Page 4 of The Duke’s Duet

Melody's hands still trembled as she unlocked the door to their modest townhouse, the metal key cool against her heated skin. The evening's performance seemed almost dreamlike now — had she really argued with a Duke about musical interpretation? Had his grey eyes really blazed with such passion when she'd challenged him? Had their music really soared together in such perfect, unexpected harmony?

"Melody?" Her father's voice drifted from his study. "Is that you, my dear?"

She found him at his desk, surrounded by scattered sheets of music and half-marked student exercises. The single lamp cast deep shadows in the room, highlighting the silver in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes. Yet his face lit up at her entrance, eager for news of the evening.

"Well? How was Mr. Fletcher's accompaniment? Did the audience respond well to the program?"

Melody sank into the worn armchair by the fire, her blue silk gown rustling against the faded upholstery. The contrast between Brightwood House's elegance and their genteel poverty had never seemed starker.

"Mr. Fletcher was ill. He did not perform."

"What? But then who—"

"The Duke himself."

Her father's quill clattered to the desk.

"The Duke of Brightwood? But surely... I had heard rumours of his skill, but to actually perform in public?"

"He had little choice. It was that or cancel the concert entirely." Melody touched her throat, remembering the way the music had flowed between them. "Papa, you should have heard him. Those rumours barely touched the truth. His technique is perfect, though he keeps it locked away behind the most rigid interpretation imaginable. It's as if he's afraid to let the music truly breathe."

"And I suppose you told him so?" Her father's tone held fond exasperation. "My dear, you cannot speak to a Duke as you would to one of my students."

"I may have... expressed some opinions on the subject." Melody felt her cheeks warm at the memory of their heated exchange. "But Papa, when he finally began to relax his iron control, when he allowed himself to truly feel the music..."

She broke off, unable to find words for that magical moment when their artistic souls had touched.

"Melody." Her father's voice grew serious. "You must be careful. This concert series represents an incredible opportunity for us. The patronage of the ton could secure our position for years to come. But that will only happen if you maintain proper professional distance."

"I know." She smoothed her skirts, trying to push away the memory of storm-grey eyes and elegant hands moving across piano keys. "But you don't understand. When we performed together, it was... different. Special. As if we spoke the same language that no one else could hear."

"My dear girl." Mr. Piper rose and came to rest his hands on her shoulders. "That is precisely what concerns me. Music has a way of creating false intimacy, of making us believe in connections that cannot exist in the real world. His Grace may be a talented musician, but he is still a Duke. And you are..."

"Just a music master's daughter." The words tasted bitter. "I know, Papa. You need not remind me of my place."

"I only wish to protect you from pain." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Now, tell me about the actual performance. Did the audience appreciate your interpretation of the Mozart?"

Later that night, lying in her narrow bed, Melody stared at the shadowed ceiling and tried to make sense of her turbulent emotions. Her father's warnings echoed in her mind, mixing with memories of the performance. The Duke's initial resistance, the gradual softening of his rigid control, the moment when their music had finally merged into something transcendent...

Clara's soft voice drifted through the wall from the next room, humming one of the evening's pieces. Her sister had been waiting up to hear every detail, her young face alight with romantic notions about Dukes and music and love.

Melody had carefully edited her account, speaking only of the performance itself, not of the way her heart had raced when his fingers had brushed hers as they arranged the music, or how his rare, genuine smile had transformed his aristocratic features into something dangerously appealing.

"You're being a fool," she whispered to herself. "He is a Duke, and you are nobody. The music is all that matters."

But even as she finally drifted into sleep, her dreams were filled with storm-grey eyes and the phantom touch of elegant hands.

*****

Two days later, Melody stood before the imposing doors of Brightwood House, gathering her courage. The morning sun cast long shadows across the classical facade, every carved detail speaking of generations of wealth and privilege. Each gleaming window, each perfectly maintained hedge served as a reminder of the vast gulf between her world and the Duke's.

Even the air felt different here—perfumed with expensive blooms from the garden rather than the more prosaic scents of her own neighbourhood.

She smoothed her hands down her best morning dress, a garment that had seemed perfectly adequate when she'd put it on but now felt shabby against such grandeur. The fabric, though good quality when new, showed subtle signs of careful maintenance at the seams. Like her family's position in society — respectable enough when not examined too closely.

"You're being ridiculous," she whispered to herself. "You're here to make music, not to worry about clothes."

But even as she thought it, memories of the Duke's elegant evening attire from their performance flashed through her mind. Even in disarray after their passionate musical collaboration, he had looked every inch the aristocrat.

The remembered image sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach.

Simmons met her at the door with a warm smile that did little to ease Melody's nerves.

"Good morning, Miss Piper. His Grace awaits you in the music room." He gestured to a footman. "Baker will show you the way."

The journey through the house felt like walking through a dream. Corridors lined with priceless artwork stretched before her, each piece probably worth more than her family's entire home. Through open doors she glimpsed rooms that each contained enough furniture to fill her whole house. The thick carpet beneath her feet muffled her steps, making her feel oddly insubstantial, as if she might disappear into all of this grandeur without leaving a trace.

Music drifted through the air — faint at first, then growing stronger as they approached their destination.

Melody's steps faltered as she recognised the piece.

It was one that they had performed together, but this interpretation was nothing like their careful performance. This was raw, passionate, filled with all of the emotion that she had tried to draw from him during their performance.

Then Baker opened the music room door, and she forgot everything else.

Sunlight poured through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like golden stars in the morning light. The pianoforte gleamed, its lid raised to catch the perfect acoustics of the room. And at the instrument sat the Duke, his formal coat discarded, his cravat loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled back to reveal strong forearms as his fingers moved across the keys.

He played with an abandon she hadn't witnessed during their performance, his body swaying slightly with the music, his face transformed by emotion. This, she realised with a catch in her breath, was his true self — the one he hid behind rigid control and proper behaviour. The sight struck her heart like a physical blow. She wanted to freeze this moment, to preserve forever this image of him lost in pure musical passion.

But then he became aware of her presence, and everything changed. His spine straightened as if someone had run a sword up it, his expression smoothed into that marble mask she remembered, and his hands stilled on the keys. The transformation hurt to watch, like seeing a wild creature cage itself.

"Miss Piper." He rose and bowed, every inch the proper Duke once more. Even his voice had changed, becoming deeper, more controlled. "I trust that you are recovered from the excitement of the performance?"

"Quite recovered, Your Grace." She dropped into a curtsey, hating the formality that had sprung up between them like a wall of ice. Where was the man who had matched her passion note for note? Who had let his music soar with hers in perfect harmony? "Though I confess, I am eager to begin work on the next program."

"Indeed." He moved to collect several sheets of music from a nearby table, his movements precise and controlled. "I have some suggestions regarding the selection of pieces."

As he spread the music before her, Melody found herself distracted by his proximity. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to him, mixed with something warmer, more essentially male.

His fingers moved across the paper with such grace and assurance that she could almost feel their phantom touch on her skin. Focus , she commanded herself sternly. The music is all that matters. You cannot afford to notice anything else about him .

But then he began to explain his ideas for one of the more challenging pieces, and despite herself, Melody found her professional interest caught. His suggestions revealed not just technical mastery but a deep understanding of both the music and her voice. He had clearly taken careful note of her performance style, recognising where she tended to take liberties with tempo, and suggesting ways that they might meet halfway between their different interpretations.

She found herself leaning closer, pointing out particular passages, debating interpretative choices. The subtle warmth of his body so near to hers was distracting, but not as distracting as the way that his eyes lit up when she made a particularly astute observation about the emotional arc of a phrase.

"Here," she said, tapping a particular bar, "this is where the character realises her love is hopeless. The music needs to reflect that heartbreak."

Something flickered in his expression — pain? Recognition?

"And you believe that requires disrupting the composer's carefully crafted timing?"

"I believe it requires letting the music breathe with the emotion." She held his gaze, challenging him. "Surely you understand that, Your Grace. I heard you playing when I arrived — you knew exactly how to express such feelings then."

Colour stained his cheeks, but his voice remained steady.

"That was different. I was alone."

"Does emotion only exist in solitude, then?"

The question hung between them, weighted with meaning beyond their musical discussion. For a moment, she thought that she saw an answering challenge in his eyes, a hint of the passion she'd witnessed earlier.

Then he looked away, collecting himself.

"Perhaps we should try some of these pieces," he suggested, moving towards the pianoforte. "Theory can only take us so far."

Melody followed, positioning herself beside the instrument where she could watch both his face and his hands. She had to stifle a gasp when he sat and rolled his sleeves up further, the shockingly exposed elegant muscles of his forearms flexing as he positioned his hands above the keys.

Their first attempt was stilted, both of them too aware of each other, too conscious of maintaining proper distance. But gradually, as they worked through the piece, something of the magic from their performance began to return. She found herself swaying slightly closer as she sang, drawn by the way that his body moved with the music despite his attempts at rigid control.

His playing was still more restrained than it had been when she'd first entered, but there were moments when that rigid shell cracked, when real emotion shone through. She found herself deliberately pushing those boundaries, using her voice to draw him out, to challenge his careful restraint.

When she took a particularly passionate liberty with the phrasing, his fingers faltered for a moment before following her lead, and the look he shot her was half exasperation, half admiration.

Until suddenly he stopped, his hands frozen above the keys.

"Miss Piper." His voice held warning, but also something darker, hotter. "You are doing it again."

"Doing what, Your Grace?"

She tried for innocence, though her heart raced at the intensity of his gaze.

"Attempting to force me into your more... emotional interpretation."

"And is it working?"

The words hung in the air between them, charged with meaning that went far beyond their musical collaboration.

His eyes met hers, and for a moment Melody glimpsed something fierce and hungry behind his careful facade.

Heat bloomed in her chest, spreading outward until she felt almost feverish with awareness of him.

Then he looked away, his shoulders stiffening.

"We should focus on technical precision first. The emotional interpretation can be discussed once we have mastered the basic framework of the pieces."

The withdrawal hurt more than it should have.

Melody forced herself to remember her father's warnings, to recall the vast social gulf between them.

"As you wish, Your Grace."

They worked for another hour, maintaining careful distance both physically and artistically. Yet every so often, their eyes would meet over the music, or their hands would brush as they turned pages, and that dangerous spark would flare again.

Each time it happened, Melody felt her resolve weaken a little more.

It wasn't just his physical beauty that drew her, though that was undeniable.

It was the glimpses of his true self that she caught between moments of rigid control — the way that his eyes softened when the music moved him, the slight smile that curved his lips when she hit a particularly pure note, the almost unconscious way that his body swayed towards hers when their art aligned perfectly.

When Simmons finally appeared to announce that the Duke was required elsewhere, Melody felt both relief and regret. As she gathered her things, she caught sight of their reflection in one of the tall windows — the Duke in his fine linen shirt and perfectly tailored trousers, herself in her modest day dress that had been carefully mended twice already. The contrast could not have been clearer.

Yet when she looked at his face in the reflection, she found him watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

Their eyes met in the glass, and for a moment the social gulf between them seemed to vanish, leaving only two people who understood each other's souls through music.

"Same time tomorrow, Miss Piper?"

His voice was perfectly controlled again, giving no hint of the passion she had glimpsed in his playing. But his hands gripped the edge of the pianoforte with enough force to whiten his knuckles, betraying his own inner tension.

"Yes, Your Grace." She turned to face him, lifting her chin slightly. Something reckless rose in her, born of frustration with his constant withdrawal. "Though I warn you, I do not intend to give up on drawing genuine emotion from your playing."

Something flickered in those storm-grey eyes — amusement? Warning? Desire?

"Then I fear we are destined to wage a continuous battle, Miss Piper."

"Perhaps, Your Grace," she said, as she moved towards the door, letting her voice carry just a hint of the emotion they'd been discussing, "that is precisely what the music needs."

She felt his eyes on her as she left, burning between her shoulder blades like a physical touch.

The memory of his unguarded playing from earlier haunted her steps through the grand hallways, mixing with the heated looks they'd exchanged, the almost-touches they'd shared.

The music might be all that mattered, she thought as she finally emerged into the morning light, but she was beginning to fear that it was not all that she wanted.

And from the way that he had looked at her in that last moment, she suspected she was not alone in that dangerous truth.