gift but despised her station.

"As it should be," he told himself firmly. "She deserves that freedom, that chance to fully express her talent."

But even as he thought it, other memories rose to torment him. Melody in the gardens at Vauxhall, illuminated by coloured lanterns as she spoke of her childhood dreams. Melody during rehearsals, her face alight with joy when they found perfect harmony together. Melody last night, performing with such passion that the audience had forgotten to maintain their usual condescending attitude towards a professional musician.

Most of all, he remembered how she had looked at him when they made music together - as if she saw past every careful facade to the man beneath. The man who longed to break free of duty's chains, to create something real and true and passionate.

"It's impossible," he whispered to the morning air. But the words felt hollow, meaningless against the weight of feeling in his chest.

Because the truth was, he'd never felt more himself than when performing with her. Never been more alive than in those moments when their music joined, when artificial barriers fell away, leaving only pure artistic connection.

Never known such joy as when she challenged him to feel more deeply, to express more honestly, to be more than just the proper Duke that society demanded.

How could he go back to rigid control and careful propriety after knowing such freedom? How could he spend his life with someone like Lady Harriet, making polite drawing room conversation about the weather, when he'd experienced true intellectual and artistic compatibility with Melody?

The sun climbed higher as he paced, casting longer shadows across the careful perfection of the gardens. Everything here spoke of order, of control, of generations of careful breeding and proper behaviour. Yet his mother's roses ran riot along the garden walls, their wild beauty barely contained by the gardeners' efforts. Perhaps there was a lesson in that - that nature, like music, could not be fully controlled without losing its essential character.

A movement at the house caught his eye.

Through the library windows, he could see his mother at her writing desk, probably dealing with the morning's correspondence. She would have opinions about all of this - about duty and position and proper matches. Had she not spent years subtly guiding him towards suitable young ladies? Yet lately, her usual lectures about responsibility had been tinged with something else. Something that almost seemed like understanding.

Lord Pembroke's words from their conversation at the club came back to him.

"Times are changing, old friend. The war showed us that courage and worth aren't limited to those of noble birth."

Had the war changed things so much?

Harper remembered commanding men who'd risen from humble beginnings to become outstanding officers. Remembered how talent and dedication had mattered more than birth or breeding when facing French cannon fire.

Why should music be different? Why should Melody's skill, her artistic integrity, her passionate dedication to her art, count for less than Lady Harriet's perfectly proper accomplishments?

But even as the questions formed, he knew the answers. Society's rules might bend in times of war, but they snapped back into rigid place during peace. Already the ton was forgetting how much they'd relied on merchants and commoners during the conflict, returning to their usual disdain for anyone not of their circle.

The sound of the breakfast bell drifted across the gardens. Harper ignored it, not ready to face the ordinary routine of his life when everything inside him felt so extraordinary. Instead, he found himself drawn to the small door off the terrace that led to the music room.

The pianoforte stood silent in the morning light, its polished surface reflecting the garden beyond the windows. How many hours had he and Melody spent here, creating something beautiful together? How many moments of perfect understanding had passed between them as they worked through difficult passages or discovered new interpretations?

His fingers moved to the keys without conscious thought, drawing forth the melody from last night's final piece. Even alone, he could hear how the music wanted to be played - with all the passion and freedom that Melody brought to her performance. The way she'd looked at him during that last phrase, her eyes full of everything they couldn't say...

"I love her," he said aloud, testing the weight of the words in the quiet room. "God help me, I love everything about her."

The admission changed nothing and everything. He still had no solution, no way to bridge the gulf between their worlds without destroying one or both of them. But at least he'd stopped lying to himself about the depth of his feelings.

A soft sound behind him made him turn. His mother stood in the doorway, still in her morning dress, watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"You missed breakfast," she said quietly.

"I wasn't hungry."

"No?" She moved into the room, her silk skirts rustling softly. "Or perhaps you were avoiding what we need to discuss?"

Harper braced himself for the lecture he knew must come - about duty, about position, about maintaining the dignity of their name. But his mother merely moved to the windows, gazing out at her beloved roses.

"Did I ever tell you how I met your father?" she asked, her voice holding an odd note of reminiscence.

"At some diplomatic function in Florence, wasn't it?"

"No." A smile touched her lips. "That's the story we told society, but it wasn't true. I was singing in my father's garden - some silly Italian folk song my nurse had taught me. Your father was supposed to be attending a formal meeting about trade agreements, but he'd slipped away, finding the negotiations tedious."

Harper turned on the pianoforte bench to face her fully.

"I never knew..."

"No one did. It wouldn't have been proper, you see. A second son of an English Duke, falling in love with a Catholic Italian Count's daughter because he heard her singing in a garden? Society would have been scandalised."

"But you married."

"Eventually. After months of proper introductions and careful courtship. After your grandfather was convinced that my family connections would be valuable for trade negotiations. After I learned to speak perfect English and adopt all of the correct manners." She turned from the window, and he was startled to see tears in her eyes. "But that wasn't why your father married me. He married me because of that moment in the garden, when music stripped away all pretence and showed him my true self."

The parallel to his situation with Melody struck him like a physical blow.

"Mother..."

"Let me finish." She moved closer, laying one hand on his shoulder. "We were happy, your father and I. Truly happy, at first. He encouraged my music, shared his own love of art and beauty. But then Richard was born, soon followed by you, and suddenly the weight of succession pressed more heavily. Your grandfather's health was failing, and your father had to think about the future of the title – the title that he, himself, was about to bear."

"And that's when everything changed." Harper's voice emerged rough with memory. "When he became obsessed with proper behaviour and rigid control."

"Yes. Though perhaps not for the reasons you think." She sat beside him on the bench, her fingers brushing the keys lightly. "He was afraid, you see. Afraid that his love of music, his artistic temperament, would somehow damage the family's position. That his sons would inherit his passionate nature and not know how to control it properly."

"So he tried to beat it out of us? To force us into proper moulds?"

"He tried to protect you the only way he knew how." Her voice held infinite sadness. "But in doing so, he nearly destroyed the very things that made you special. Your music. Your passion. Your ability to feel things deeply."

"And now?" Harper asked quietly. "Now that I'm the Duke, now that those same traits might 'damage the family position' - what would you have me do?"

His mother was silent for a long moment, her fingers still moving absently across the keys in a pattern he recognised - the Italian folk song she must have been singing that day in the garden, he suspected. The sound of it softly filled the room, haunting and emotional.

"I saw you perform with Miss Piper last night," she said finally. "Saw how the music flowed between you, how perfectly your artistic souls aligned. It was like watching myself and your father, all those years ago in Florence. Before duty and fear changed him."

For a moment, he thought that he could not bring himself to respond, to say the words, but then, with a deep breath, he forced them out...

"It doesn't matter what you saw." The words felt like stones in his throat. "I'm the Duke of Brightwood now. I have responsibilities, obligations..."

"Yes, you do." She turned to face him fully. "You have a responsibility to the title, to the estates, to everyone who depends on Brightwood's prosperity. But tell me this - would a Duchess who understands your soul not serve those interests better than one who simply knows the proper forms?"

Harper stared at her, stunned.

"Are you suggesting..."

"I'm suggesting nothing." But her eyes held a warmth that he hadn't seen in years. "I'm merely sharing an observation. Miss Piper may not have been born to our world, but she understands something far more fundamental - the passion that drives you, the artistic spirit that makes you who you are. And she has qualities that many of our circle lack - dedication, integrity, genuine talent."

"Society would never accept—"

"Society," his mother cut in, "accepted a Catholic Italian Countess as Duchess of Brightwood, despite considerable opposition. Society learned to appreciate my 'exotic charm' once they realised that your father wouldn't be swayed by their disapproval. Society, my dear son, is far more flexible than you might think - especially when confronted with a fait accompli."

"But the gossip, the scandal..."

"Will fade, as all gossip does. Especially if the new Duchess proves herself worthy of her position." She smiled slightly. "And I suspect Miss Piper would rise to any challenge with the same passion she brings to her music."

Harper's heart thundered in his chest.

"You cannot possibly be suggesting that I... that we..."

"I am suggesting nothing," she repeated firmly. "I am merely reminding you that times change. That what seems impossible in one generation might become acceptable in the next. That perhaps..." Her voice softened. "Perhaps happiness requires a certain amount of courage."

"Courage?" He gave a harsh laugh. "Or reckless disregard for consequences?"

"Is there so much difference?" She rose, smoothing her skirts. "Your father chose safety over passion, in the end. Chose to be the Duke everyone expected, rather than the man he truly was. I've often wondered if he regretted that choice in his final years." She moved towards the door, then paused. "The war changed many things, Brightwood. It showed us that worth isn't always found where we expect it. That sometimes the most valuable things come in unexpected packages." Her eyes met his in the morning light. "Just something to consider, before you make any... permanent decisions."

She left him there, surrounded by morning sunlight and the lingering notes of her Italian folk song.

Harper stared at the keys before him, his mind whirling with possibilities he'd never allowed himself to consider.

Could it be possible?

Could there be a way forward that didn't require either of them to sacrifice everything they were?

His fingers moved to the keys, drawing forth the melody from last night's performance - the piece that had shown everyone exactly what he and Melody could create together.