Page 21 of The Duke’s Duet

Chapter Six

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."