Page 20 of The Duke’s Duet

Dawn crept across London's rooftops as Harper paced his study, every step echoing with the weight of decision. He hadn't slept - couldn't sleep, with Melody's face haunting his thoughts, her voice echoing in his memory.

The pianoforte stood silent now, though he'd played for hours in the dark, trying to find answers in the music they'd shared.

His mother's words rang in his mind.

‘Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is reach for what others say is impossible.’

Lord Pembroke's challenge followed.

‘Which would require more courage - facing society's temporary disapproval, or watching the woman you love sail away?’

The answer had come to him just before dawn, as he watched the sky lighten over the garden where his mother had once sung Italian arias without shame. Music had brought them together, had let them speak truths society wouldn't permit them to voice. Now it was time to speak those truths aloud, to reach for what his heart wanted, regardless of consequence.

"Your Grace?" Simmons appeared, his usually impassive face showing concern. "The carriage is ready."

Harper glanced at the clock - how many precious minutes had he wasted in indecision?

"Tell James that I’ll want him to drive as fast as he safely can."

The morning air struck cold against his face as he descended the steps to his waiting carriage. London was just awakening, the streets still quiet save for early workers and delivery carts. They made good time at first, the horses' hooves striking a desperate rhythm against the cobblestones.

Then everything began to go wrong.

They turned onto Fleet Street only to find chaos - an overturned cart had spilled its load of vegetables across the road. Carters argued while street vendors scrambled to salvage what they could. The crowd of onlookers grew with each passing moment, blocking any hope of passage.

"Find another route," Harper ordered, his fingers digging into the seat edge.

But even as the carriage turned down a side street, he knew that they were losing precious time. The tide wouldn't wait for overturned carts or blocked streets. The ship would sail whether he reached it or not.

Each delay felt like a personal attack. A parade of military horses near St. Paul's, the soldiers practicing for some upcoming ceremony with infuriating slowness. Construction that had spilled beyond its proper bounds, narrowing the street to barely more than an alley. And through it all, fog rolling in from the river, thick and cloying, reducing visibility to mere yards.

Harper's heart thundered against his ribs as he watched the sun climb higher through gaps in the fog. Each moment lost was another step closer to losing her forever. The damp air pressed against the carriage windows like a physical barrier, as if nature herself conspired to keep him from his goal. Time seemed to twist and stretch, each delay an eternity. Every street they turned down revealed new obstacles - a washerwoman's cart with a broken wheel, a group of drunken revellers still celebrating from the night before.

Each time they were forced to stop or turn back, Harper felt the pressure building in his chest like a piece of music reaching its crescendo.

When they encountered yet another blockage - this time a group of workers repairing the cobblestones with maddening slowness - he could wait no longer. He opened the window and leaned out.

"Stop the carriage."

James turned on the box, his face creased with concern.

"Your Grace, we're not yet—"

"I'll continue on foot." He was already opening the door, calculating the quickest route through the warren of streets that led to the docks. The bitter morning air struck him like a physical blow as he stepped down. "Make your way to the docks as soon as you can, and wait for me there."

"But Your Grace!" The coachman's voice held genuine alarm now. "These streets - in this weather - it isn't safe—"

"Nothing is safe," Harper muttered, more to himself than his servant. Then, louder, "Don’t argue with me. That's an order."

He slammed the carriage door shut and was running before the words had fully left his mouth, his boots striking the wet cobblestones with desperate purpose. The fog swirled around him, turning familiar landmarks into looming shadows. Somewhere ahead lay the docks, and the ship that would take Melody away if he couldn't reach her in time.

His carefully tied cravat came loose as he ran, the end whipping in the damp wind. His coat would never recover from the morning's abuse, and his boots were already ruined by the filth of London's streets. He'd spent his whole life learning the importance of proper appearance, proper behaviour, proper everything - and now here he was, a Duke running through the streets like a common messenger boy.

The thought almost made him laugh. What would his father say, to see him now? The perfect heir, the controlled Duke, sprinting through London's poorest quarters with his clothing in disarray and his heart pounding in his throat?

A clock struck somewhere in the fog - how many times? He lost count in his desperate rush. But the sound was followed by another that made his blood run cold - a ship's bell, ringing out across the hidden water.

The sound spurred him to greater speed, ignoring the burn in his legs, the ache in his chest. He shouldered past early morning workers, barely registering their startled exclamations. A fish seller's cart blocked his path - he vaulted over it, his father's voice in his head crying out in horror at such undignified behaviour.

But dignity didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered except reaching her in time, telling her everything that he should have said weeks ago. Nothing mattered except one last chance to prove that duty and desire didn't have to be enemies, that they could create something new together, something that bridged both their worlds.

The fog began to thin as he neared the river, and with it came the sounds and smells of the docks - tar and rope and salt water, shouts of workers and snap of canvas in the wind. He was close. So close. But was he in time?

*****

Melody stood at the foot of the gangplank, trying to focus on Signor Bianchi's enthusiastic descriptions of Florence's artistic community. The Italian's hands moved expressively as he painted pictures of sun-drenched piazzas and appreciative audiences, but his words seemed to come from very far away, as if she heard them through water.

Every sense seemed heightened in this moment of departure.

The rough wood of the dock beneath her feet. The salt-tang of river air mixing with tar and rope and early morning fog. The cry of gulls wheeling overhead. The bustle of passengers and crew and dock workers that somehow felt separate from her, as if she stood in a bubble of stillness while chaos moved around her.

Her father stood quietly beside her, his presence steady and reassuring as always. How many times had he stood like this, supporting her before performances? How many moments of doubt or fear had his quiet strength helped her overcome? Clara clutched her reticule, probably making sure none of the important papers were forgotten - the contract with Signor Bianchi, the letters of introduction to Florentine patrons, all the careful documentation of her new life.

Everything was arranged, everything prepared. She should be excited about this new adventure, this dream that she'd held since childhood. Florence - city of art and music, where passion wasn't something to be hidden away, where talent mattered more than birth or station. Everything she'd ever wanted lay at the top of that gangplank.

Instead, her heart felt like lead in her chest, and every breath seemed to catch on memories she couldn't shake.

The garnets at her breast - the Dowager Duchess' gift - seemed to pulse with warmth against her. Had there been a message in that conversation? In the older woman's words about timing and patience? The way she'd spoken of her own journey from Italian singer to English Duchess, the subtle emphasis on how times were changing... or was she simply seeing what she wanted to see, reading meaning into coincidence because her heart refused to let go?

Last night's dreams had been full of music - fragments of duets she'd sung with Brightwood, pieces they'd perfected together during those precious rehearsal hours. She'd woken with tears on her cheeks and his composition running through her mind. Had she done the right thing, leaving it behind? Or was she simply running away from the truth it contained?

"Mia cara!" Signor Bianchi's voice cut through her thoughts. "You are not listening! I tell you of the palazzo where you will perform, of the Duke who will sponsor your first concert—"

The word 'Duke' struck like a physical blow. Melody pressed her hands together to still their trembling, grateful for the fog that hid her expression.

She would hear that word a thousand times in her new life. Would it always feel like this? Would it always bring his face to mind, the way that his eyes had softened when they made music together, the way that his careful control had cracked to show the passion beneath? Would she ever be able to perform again without remembering how it felt to sing with him? To create that perfect harmony that went beyond mere music? To watch him come alive at the pianoforte, all his rigid control transforming into passionate artistry?

The ship's bell rang, startling her from her reverie. How long had she been standing here, lost in thoughts of what could never be? Other passengers pushed past, eager to board before the tide turned. A mother hushed her crying child, a merchant argued with a porter about his crates, a young couple exchanged tearful goodbyes - all these normal scenes of departure somehow heightening her sense of unreality.

She should move. Should take that first step onto the gangplank. Should embrace this new beginning instead of clinging to impossible dreams. After all, wasn't this what she'd always wanted? Freedom to perform without society's constraints? Audiences who would appreciate passion in music? A chance to be valued for her talent rather than judged for her station?

"Melody!"

The voice cut through the harbour noise like a blade. Her heart stopped, then started again at double speed. It couldn't be. She was imagining things, hearing what she wanted to hear because she'd thought of him so intensely these past hours. But other people were turning, looking towards the sound. Clara's hand caught her arm, squeezing tight.

"Melody, look!"

She turned, and the world seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Brightwood stood at the edge of the crowd, his normally immaculate appearance in complete disarray. His cravat hung loose, his coat was damp with fog and stained with London's grime, his boots were ruined beyond saving.

He looked nothing like the controlled Duke she knew - and yet he had never seemed more handsome to her than in this moment, with his careful masks stripped away by whatever desperate journey had brought him here. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the muttered complaints as he shouldered past dock workers and passengers alike. His eyes never left her face, and the intensity in them stole her breath. This was not the proper Duke, not the careful musician - this was the man she'd glimpsed in rare unguarded moments, the one who felt music as deeply as she did.

"Your Grace?" Her voice emerged barely above a whisper as he reached her. "What are you doing here?"

She watched emotions rush across his face - determination, uncertainty, fear, and something else that made her heart race. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to become aware of their audience. Her father watched with careful concern, while Clara practically vibrated with suppressed excitement beside her. Signor Bianchi's expression had turned calculating, and other passengers had stopped to stare at this obviously unusual scene. The ship's bell rang again - a warning that time grew short. The sound seemed to galvanise Harper, breaking through his usual careful control. But before he could speak, before he could shatter her resolve with whatever he'd come to say, she had to know:

"Why are you here? Why now?"

*****

Her question struck Harper like a physical blow. Why now? Because he was a fool who'd nearly let fear cost him everything. Because he'd spent weeks hiding behind duty and position when his heart had known the truth from their first duet.

Around them, the crowd's whispers grew louder.

A Duke, dishevelled and desperate, confronting a departing passenger - it was better entertainment than most mornings at the docks provided.

He could see recognition dawning on some faces as they connected him to the musical performances that had been the talk of London. Mr. Piper stepped forward, protective instinct clear in his bearing.

"Your Grace, perhaps—"

"No." Harper's voice emerged rough with emotion. "No more proper behaviour. No more careful distance." He turned back to Melody, whose face showed a war between hope and caution that tore at his heart. "I'm here because I have finally found the courage to be true to myself. To admit what music has been telling us all along. I love you."

The ship's bell rang again, its tone more insistent. The captain appeared at the top of the gangplank, his expression thunderous at the delay.

"Final boarding! All passengers must—"

"Wait!" The word burst from Harper with all the authority that generations of Dukes had bred into his voice. Even the captain fell silent, though his face showed that he wasn't happy about it. "Please. Just... wait."

The fog had begun to lift around them, morning sunlight breaking through to paint the scene in shades of soft gold. It caught in Melody's hair, in the tears that trembled on her lashes, in the garnets at her breast that his mother had given her. She looked both stronger and more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her, and his heart clenched with the knowledge that everything - his future, his happiness, his very ability to find joy in music - hung on what happened in the next few moments.

Mr. Piper was watching him intently, and Harper could read the protective concern in the music master's face. Clara stood beside her sister, hands clasped as if in prayer. Even Signor Bianchi had fallen silent, his usual expansive gestures stilled by the tension of the moment.

The sun broke fully through the last wisps of fog, turning the river to molten gold behind them and Harper's heart thundered in his chest as he gathered his courage for what must be said.