Page 2 of The Duke’s Duet

Harper stood motionless before the great windows of his study, his reflection a dark slash against the late afternoon light. Below, in the servants' courtyard of his London mansion, an endless stream of deliveries flowed through the gates: towering arrangements of hothouse flowers, additional chairs wrapped carefully in protective cloths, music stands of polished mahogany, and — his jaw clenched at the sight — a second pianoforte being manoeuvred with excruciating care from its conveyance.

His fingers moved unconsciously against the window frame, marking out the rhythm of the Mozart piece that had drifted through his study wall earlier that morning during Mr. Fletcher's practice session. The pianist's interpretation had been technically correct but utterly devoid of spirit — like watching someone recite poetry in a language they didn't understand. Harper's hands had ached with the need to demonstrate how the piece should breathe, how the notes should dance rather than simply march across the page. But of course, he had remained silent, letting the soulless performance continue while he pretended to focus on estate papers.

A Duke did not correct hired musicians. A Duke, his father's voice echoed in his memory, did not concern himself with such things at all.

"Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"

Simmons materialised at his elbow with that peculiar silent grace that only the finest butlers seemed to possess.

"No, I—"

Harper broke off as rapid footsteps approached his study. A moment later, Mrs. Williams appeared in the doorway, her typically composed features drawn with concern.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there's a... situation... with the arrangements for this evening."

Something in her tone sent a tendril of unease curling through his stomach.

"What sort of situation?"

"Perhaps Your Grace would prefer to see for himself? In the ballroom?"

The ballroom proved to be a scene of barely controlled chaos. Footmen balanced precariously on ladders, adjusting the great crystal chandeliers that his mother had insisted must be cleaned again, while maids scurried about with vases of flowers, rearranging them for what Harper knew must be at least the third time. The Dowager Duchess stood in the centre of it all, directing operations with the tactical precision of a general managing troops.

"The second pianoforte simply cannot be accommodated, Your Grace," Mrs. Williams declared as they surveyed the space. "Not without removing two entire rows of seating."

"Then we shall manage with one. Mr. Fletcher can hardly play both instruments simultaneously."

The words emerged more sharply than he'd intended, betraying his growing tension about the evening ahead.

"As you say, Your Grace."

She hesitated, clearly wanting to say more.

"Speak freely, Mrs. Williams."

"It's just... I'm concerned about the sound, Your Grace. It carries differently with only one instrument, and given the number of guests expected..."

"Your Grace!" A footman burst into the room, his face flushed with exertion and his chest heaving. "A message, Your Grace. Most urgent."

Harper took the folded paper, noting with growing apprehension the poor quality of the sheet and the smudged seal. He tore it open, and, as his eyes scanned the hastily penned words, he felt the blood drain from his face as the meaning registered.

"Brightwood?" His mother's voice cut through his shock. "You look quite pale. What is it?"

The Dowager Duchess of Brightwood approached across the ballroom, her silk skirts rustling with subtle menace. Even now, with his own title secure and his position unassailable, something in that tone could make him feel like an errant schoolboy.

"Mr. Fletcher is ill." The words fell into the sudden silence like stones into a still pond. "He will not be performing this evening."

The silence that followed his announcement was absolute. Even the footmen on their ladders seemed to hold their breaths. Harper could feel the weight of every eye in the room upon him, reminding him uncomfortably of his father's cutting stare whenever he'd been caught at the pianoforte as a youth.

"Cannot perform?" His mother's voice achieved that particular tone of calm that had always presaged storms in his childhood. "The guests will begin arriving in less than two hours."

"I am aware of that, Mother."

His fingers clenched around the message, crumpling the cheap paper.

"We cannot possibly postpone. The announcements have been sent, the refreshments ordered, the veterans' representatives invited..." She paused, then added with careful precision, "Captain Winters himself has confirmed his attendance."

Ah. There it was.

The carefully placed arrow, designed to pierce his defences. His mother had always been skilled at finding the exact pressure point that would achieve her aims.

"Mother—"

"There is only one solution." She moved closer, her voice dropping so that only he could hear. "You must perform."

The words struck him like a physical blow.

"Absolutely not."

The response emerged before he could moderate his tone.

The Dowager Duchess' eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Mrs. Williams," she said without looking away from her son, "I believe that the servants can continue with their duties without my presence, or the Duke’s, for a short while?"

The housekeeper nodded, and turned to direct the servants. Within moments, Harper was led from the ballroom by his mother, and up to the Brightwood House music room, the air between them charged with decades of unspoken tensions as the went. Only once in that room did he speak.

"You cannot ask this of me."

"I can, and I am." She moved closer, her voice softening. "Brightwood... Harper. You are more than capable—"

"Capability is not the issue." He turned away, struggling to maintain his composure as memories crashed over him: the crack of his father's riding crop against the pianoforte lid, inches from his fingers; the cold fury in the old Duke's voice as he declared that no son of his would make a spectacle of himself like a common music master; the way that the music had died in their house after that day, replaced by a silence which echoed through the years. "A Duke does not perform for an audience like some hired entertainer."

Harper said it, as he knew he must, but the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

"No?" His mother's voice took on that dangerous silken quality he remembered from childhood confrontations. "And what of Lord Pembroke's famous violin playing at the Prince Regent's gatherings? What of Lady Jersey's renowned skill at the harp? What of the countless musical evenings where our peers display their accomplishments?"

"That is different." But even as he spoke, Harper could hear the weakness in his argument. "They perform for intimate gatherings, not paying audiences."

"This is a charitable endeavour, not a public concert hall." The silk in her voice hardened to steel. "Or perhaps you would prefer to explain to Captain Winters and his fellow veterans why their benefit concert must be cancelled? Shall I send someone to inform them that your pride is more important than their need?"

Each word struck home with devastating accuracy. Harper moved to the pianoforte, running one finger along its polished surface. The instrument was beautiful — the finest money could buy. He had chosen it himself, though he had told his mother it was simply because a Duke's home must have the best of everything. In truth, he played it nearly every night, after the household was abed. Only then did he feel free to express himself fully through the music, to release all of the passion and emotion that a Duke must never show in public.

"These are different times, Brightwood," his mother said more gently. "The war has changed so much. Perhaps it is time to let go of old fears."

He closed his eyes, memories washing through him, always the same memories…. The crack of his father's riding crop against the pianoforte lid, inches from his fingers. The cold fury in the old Duke's voice – ‘No son of mine will make a spectacle of himself like a common music master!’

But his father was gone now, and these were different times. The war had indeed changed much — he had seen men die defending concepts as ephemeral as honour and duty. Surely he could face something as simple as performing music for a worthy cause?

"Very well." He spoke so quietly that his mother leaned forward to hear. "But only this once, and only because there is no alternative."

"Excellent." The Dowager Duchess' satisfaction was evident. "I shall have Miss Piper informed that she must meet with you immediately to discuss the program."

"Miss Piper?"

Something in his tone made his mother pause at the doorway.

"The soprano, Brightwood. Surely you haven't forgotten? She comes highly recommended by Lady Jersey herself."

"I am aware of who she is, Mother. I have heard... things... about her approach to performance."

"Oh?" One elegant eyebrow rose. "What sort of things?"

"That she takes... liberties... with the music. That she allows emotion to override technical precision. That she makes the music serve her interpretation rather than respecting the composer's intentions."

"How fortunate then, that you will be there to ensure that the proper balance is maintained."

With that parting shot, his mother swept from the room, leaving Harper to contemplate just how thoroughly his day had been ruined.

He crossed to the window, bracing one hand against the frame as he stared unseeing at the courtyard below. The late afternoon sun caught the crystal drops of the chandelier above him, sending rainbow patterns dancing across the polished floor.

Soon the ballroom below would be filled with London's elite, all watching, judging, measuring him against the impossible standards set by his father.

"Your Grace?" Simmons appeared in the doorway. "Miss Piper has arrived. Shall I show her here, to the music room?"

Harper straightened his shoulders, adjusting the perfectly tied cravat that suddenly felt like a noose.

"Yes. And Simmons? Have some tea sent up. I suspect we shall need it. I must step out of the room for a few moments, but will return to see her very soon."

He needed a few moments to prepare himself, truth be told, and he slipped along the corridor to his study, his thoughts filled with the rather terrifying prospect of what he had agreed to.

*****

Melody Piper stood at the window of Brightwood House's elegant music room, trying to still the trembling in her hands. Everything about the room spoke of wealth and privilege — from the expensive silk wallpaper with its subtle pattern of musical notes, to the magnificent pianoforte that dominated the space. Even the sheet music on the stand was bound in leather, gilt-edged and perfect, like everything else in this imposing house.

She touched one of the leather-bound volumes, remembering her father's careful handling of their own well-worn scores, how he would repair tears with such precision that the mends were almost invisible. Music was their life, their passion, their means of survival — but here it was just another display of wealth, another way to showcase the family's ability to afford the very finest of everything.

"Stop that," she muttered to herself, withdrawing her hand from the volume as if it had burned her. "You have performed in grand houses before. This is no different."

But it was different. She had never performed with a Duke for an accompanist, never attempted to create art with someone who would view her as little better than a hired entertainer. And never, never without proper rehearsal.

"I should never have agreed," she whispered, touching the cool glass of the window.

But even as she said it, she knew she'd had no choice. Her father's gentle reminder of their financial situation had made that clear enough.

This series of concerts could secure their position for months to come, could mean the difference between maintaining their modest but respectable living and sliding into genuine poverty.

The memory of her father's face as he'd urged her to accept still burned. "My dear, we cannot afford pride. And think of the opportunities this might bring — to perform at Brightwood House, to be heard by the cream of society..."

A soft sound behind her made her spin around, her heart leaping into her throat.

The Duke of Brightwood stood in the doorway, and Melody dropped automatically into a curtsey, using the moment to study him from beneath her lashes.

She had seen him from a distance at various musical evenings, of course — his tall figure and aristocratic bearing were difficult to miss — but never this close. He was younger than she'd expected, perhaps early thirties, with features which might have been carved from marble for all the emotion they showed.

His clothes were of the finest quality, but somehow austere, as if he deliberately avoided any hint of ostentation. But it was his eyes that caught her attention — grey as storm clouds, and holding something which might have been apprehension before he masked it.

"Miss Piper." His voice was deep, cultured, and utterly controlled. "I trust you have been informed of our... situation."

"Yes, Your Grace." She forced herself to meet his eyes. "I understand that there has been a change in the program."

"Indeed." He moved to the pianoforte, his long fingers trailing across the keys in what seemed an unconscious gesture. The simple movement betrayed him — no one touched an instrument that way unless they knew it intimately. "Mr. Fletcher is indisposed. I shall be accompanying you this evening."

"I see." She took a deep breath, gathering her courage. "Then we should discuss interpretation. I tend to take a somewhat... flexible… approach to tempo."

His head snapped up, those storm-grey eyes narrowing.

"Flexible?"

"Music must breathe, Your Grace. It must live and feel and speak to the heart, not just the mind. When I sing, I let the emotion of the piece guide my interpretation."

"Music must be respected, Miss Piper." His voice had gone cold. "The composer's intentions—"

"Were to move people's hearts, not merely demonstrate their skill at musical mathematics."

The words escaped before she could stop them, her own passion for music overwhelming her careful training in proper behaviour.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and Melody felt the colour drain from her face as she realised what she'd done. She had just argued with a Duke! Her father would be horrified.

But instead of the angry dismissal that she expected, something flickered in those grey eyes. Amusement? Surely not. And beneath it, something else — a flash of what might have been understanding, quickly suppressed?

"Perhaps," he said carefully, "we should attempt to play through the pieces. Time grows short."

She nodded gratefully at this offered escape.

"As you wish, Your Grace."

He seated himself at the pianoforte, and Melody took her position beside it, acutely aware of every minute movement as he adjusted the bench, positioned his hands, drew in a breath...

The first notes filled the room, precise and perfect and utterly lifeless. Melody's heart sank.

Here was technical mastery without passion, skill without soul — everything she had feared from a nobleman who viewed music as merely another accomplishment to be mastered rather than an art to be lived.

But then... there. As the introduction continued, something shifted. A slight hesitation here, a gentle rubato there, as if something within him fought against the rigid constraints he imposed upon himself. Melody found herself leaning forward, fascinated by the battle she could hear beneath the perfect surface of his playing.

The introduction approached the point where she would need to begin singing, and Melody drew in a deep breath, gathering herself. This evening would be a disaster if they could not find some way to bridge the gulf between their approaches. But as she prepared to sing, she caught sight of his face, and what she saw there gave her hope.

For just a moment, as his fingers moved across the keys, the marble mask had cracked, revealing a glimpse of the passion he tried so hard to hide. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to the Duke of Brightwood than she had assumed.

Now she just had to find a way to draw that hidden fire out into the light.