Page 12 of The Duke’s Duet

Chapter Three

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."