Page 16 of The Duke’s Duet

Melody stood in Brightwood House's music room, watching morning light paint patterns across the pianoforte's polished surface. She'd arrived early, unable to sleep, drawn to this place that held so many memories. Soon these moments would exist only in her mind - the way that sunlight caught the crystal drops of the chandelier, the subtle scent of beeswax and leather-bound music scores, the perfect acoustics that made every note sing.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she arranged the music for their final rehearsal. She'd chosen pieces they'd never performed together, works that spoke of parting and farewell, though she'd tried to disguise this fact with more light-hearted selections scattered throughout. But her heart knew this was goodbye - to this room, to these moments of perfect harmony, to the man who had shown her what music could truly be when souls connected through art.

The signed contract accepting Signor Bianchi's offer lay sealed in her reticule, ready to be posted. Six months in Italy. Freedom to choose her own repertoire. Patrons who understood passion in music. Everything she'd dreamed of since childhood.

So why did every breath feel like glass in her lungs?

The door opened behind her, and she knew without turning that it was Brightwood.

She'd grown attuned to his presence over these weeks together, could sense him entering a room as surely as she could feel a change in tempo during performance.

"You're early."

His voice carried its usual careful control, but something else lurked beneath - a tension she couldn't quite identify.

"I wanted to try some new pieces." She kept her own voice light, professional. "Something different for the final concert."

He moved to stand beside her at the pianoforte, close enough that she could catch the familiar scent of sandalwood that clung to his clothes.

As he examined the music she'd chosen, she watched his face in profile, memorising details she'd never see again after leaving - the precise line of his jaw, the tiny scar near his temple from some childhood accident, the way that his eyes changed colour depending on his mood.

"Schubert?" His finger tapped one score. "This is rather... emotionally demanding."

"Are you saying that you're not up to the challenge, Your Grace?"

The teasing words emerged before she could stop them - a remnant of the easy rapport they'd developed before everything became so complicated. A smile tugged at his mouth - that rare, genuine expression that transformed his whole face.

"I believe I've proven myself equal to your challenges, Miss Piper."

The double meaning hung in the air between them, making her breath catch.

How many challenges had they faced together? How many moments of perfect understanding had passed between them as they pushed each other to be better, to feel more deeply, to create something extraordinary?

She nodded, and looked away, feeling their coming separation acutely in that moment.

They began the morning’s practice with simpler pieces, warming up their voices and finding their rhythm together. But even these familiar works felt different today - charged with awareness that each phrase, each harmony, might be their last. Melody found herself taking more liberties than usual, pushing the boundaries of traditional interpretation, knowing instinctively that Brightwood would follow.

And he did, his playing more passionate than she'd ever heard it outside their actual performances.

Gone was the rigid control he usually maintained during rehearsals. Instead, his music matched her emotional intensity, creating something that made her heart ache with its beauty and its impending loss.

When they reached the Schubert - a piece about lovers parting at dawn - Melody almost faltered. The lyrics struck too close to home, speaking of duty and desire, of choices that broke hearts but had to be made. But Brightwood's accompaniment cradled her voice, supporting her through the difficult passages as if he understood exactly what she was feeling.

"That was..." He paused as the final notes faded. "I've never heard it interpreted quite that way before."

"Too emotional?"

She tried to smile, to maintain professional distance.

"No." His fingers traced patterns on the keys without pressing them. "Perfect. As if you truly understood what the composer meant to convey."

The morning light caught his profile, softening his aristocratic features, making him look younger, more vulnerable. Melody turned away before he could see how his words affected her.

"Sometimes," she said carefully, "understanding comes at a price."

He was silent for a long moment.

Then, "Shall we try the Mozart next?"

They worked through the remainder of their selected pieces, each more emotionally charged than the last.

Their musical connection had never been stronger - every nuance perfectly matched, every interpretation somehow both surprising and inevitable. It was as if their hearts spoke directly to each other through the music, saying all of the things that they couldn't voice aloud.

During one particularly passionate phrase, Melody dared to look at Brightwood directly. The careful mask he usually wore had vanished, replaced by an expression of such raw feeling that it stole her breath. For a moment, their eyes met and held, and everything else fell away - duty, position, the impossibility of their situation. There was only this - their souls touching through the music they created together.

The piece ended, leaving them both slightly breathless. Before either could speak, a knock at the door announced the maid's arrival with the morning's refreshments.

"Mrs Williams took the liberty," she said, setting down the tea tray with unusual grace, "of sending your favourite blend, Your Grace. And those little almond cakes that Miss Piper loves."

The thoughtful gesture made Melody's throat tight. Even the Brightwood House staff, it seemed, sensed that this rehearsal was different. Special. Final.

After the maid departed, a strange silence fell between them. Brightwood stood at the window, teacup untouched in his hand, while Melody pretended to study the music scores. The morning had grown warmer, sunshine filling the room with golden light that seemed to mock the heaviness in her heart.

"Your interpretation of the Schubert..." Brightwood's voice was oddly hesitant. "You've been studying it long?"

"No." She traced the notes on the page before her, not looking up. "Sometimes music speaks to us more clearly in certain moments. When we better understand the emotions behind it."

"Like the piece about parting at dawn?"

The question held layers of meaning she wasn't ready to face.

"Yes. Like that."

He set his cup down with careful precision.

"The weather is quite fine today. Perhaps... perhaps you might be persuaded to take a turn about the park? The fresh air might be beneficial before our next piece."

The suggestion startled her into looking up. They had never walked together outside of formal occasions like the evening at Vauxhall. Such an activity, just the two of them, bordered on improper.

"I'm not sure that would be wise, Your Grace."

"Hyde Park will be full of people at this hour." His voice held something almost like pleading. "All quite proper and observable. And I... I find that I would value the opportunity to discuss music away from this room. Just this once."

Just this once.

The words echoed in her mind, carrying the weight of endings, of lasts, of everything that could never be. She should refuse. Should maintain professional distance. Should protect both of their reputations.

Instead, she heard herself speak, the words seeming somehow separated from her person.

"Very well. Though perhaps we should bring the new scores, to maintain the appearance of a professional discussion?"

The smile that crossed his face - brief but blindingly genuine - made her heart turn over.

"An excellent suggestion. Shall we?"

As they gathered their things, Melody caught their reflection in the window glass - the Duke in his perfectly tailored morning coat, herself in her best walking dress, both of them trying so hard to maintain proper distance while standing close enough that their sleeves almost brushed. The image would stay with her, she knew, long after she left for Italy.

The sealed contract in her reticule seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment. She would tell him during their walk, she decided. Would make the break clean and swift, like setting a broken bone. Better to end things now, while she still had the courage.

But as they stepped out into the spring sunshine, Brightwood's face softer than she'd ever seen it, she wondered if anything about this parting could ever be clean or swift or easy.

*****

Hyde Park glowed in the sunshine, its paths filled with fashionable people taking their morning exercise. Melody walked beside Brightwood, maintaining a proper distance while acutely aware of his every movement. They carried several music scores between them - a plausible excuse for their conversation, should anyone question the propriety of their being together.

"Tell me," Brightwood said as they followed a tree-lined path, "when did you first know music would be your life?"

The question surprised her. They'd spoken of music countless times, but never quite so personally.

"I was very young. Perhaps six or seven. My father was teaching a student - a girl who clearly had no interest in learning, who treated the pianoforte as just another accomplishment to be mastered. I remember being furious that she was wasting such an opportunity."

"Furious?" His lips curved slightly. "Why does that not surprise me?"

"I stormed into the room and showed her exactly how the piece should be played - with proper feeling, proper interpretation. Papa was mortified. The girl's mother was scandalised. But the girl..." Melody smiled at the memory. "She actually improved after that. She said she'd never realised that music could be something more than just correct notes in correct order."

"You were teaching interpretation even then." His voice held something warm, almost tender. "Showing others how to feel the music rather than simply play it."

"As you've shown me how precision and passion can work together." The words emerged before she could stop them. "How structure can enhance emotion rather than constrain it."

They walked in silence for a moment, both aware of how their artistic collaboration had grown into something far deeper. A pair of fashionable ladies passed them, nodding to Brightwood while eyeing Melody with barely concealed curiosity.

"And you?" she asked, desperate to break the tension. "When did you first love music?"

"Always. Before I can remember. My mother used to sing Italian folk songs while working in her garden. But the first time I truly understood its power..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I was quite young, hiding in the music room after some childish mishap. A visiting musician was practicing on our pianoforte - something by Bach, I think. I watched his hands move across the keys and suddenly understood that music could express everything we couldn't say in words."

"What happened to that understanding?" She kept her voice gentle. "Before we began performing together, your playing was all technical precision, no emotion."

"You know what happened." His voice roughened slightly. "My father's lessons about proper behaviour, about maintaining dignity, about what a Duke must and must not do."

"And now? Now that you're the Duke?"

He stopped walking, turning to face her. The morning sun caught in his eyes, turning them from grey to silver.

"Now I find myself questioning everything that I thought I knew about duty and dignity and proper behaviour."

The intensity of his gaze made her heart stutter.

This was the moment, she knew. The perfect opening to tell him about her decision, to make the break clean before either of them said something they couldn't take back.

"I've signed Signor Bianchi's contract," she said quickly, before she could lose her courage. "I leave for Italy after the final concert."

All the warmth drained from his face. For a moment, he looked almost like he'd been struck. Then the careful mask of Ducal control slipped back into place.

"I... see." His voice emerged colourless, empty. "That is... most sensible."

"Yes." The word tasted like ashes. "Sensible. A remarkable opportunity."

They resumed walking, but something had shattered between them. The easy intimacy of their earlier conversation vanished, replaced by a silence that felt like shards of glass against her skin.

"Florence is beautiful in autumn," he said finally, his voice forcedly casual. "The light there... they say it's unlike anywhere else in the world."

"So I've heard." She clutched her music scores tighter, using the pressure to keep her voice steady. "Signor Bianchi speaks highly of the artistic community there. The appreciation for genuine talent, regardless of birth or station."

She hadn't meant it as a jab, but saw him flinch slightly, nonetheless. Before either could speak again, they encountered Lady Sophia, walking with her companion. The girl's face lit up at the sight of them.

"Miss Piper! Your Grace! How wonderful to meet you here. I've been practicing that piece you recommended - though I'm sure I'll never interpret it with half your passion."

Melody managed some appropriate response, but her attention was fixed on Brightwood. He stood slightly apart, his posture rigid with careful control, all trace of their earlier closeness erased.

Was this how it would be from now on?

This careful distance, this polite facade?

"I heard that you're to perform in Italy!" Lady Sophia continued enthusiastically. "How thrilling! Though we shall miss your concerts terribly here. No one else brings such life to the music."

"You're very kind." Melody forced herself to focus on the girl's words. "But I'm sure you'll find other entertainment."

"Oh yes," Lady Sophia's companion interjected with a knowing smile. "I hear that Lady Harriet has been practicing most diligently on the harp. Such a suitable accomplishment for a future Duchess."

The barb struck home, though Melody kept her face carefully neutral. She didn't dare look at Brightwood, afraid of what she might see in his expression.

"We should return," he said abruptly. "The morning grows late, and we have much yet to rehearse."

They made their farewells and turned back towards Brightwood House. The silence between them now felt absolute, impenetrable. Everything they might have said, might have felt, locked away behind walls of duty and propriety and sensible choices.

As they approached the house, Brightwood finally spoke again.

"I wish you every success in Italy, Miss Piper."

The formal words, the careful distance in his voice, broke something inside her.

"Is that all you have to say?"

He stopped walking, his face a study in controlled pain.

"What else would you have me say?"

The question hung between them, weighted with everything they had not said to each other, and now never would. There was no possible way that she could tell him, could express her now destroyed hopes, foolish as they had been. So Melody waited, her heart thundering against her ribs, but he said nothing more.

"Nothing, Your Grace," she said finally, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Nothing at all."