Page 8 of The Duke’s Duet

Melody's fingers traced the notes on the score before her, but her mind was elsewhere, still caught in the memory of their voices blending together over Richter's piece. The morning sun filled Brightwood House's music room with golden light, catching on the crystal drops of the chandelier and making the dust motes dance in the air. In this ethereal glow, everything seemed possible - even the wild idea that had kept her awake half the night.

She watched Brightwood at the pianoforte, noting how the sunlight softened his aristocratic features, how his hands moved with such unconscious grace as he arranged the music. The careful precision of his movements couldn't quite hide the underlying tension she'd come to recognise - that constant battle between control and passion that defined him.

Their voices had matched so perfectly yesterday, like two parts of the same soul finally finding each other. The memory of that harmony haunted her, whispering of possibilities that both thrilled and terrified her.

Surely he had felt it too? That moment of pure connection, when all the barriers between them had dissolved into music?

"Your Grace," she began, gathering her courage like a shield. "I have a suggestion for the next concert."

Something in her tone must have warned him. He turned, one eyebrow lifting slightly, and Melody's breath caught at the way the morning light defined his profile, turning him into a figure from some classical painting.

"Indeed?"

"I think that we should perform a duet."

The words hung in the air between them, weightier than their simple syllables should allow. His face went absolutely still, that marble mask she had come to know dropping into place. But not before she caught a flash of something in his eyes - longing? Fear? A combination of both, that matched the flutter in her own chest?

"Absolutely not." His voice was cold, controlled, the Duke speaking rather than the musician she knew lived beneath that rigid surface. "It would be entirely inappropriate."

"Why?" She moved closer, unable to keep the passion from her voice, drawn to him despite her best intentions. "We've proven that we can create something extraordinary together. You can't deny how perfectly our voices blend. Yesterday, when we sang Richter's piece..."

"That was different." He cut her off, but she noticed his fingers clenching on the edge of the pianoforte. "That was private."

"And why must it be private? Why hide such a gift?" Her heart thundered in her chest as she pressed forward, knowing that she risked everything, but unable to stop. "Are you truly content to keep such beauty locked away in midnight sessions and stolen moments?"

He turned away, his shoulders rigid beneath his perfectly tailored coat.

"A Duke does not perform vocal duets with..."

"With what, Your Grace?" Heat rose in her cheeks, part anger, part hurt, part something else she dared not name. "With a mere music master's daughter? Or perhaps with anyone at all, lest someone think that you actually feel something? Lest they see past that perfect Ducal facade to the man beneath?"

"You go too far, Miss Piper."

But his voice held more warning than anger, as if he feared where this conversation might lead.

"Do I? Or do I simply see what you're trying so hard to hide? The artist beneath the Duke, the man beneath the title?" She took another step closer, close enough now to catch his subtle scent of sandalwood and leather. "I've watched you these past weeks, Your Grace. I've seen how the music moves you, even when you try to deny it. I've heard the passion in your playing when you think no one listens."

He spun back to face her, and the intensity of his gaze nearly stole her breath.

Gone was the careful mask of Ducal authority, replaced by something raw and electric that made her heart stutter in her chest.

"You think you see so clearly, don't you?" His voice had dropped lower, intimate despite his obvious attempt to maintain distance. "You think that, because we share some understanding of music, you know what I am, what I must be? The weight of generations of duty, the expectations that come with my title?"

"I know what you could be, if you'd only dare to show it." She met his gaze steadily, though her pulse raced at his proximity. "I know what we could create together."

They stood too close now, the air between them charged with something that had nothing to do with music and everything to do with the way that his eyes dropped briefly to her lips before snapping back to meet her gaze.

Melody watched emotions war across his face - desire and duty, passion and propriety, everything that made him who he was.

The morning sun caught the few paler threads in his dark hair, illuminated the tension in his jaw, and the slight tremor in his hands that he tried so hard to control. She could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the rapid pulse at his throat that betrayed his own awareness of their dangerous proximity.

"Think of the impact it would have," she said softly, trying a different approach, though it cost her to step back, to pretend that this was only about the music. "Think how unique it would make the concert, how memorable. The Duke of Brightwood, not just performing as accompanist, but sharing his gift in service of such a worthy cause."

His lips quirked slightly, though the heat hadn't quite faded from his eyes.

"Attempting to appeal to my sense of duty, Miss Piper?"

"Attempting to appeal to your artistic soul, Your Grace." She let her own passion for music colour her voice. "Think of what we could do with Marcello's 'Heart's Surrender' - your voice has exactly the richness the male part requires, and the harmonies in the final section..."

"You've thought this through quite thoroughly, I see."

Was that admiration in his tone? Or something warmer?

"I have." She moved to the pianoforte, letting her fingers trail across its polished surface. "I chose the piece specifically because it showcases both voices equally, yet maintains perfect propriety. The lyrics speak of loyalty and honour - nothing inappropriate for a Duke to sing."

"My artistic soul, as you call it, must bow to the requirements of my position." But his voice had softened, losing its earlier edge. His eyes followed her movements with an intensity that made her skin tingle. "Surely you understand the differences in our situations?"

"I understand that you're afraid."

The words slipped out before she could stop them, born of frustration and an aching awareness of all that stood between them. His eyes darkened.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not of performing - we both know you have the skill." She forced herself to continue, though her heart felt like it might burst from her chest. "You're afraid of showing too much of yourself. Of letting others see what I've seen when we make music together. Of letting them glimpse the passion behind your perfect control."

The silence that followed felt endless. Brightwood stared at her as if she'd struck him, and Melody fought the urge to step back, to apologise, to pretend that she hadn't just stripped away every careful layer of his defences. The morning light seemed to hold its breath with her, the dust motes frozen in their dance.

"You presume a great deal, Miss Piper." His voice was low, dangerous, yet somehow intimate. "What makes you think that you've seen anything I haven't chosen to show?"

"Because I've heard you play late at night, when you thought that no one would hear." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly though her heart trembled. "Because I've seen how the music affects you when you forget yourself. Because when we sang Richter's piece together, you let all your walls down, if only for a moment. And it was glorious."

He moved then, crossing to the window in two swift strides, as if he needed physical distance between them. The morning light caught his profile, highlighting, again, the tension in his jaw, the careful way that he held himself.

Melody's fingers itched to smooth the stiffness from his shoulders, to draw him back to that moment of perfect harmony they'd shared. But she remained where she was, understanding instinctively that he needed space to wrestle with the truth of her words.

The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of everything they couldn't say. Through the window came the distant sounds of London - carriage wheels on cobblestones, a street vendor's cry, the endless pulse of the city. Yet in the music room, time seemed suspended, waiting for his response.

"A duet would require rehearsal," he said finally, still staring out the window as if the answer to his dilemma lay in London's smoky skyline. "Private rehearsal."

Her heart leaped at this first sign of yielding.

"Yes."

"It would attract attention. Comment."

His fingers drummed against the window frame, an unconscious rhythm that betrayed his internal struggle.

"Everything we do already attracts attention." She moved to stand beside him, careful to maintain a proper distance though every fibre of her being yearned to move closer. "At least this would be for something extraordinary. Something worthy of notice."

He turned then, and Melody's breath caught at his proximity. This close, she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiny flecks of silver in his grey eyes, the way that his cravat shifted with each breath. The morning light softened his features, making him look younger, more vulnerable.

"You truly believe that we could create something worthwhile?"

His voice had roughened slightly, and she watched in fascination as his throat moved with the words.

"I know we could." She wished that she dared touch him, just the lightest brush of fingers against his sleeve, anything to bridge the careful distance between them. "We already have. Every time we perform together, we create something magical. This would simply be... more."

For a moment, something flickered in his expression - a heat that had little to do with music and everything to do with the way they stood, too close for propriety, but not nearly close enough for her heart's desire. His eyes dropped to her lips again, and Melody felt that look like a physical touch.

"I will consider it," he said finally, though his voice suggested that he was already more than half convinced. "But I make no promises."

It wasn't agreement, but it wasn't refusal either. Melody forced herself to step back, to return to safer ground, though every step away from him felt like moving through deep water.

"That's all I ask, Your Grace."

"Now," he turned back to the pianoforte, though she noticed that his hands weren't quite steady as he arranged the music, "shall we continue with our scheduled rehearsal?"

They worked through their usual pieces, but something had shifted between them. Every time their eyes met over the music, Melody felt that dangerous spark of connection. Every time their hands brushed turning pages, she had to suppress a shiver at the jolt of awareness that passed between them.

And sometimes, when the music grew particularly passionate, she caught him watching her with an intensity that made her wonder if he was thinking about their voices joining together again, about the possibility of creating something more than either of them could achieve alone. Something that might bridge the gulf between their worlds, if only for the length of a song.

*****

Lord and Lady Pembroke's music room gleamed with candlelight, the flames reflected in gilt-framed mirrors until the space seemed to glow from within. Melody stood near the pianoforte where her father waited to accompany her, fighting to keep her expression serene despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach.

This was different from performing at Brightwood House - more intimate, more exposed.

She hadn't expected to see Brightwood here. Yet there he was, standing with Lord Pembroke near the window, his evening black making him look even more aristocratic than usual. He hadn't acknowledged her beyond the briefest of nods, but she could feel his presence like a physical thing, drawing her attention no matter how she tried to focus on her preparation.

"Ready, my dear?" her father asked softly, his fingers poised above the keys.

Melody nodded, took a deep breath, and, as the music started, began to sing. She'd chosen simpler pieces for this evening - gentle ballads that suited the intimate setting.

Yet as her voice filled the room, she found herself adding subtle variations, small touches of emotion that she'd learned from working with Brightwood.

She didn't dare look directly at him, but she was acutely aware of his position, of the way that he shifted slightly to better hear her. When she reached a particularly moving passage, she sensed rather than saw him lean forward, caught up despite himself in the music.

The final notes faded into appreciative silence, followed by enthusiastic applause. Melody curtsied, thanking the audience with practiced grace. But before she could step away from the pianoforte, she found herself surrounded by a group of gentlemen, all eager to express their admiration.

"Exquisite, my dear, quite exquisite," drawled one, standing rather closer than necessary. "Such... passion… in your performance."

"You're too kind, sir," she murmured, trying to step back without appearing rude.

"Tell me," another moved to block her retreat, his smile sharp beneath his carefully waxed moustache, "do you give private performances? My music room has excellent... acoustics."

Melody's stomach turned at the implication in his tone.

"I'm afraid that my schedule is quite full with the charity concert series."

"Surely you could find time for more... intimate engagements?" A third gentleman joined in, his eyes roving over her in a way that made her skin crawl. "I would make it well worth your while."

She looked desperately for her father, but he had been drawn into conversation with Lady Pembroke about some technical aspect of the evening's music. She was effectively trapped by the circle of increasingly forward gentlemen.

"I really must decline—" she began, but was cut off by another suggestive comment barely disguised as musical appreciation.

*****

From across the room, Harper watched the scene unfold with growing tension. He'd been fighting his own reaction to Melody's performance - the way that her voice had seemed to speak directly to his soul, the subtle embellishments she'd added that echoed their work together, the grace of her movements as she sang.

But now, seeing those wolves circle her, watching her discomfort grow even as she maintained her polite smile, he felt something dark and primitive rise in his chest. His hands clenched at his sides as one particularly bold fortune hunter moved closer to her, practically leering.

She was his...

The thought shocked him with its intensity.

She wasn't his. Could never be his.

Yet his feet were moving before he could stop himself, carrying him across the room with measured stride.

"Miss Piper." He kept his voice even through sheer force of will. "I particularly enjoyed your interpretation of that last piece. The way that you varied the phrasing in the second movement was quite innovative."

The relief in her eyes as she turned to him made his chest ache.

"Thank you, Your Grace. I was experimenting with some of the ideas we discussed during rehearsal for the charity concerts."

The other gentlemen fell back slightly, unable to maintain their forward behaviour in the presence of a Duke. Harper pressed his advantage, drawing her into a detailed discussion of musical theory that soon had her eager admirers drifting away in search of less intellectual entertainment.

"I believe that you mentioned Vittorio's theories about emotional resonance in performance?" he continued, carefully not acknowledging her silent gratitude.

"Yes, though I find his ideas about tempo rather rigid." Her voice grew animated as she warmed to the subject. "Surely the emotional truth of a piece must sometimes take precedence over strict mathematical timing?"

He found himself smiling despite his lingering anger at the men who had pressed her so inappropriately.

"Still trying to convince me to be less rigid in my own approach, Miss Piper?"

"Always, Your Grace." Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of gratitude and challenge that made his heart turn over. "Speaking of which..."

"Ah yes, your suggestion from this morning." He glanced around, ensuring their relative privacy. "I have been considering it."

"And?"

"And... perhaps you are not entirely wrong about the potential impact." He caught her quick intake of breath, the way that her eyes widened with hope. "I make no promises, but... we might discuss possible pieces tomorrow?"

The smile that she gave him was like sunrise breaking through clouds.

"I already have several in mind, Your Grace."

Of course she did. He shouldn't find her preparedness so enchanting, shouldn't be so affected by the eager light in her eyes. Yet as he made his excuses and moved away, he found himself already anticipating tomorrow's rehearsal with an intensity that had nothing to do with music. He was, he had to admit, shockingly captured by the way that she saw straight through his carefully maintained facade to the man beneath.

Heaven help him, but he was beginning to think that she might be worth any risk.