Page 17 of The Duke’s Duet

Harper stood in the shadows of the ballroom, watching as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky. Around him, staff scurried about, making final preparations.

Soon the room would fill with London's elite, come to witness their final performance. Soon he would have to face the impossible task of making music with Melody one last time, knowing that she was lost to him forever.

His fingers moved restlessly over the small package in his coat pocket - the music he'd composed during sleepless nights after learning of her decision to leave. He'd poured everything he couldn't say into those notes, writing a piece that spoke of love and loss, of duty and desire, of choices that broke hearts but had to be made.

The sound of carriages arriving drew his attention, and he removed himself to the parlour, where a window overlooked the street. From that point, he studied the arrivals with curiosity. Among the elegant conveyances, he spotted Signor Bianchi's distinctive equipage.

The Italian's presence tonight felt like salt in an open wound - a constant reminder that Melody would soon be gone, performing for appreciative audiences in Florence while he remained here, trapped in the gilded cage of his position.

"Your Grace?" Simmons' voice was gentle, understanding. He'd served the family long enough to read his moods. "The guests are beginning to arrive. And Miss Piper has just been shown to the small visitors’ parlour."

Harper nodded, not trusting his voice. How many times had he received that same message over the past months? How many rehearsals and performances had begun this way? But never again after tonight.

When he entered the visitors’ parlour, Melody stood at the window, a vision in deep blue silk that made his chest ache. She turned at his approach, and for a moment their eyes met with perfect understanding. Whatever happened after tonight, whatever paths duty forced them to take, they would always have the music they'd created together.

"Are you ready?" he asked quietly.

"No." The simple honesty in her voice nearly undid him. "But then, I don't think I'll ever be ready for this to end."

He wanted to go to her, to take her hands and tell her everything that was in his heart. Instead, he moved to collect the evening's music, which lay on the small table beside her, maintaining careful distance.

"We should join the others. Mother will be expecting us."

The ballroom glowed with candlelight, crystal chandeliers casting rainbow shadows across elegant furnishings and fashionable guests. Harper led Melody to the performance area, acutely aware of every eye upon them. They had caused quite enough gossip already - tonight must be perfect, controlled, absolutely proper.

The Dowager Duchess made her usual introductory speech, but Harper barely heard the words. His attention was fixed on Melody as she took her position beside the pianoforte, her face composed but her eyes holding shadows he longed to chase away.

Then there was no more time for thinking, for the first notes demanded his attention. He played mechanically at first, forcing himself to focus on technique rather than feeling.

But Melody's voice, when it joined his accompaniment, shattered his careful control.

She sang with a passion that stripped away all his defences. Every note carried the weight of their shared history - all the moments of perfect harmony, all the times they'd challenged each other to feel more deeply, to express more honestly. His fingers responded without conscious thought, matching her emotional intensity despite his earlier resolution to maintain distance.

The first piece flowed into the second, then the third. Each selection seemed chosen deliberately to torment him - works about parting, about duty, about love that could never be. Yet they had never performed better together. Their musical connection, always extraordinary, had become something transcendent. Every subtle variation she introduced, he anticipated. Every nuance he added to the accompaniment, she enhanced.

During one particularly passionate aria, Harper dared to look at her directly. The sight nearly stopped his breath. Gone was any pretence of professional detachment. Melody sang with her whole being, letting the music strip her soul bare. The raw emotion in her voice spoke directly to his heart, saying everything that they'd never dared voice aloud.

He couldn't look away. Didn't want to look away. Let the ton gossip - in this moment, there was only her, only the music they created together, only the perfect understanding that had grown between them despite every barrier of society and station.

The audience seemed to lean forward as one, caught up in the spell they were weaving. Even his mother's usually composed face showed signs of emotion. And there in the front row, Signor Bianchi gestured enthusiastically to his companion, clearly, yet again, impressed by what he was witnessing.

The sight sent a spike of something like rage through Harper's chest - this man who would take Melody away, who would give her the artistic freedom she deserved, but at the cost of everything Harper held dear.

His fingers struck the keys harder than intended, adding an edge of barely contained fury to the accompaniment.

But Melody, rather than being thrown by this deviation, incorporated it perfectly into her interpretation. Her voice soared over his passionate playing, transforming anger into something more complex - regret, longing, desperate desire held in check by iron control.

When they reached their duet - the piece that had first revealed their perfect harmony to the ton - Harper almost couldn't bear to begin. How could he sing of love and loss, of choices between duty and desire, when his own heart was breaking with those very choices?

But then Melody's voice entered, pure and true and full of such longing that his own voice rose to meet it without conscious decision. Their voices twined together as they had that first time, creating something greater than either could achieve alone. Every phrase carried double meaning, every harmony spoke of connection deeper than mere musical compatibility.

He forgot about the audience, forgot about propriety, forgot everything but this moment of perfect communion through music. When Melody took a subtle liberty with the tempo in the middle section, his voice and hands followed instantly, enhancing her interpretation. They built the emotional intensity together, each pushing the other to greater heights of expression, until the music seemed to vibrate with everything they couldn't say in words.

The final section of the duet spoke of parting at dawn - lovers separating because duty demanded it. Harper had always found this part technically challenging, but tonight the difficulty was emotional rather than musical. Every word felt torn from his soul, every note carried the weight of his own imminent loss.

Melody's voice wrapped around his, offering comfort even as it emphasised their connection. They moved through the complex harmonies as if they had known this piece their whole lives, as if it was inextricably bound into their souls, each anticipating the other's subtle variations, each supporting and enhancing the other's interpretation.

As they approached the climax, Harper felt something shift in the atmosphere of the room. The audience seemed to hold its breath collectively, caught up in the raw emotion they were expressing. Even Signor Bianchi had stopped his enthusiastic gesturing, sitting perfectly still with an expression of wonder on his face.

But Harper saw none of this directly. His entire world had narrowed to Melody - the way she swayed slightly with the music's rhythm, the perfect arch of her throat as she sang, the occasional moments when their eyes met and held with devastating understanding. In those moments, he could almost believe that music might be enough, that art might bridge the gulf between their worlds.

The final phrases approached - the farewell, the acceptance of duty's demands, the promise to carry the memory of love forever. Harper's voice nearly broke on the word ‘forever’, but Melody's voice supported his, carrying him through. Their harmony in these last measures was almost unbearably perfect, as if their souls truly spoke to each other through the music.

The last note hung in the air between them, pure and bright and heartbreaking. For a moment, no one moved. No one seemed to breathe. Harper remained at the pianoforte, his hands still on the keys, unable to look away from Melody's face. A single tear tracked down her cheek, though her performance pose remained perfect.

Then the silence shattered as applause crashed over them like a wave. This was genuine, passionate acclaim. Several ladies dabbed at their eyes with delicate handkerchiefs. Even some of the gentlemen seemed moved beyond their usual reserve.

Harper rose mechanically, bowing to acknowledge the applause while his heart thundered in his chest. Melody curtsied beside him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her presence, could catch the subtle scent of lavender that always clung to her skin. The urge to reach for her, to take her hand or offer some gesture of comfort, was almost overwhelming. Instead, he forced himself to step back, to maintain proper distance as Captain Winters made his way to the front of the room.

The veteran officer's face showed clear evidence of emotional impact, but his voice was steady as he began to speak about the success of the concert series, about the funds raised for his fellow veterans, about the extraordinary gift of music that had brought so many people together for a worthy cause.

"And now," Captain Winters concluded, "I believe that His Grace has an announcement to make."

Harper moved forward, his feet feeling like lead with every step. He had rehearsed these words, knowing that they must be said, knowing that he must be the one to say them. But standing here now, seeing Melody's face as she realised what was coming, he wondered if anything in his life had ever been harder.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying the practiced authority of his position. "Tonight marks the end of our concert series, but not the end of the music which we have celebrated here. I am pleased to announce that Miss Piper has accepted an engagement to perform in Italy, beginning this autumn." The words tasted like bitter ashes in his mouth, but he forced himself to continue. "Signor Bianchi has recognised what we have all come to appreciate - her extraordinary talent, her passionate dedication to her art, her ability to bring new life to familiar works. Whilst we shall miss her performances greatly, we can take pride in knowing that London has produced an artist of such calibre."

A murmur of appreciation ran through the crowd. Several people turned to congratulate Melody, who accepted their good wishes with perfect composure. Only Harper, watching her closely, saw the slight tremor in her hands as she clasped them before her.

Then, as expected, the formal part of the evening dissolved into the usual social interactions - people moving about the room, discussing the performance, helping themselves to refreshments. Harper found himself trapped in conversation after conversation, accepting compliments on the success of the series while his eyes constantly sought Melody's figure through the crowd.

She stood with Signor Bianchi and a group of musical enthusiasts, discussing her upcoming performances in Florence. The Italian's hands moved expressively as he described the opportunities awaiting her, the artistic freedom she would have, the appreciative audiences who would understand her passionate interpretation style.

Everything she deserved. Everything he couldn't give her without destroying both their lives.

Finally, as the crowd began to thin, he managed to make his way to where she stood slightly apart, catching her breath between conversations.

"Miss Piper." His voice emerged roughly, as if even that was worn by the emotional stresses of the evening. "Might I have a moment?"

She followed him to the small antechamber where they had spent so many moments before performances. The room felt different now - emptier somehow, as if already mourning the loss of the music they had created here.

"I have something for you." He withdrew the small package from his pocket, handling it as carefully as if it were his own heart. In many ways, it was. "A small token of appreciation for... for everything."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she took it.

"Your Grace, you needn't—"

"Please." He couldn't bear her formal gratitude. Not now. Not after everything. "It's just a piece of music. Something I composed... something that needed to be expressed."

She looked down at the package, her fingers tracing its edges with the same delicacy she brought to subtle musical phrases.

"When did you write it?"

"After... after you told me about Italy. During those nights when sleep proved elusive."

When the thought of losing you made rest impossible, he didn't add.

"Will you..." Her voice caught slightly. "Will you play it for me? Before I go?"

The request struck him with unexpected force, and he rocked back on his heels slightly.

"I don't think that would be wise."

"No?" She lifted her eyes to his, and the emotion there made his breath catch. "Are you afraid of what the music might reveal, Your Grace?"

"Melody..." Her name escaped him like a prayer, like a confession. "Please."

"Please what?" She stepped closer, still holding his gift. "Please don't make this harder? Please don't remind you of what we're losing? Please don't—"

"Please don't make me say things that can never be unsaid." The words emerged rough again, filled with suppressed feeling. "Don't make me forget everything that I must be, everything that duty demands—"

"Duty." She repeated the word softly. "Always duty. Never what your heart wants, what your music says is true."

"What my heart wants doesn't matter."

But even as he said it, he knew it for a lie.

His heart had never mattered more, had never hurt more with wanting something he couldn't have.

"Doesn't it?" She was close enough now that he could see the gold flecks in her eyes, could catch the subtle scent of lavender that he would forever associate with music and passion and impossible choices. "Then why compose this piece for me? Why pour your feelings into notes if they don't matter?"

He started to step back, to restore proper distance between them, but found himself frozen by the look in her eyes.

"Because music is the only language that can speak these truths without destroying everything that we both hold dear."

"And what truths are those?"

Her voice had dropped to barely more than a whisper.

Before he could respond - before he could damn himself by speaking the words that burned in his throat - a discreet cough sounded from the doorway.

They sprang apart as Simmons entered.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but the Dowager Duchess is asking for you. And Miss Piper, your father's carriage has arrived."

Reality crashed back over them like a wave. Harper watched Melody smooth her skirts, tuck his gift carefully into her reticule, and restore her composed expression.

In moments, she had transformed back into the perfect professional performer, all trace of their heated exchange hidden behind proper behaviour.

"Thank you for everything, Your Grace." Her voice was steady, though her eyes still held shadows of what had almost been said. "I shall treasure this gift, and the memories of our performances together."

He bowed over her hand, allowing himself one moment - just one - to memorise the feel of her fingers against his.

"Godspeed, Miss Piper. May Italy bring you everything that you deserve."

Everything, he thought as she walked away, except what they both truly wanted.