Page 7 of The Duke’s Duet

Moonlight spilled through the study windows, painting silver paths across the Turkish carpet and catching on the pianoforte's polished surface. The great house creaked and settled around Harper as he sat motionless before the instrument, one hand resting on the closed lid. These midnight hours belonged to him alone - no duties, no expectations, no need to maintain the rigid control that defined his public life.

The clock in the hall struck two, its mellow chimes echoing through the silent corridors. In rooms above, the household slept - servants exhausted from their daily labours, his mother peaceful in her private chambers, even Simmons, who usually kept such careful watch over his Duke's nocturnal habits. Only Harper remained awake, drawn as always to this moment of solitude, this chance to let his carefully constructed walls crumble.

His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the lid. The sound it made - barely a whisper - still sent a shiver of remembered fear down his spine. Even now, years after his father's death, he half-expected to hear those heavy footsteps in the corridor, to see that forbidding figure materialise in the doorway. The old Duke's presence seemed to linger in every shadow, in every creak of the ancient floorboards.

A cloud passed over the moon, dimming the room. Harper's hands moved to the keys, hovering just above their cool ivory surface.

The first notes emerged tentatively, like wild creatures testing the safety of open ground. A simple scale, then an arpeggio, then gradually, as his confidence grew, more complex passages began to flow.

Not the precise, controlled pieces he had occasionally performed before close family and friends - no, these were the passionate works he truly loved. Works that spoke of longing, of desire, of all of the emotions that a Duke must never show. Works that would have earned his father's contempt, but which sang to his soul with irresistible power.

As the music poured through him, Harper felt the familiar transformation begin. His rigid posture softened, his breathing deepened, his entire body beginning to move with the rhythm. Each piece flowed into the next with growing abandon, until the room seemed too small to contain the emotions he released.

Chopin gave way to Beethoven, then to Mozart at his most passionate. Harper's fingers flew across the keys, drawing forth sounds that would have scandalised the ton . This was how music should be played - not as a mathematical exercise in precision, but as a living, breathing thing that could express all of the feelings that he dared not voice in any other way.

A particularly intense passage brought back the memory of his father's fury, sharp and clear despite the passing years. He'd been seventeen, home from Oxford for the summer, when the old Duke had found him playing instead of reviewing estate accounts.

"A Duke who wastes his time on frivolous pursuits," his father had thundered, his face purple with rage, "is no Duke at all! You shame the title, your family, everything we stand for!"

The riding crop had whistled through the air, striking the pianoforte lid inches from Harper's fingers. The next blow had not missed. The pain had been shocking, but worse had been the humiliation, the sense that something precious had been tainted.

Harper's hands faltered on the keys, the remembered pain making his fingers clumsy.

For a moment, he was that frightened boy again, watching his beloved music become something shameful, something to hide. But he forced himself to continue playing, pushing through the memory as he had learned to push through all obstacles. The music changed, becoming something darker, filled with the anger and hurt he'd never been allowed to express.

Against his will, Melody's face floated into his mind - the way that she looked when she sang, every emotion clear and pure, holding nothing back. She wielded her talent like a weapon and a gift all at once, challenging anyone who would deny its power. How did she do it? How did she find the courage to be so free, to let the music flow through her without fear or shame?

His playing shifted again, becoming something yearning and bittersweet. He thought of how she had looked today during their rehearsal, the way that her eyes had sparked when challenging his interpretation, the graceful curve of her neck as she bent over the music. The subtle scent of lavender that clung to her skin, the way that her fingers had brushed his when they turned pages together, the sound of her quiet laugh when he'd made some dry observation about a particularly pompous tempo marking.

More than that - he thought of how her presence made him want to break free of all of his careful restraints. How she saw through his rigid control to the passion he kept hidden. How she wouldn't let him hide behind his title or his training, but demanded that he engage with the music - and with her - honestly and completely.

The piece he played now was one he'd never share with anyone – it was his own composition, though he'd die before admitting it. It spoke of longing, of possibilities just out of reach, of dreams that could never be fulfilled. As his fingers shaped the melody, he poured into it everything he couldn't say: his growing feelings for Melody, his fear of disappointing his family, his desperate wish to be both the Duke he must be and the musician he yearned to be.

"Your Grace?"

Harper's hands crashed onto the keys in discord. He turned to find Simmons in the doorway, the butler's familiar face lined with concern in the moonlight.

How long had he been standing there?

How much had he heard?

"I heard the music," Simmons said softly, as if answering the unspoken question. "I wanted to ensure that all was well."

The old servant had been with the family since before Harper's birth. He had witnessed every triumph, every tragedy - including that day with the riding crop. Sometimes Harper wondered if Simmons remembered that incident as clearly as he did.

"Thank you, Simmons. I am quite well."

A pause stretched between them, heavy with shared memories. Then, with a slight nod, Simmons spoke.

"Shall I bring you some tea, Your Grace?"

Harper caught the deeper concern in the butler's voice - how many nights had Simmons found him here, playing out his private passions in the darkness? How many times had he brought tea, or brandy, or simply stood quiet guard while his master wrestled with demons he could never quite vanquish?

"No, thank you." Harper managed a small smile. "I believe I shall retire shortly."

"Very good, Your Grace." Simmons hesitated, then added quietly, "If I may say so... your playing tonight was particularly moving. Almost as fine as when Miss Piper accompanies you."

Before Harper could respond to this unprecedented observation, the butler had melted away into the shadows of the corridor, leaving his master to contemplate the implications of his words.

Alone again, Harper remained at the instrument, his fingers moving restlessly over the keys. He played a softer piece now, but with no less feeling.

It was another of his own composition. Each note seemed to whisper Melody's name, each phrase captured some aspect of her - her fierce dedication to her art, her quick wit, the way that her eyes softened when the music moved her deeply.

The moonlight shifted, throwing strange shadows across the room. In their dancing patterns, Harper saw all of his carefully constructed reasons for keeping his distance from Melody dissolve like morning mist. His father's voice in his memory grew fainter, replaced by the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her encouragement, the challenge in her eyes when she pushed him to be more than just a Duke playing at music.

"You're being a fool," he muttered to himself, even as his hands shaped another phrase of his secret composition. This one spoke of hope, of possibility, of dreams he dared not acknowledge in the light of day.

The clock struck three, reminding him that tomorrow - no, today - would bring another rehearsal. Another chance to watch her move through his music room as if she belonged there. Another opportunity to feel that dangerous connection that grew stronger with each passing day.

He should end this now.

Should find another accompanist for the remaining concerts.

Should retreat behind the safety of his title and his position.

Instead, his fingers continued to dance across the keys, weaving melodies that spoke of longing, of possibilities, of a future he could almost taste but dared not reach for.

Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

But in the safety of these midnight hours, he could at least admit to himself how much he wanted it.

*****

Morning sunlight filled the music room, painting the room with gold. Harper stood at the window, watching Melody arrange her music on the stand.

She moved with an unconscious grace that drew his eye, her fingers dancing across the pages as she organised them to her satisfaction.

"Your Grace?" She turned, and he felt the now-familiar catch in his breath at the direct warmth of her gaze. "I've brought something different for today's rehearsal."

She held out a piece of music which, when he took it from her, and saw what it was, made his heart stutter - Richter's ‘Between Duty and Desire’ , a complex work he'd discovered years ago and played countless times in private, though never before others.

That she had found this particular piece, one that spoke so perfectly to his own struggles...

"Where did you find this? It’s not a commonly available score."

He strove to keep his voice neutral as he looked at the score, though his fingers trembled slightly. The pages were worn at the corners - this wasn't a new copy, but one that had been played and loved.

"In that little music shop on Bond Street. The owner mentioned you'd asked about it once." She watched him carefully. "I did some research - did you know Richter wrote it during his time as Royal Kapellmeister? He was caught between his passion for composing revolutionary new works and his obligations to produce proper, traditional court music."

Harper's throat tightened. Of course she would understand not just the music, but the story behind it.

"You've researched the piece thoroughly."

"Of course. How can we truly understand the music if we don't understand what drove its creation?"

She moved closer, and he caught the subtle scent of lavender that always seemed to surround her.

"His letters from that period are fascinating. He wrote to his sister about feeling torn between what his heart demanded and what his position required. The music reflects that struggle - technically perfect on the surface, but with such passion burning underneath."

The parallel to his own situation was almost unbearable. Harper turned away, ostensibly to place the music on the pianoforte.

"And you thought this appropriate for our next concert?"

"I thought... after our last performance... that it might help bridge our different approaches." Her voice softened. "The way that Richter found to express both precision and passion, duty and desire, in the same piece - it seemed perfect for us."

Us. The word hung in the air between them, weighted with meaning.

"Would you like to try it?"

"Very much." Something in her tone made him look up sharply, but her expression was perfectly proper. "Shall we begin?"

As they worked through Richter's composition, Harper found himself increasingly caught up in the joy of sharing music he'd previously kept private. Melody's interpretation matched his own instincts perfectly, as if she had somehow divined the way that he played it during his solitary hours. She understood the tension in the piece - the way that it balanced strict classical form with moments of almost unbridled emotion.

When she suggested a slight variation in tempo for one particularly passionate section, he found himself agreeing without his usual resistance.

"Here," she said, touching a specific passage, "listen to how Richter builds the tension between what's proper and what's passionate."

The music flowed between them with growing confidence, each phrase building on the last until the room seemed to vibrate with shared understanding. Harper felt himself responding to her subtle cues, letting go of his rigid control as they explored the piece's deeper meanings together.

"Oh!" The Dowager Duchess's voice from the doorway startled them both. "Do forgive the interruption, but Miss Piper, might I have a word about Lady Sophia's proposed lessons?"

Melody glanced at Harper, who nodded, though it cost him to break their connection.

"Of course, Your Grace. I'll return shortly."

Left alone, Harper remained at the pianoforte, his fingers moving restlessly over the keys. Without conscious thought, he began to play the next section - the part where Richter had finally let passion overcome propriety, where the melody soared with all the composer's repressed feelings.

The music pulled him in, as it always did when he played this piece privately. His body swayed with the rhythm as he added his own small touches, subtle embellishments that made the interpretation uniquely his. When the vocal line began, he sang it softly, letting his voice carry all the emotion that he usually kept locked away.

Then another voice joined his - pure and perfect and utterly unexpected. Harper's hands faltered on the keys as Melody's voice wrapped around his, their harmonies blending as if they'd rehearsed it a hundred times. The piece seemed to take on new life with their voices joined, becoming something more than either of them had created alone.

He should stop. Should apologise for taking such liberties with Richter's work. Should retreat behind his careful walls. Instead, he found himself continuing to play, their voices weaving together in an intimate dance that made his heart race. In that moment, he understood exactly why Richter had risked his position at court to write such passionate music. When the piece ended, silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken things.

"Your Grace," Melody breathed, her eyes bright with something that made his pulse jump, "I ask you again, why did you never tell me you could sing like this? When you demonstrated that difficult piece last week, I understood that you were skilled, but this… this is far beyond that."

"It's not... that is..." He struggled to find words that wouldn't reveal too much. "A Duke should not..."

"Shouldn't share such a magnificent gift?" She moved closer, until he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes. "Shouldn't let himself truly feel the music? Shouldn't let others see his passion?"

Each question struck like an arrow, piercing the armour he'd built around his heart.

"You don't understand. There are expectations, duties..."

"I understand that you're fighting yourself." Her voice softened. "I hear it in your playing - especially at night. Just as Richter fought himself, until he finally chose to be true to his art."

Harper's breath caught.

"You've heard..."

"My father always says music carries further than we think." A slight flush coloured her cheeks. "Sometimes, when I have stayed late to practice, I have heard you playing, as I leave. You're different then - free, passionate, alive with the music. Like you were just now."

He should be mortified that she'd witnessed his private moments. Instead, he felt strangely relieved, as if some burden had lifted.

"And what do you think of my late night performances, Miss Piper?"

"I think..." She hesitated, then lifted her chin with that challenging look he was coming to know too well. "I think that's the real you, Your Grace. The man behind the Duke. The artist behind the aristocrat." The truth of her words shook him. She saw him - truly saw him - in a way that no one else ever had. The realisation was both terrifying and exhilarating. "This piece," she continued, her voice taking on an odd tension, "do you know how it ended for Richter? What he chose?"

"He chose truth over safety." The words emerged rough with emotion. "Passion over propriety. And created something immortal in the process."

"Yes." She was standing too close now, close enough that he could see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. "Some choices are worth any cost."

He knew the truth of that. God help him, he knew.

Just as he knew that they were no longer talking about Richter's music.

Before he could respond, footsteps in the hallway announced the Dowager Duchess' return. Melody stepped back quickly, turning to gather her music with hands that trembled slightly.

But as his mother entered the room, Harper found himself unable to look away from Melody's profile. The connection they'd found through Richter's piece had changed something between them - something that could never be unchanged.

And for the first time in his life, he wasn't sure he wanted to change it back.