Page 29 of The Duke’s Duet

Harper's fingers tightened on his glass.

"I wasn't aware that my musical activities were of such interest to society."

"Oh, come now. A Duke performing publicly? And performing rather brilliantly, I might add? Of course it's all anyone can talk about. Though I must say..." Pembroke's voice dropped lower, "it's not just your playing they've noticed. The way that you watch her when she sings..."

"I watch her because we must coordinate our performance," Harper cut in, perhaps too quickly.

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Pembroke's eyes danced with knowing amusement. "Coordinating? Because from where I sat at the last concert, it looked rather more like..."

"Charles." This time the warning in Harper's voice was unmistakable. "You go too far."

But his friend's expression had turned serious.

"Do I? Or do I not go far enough? You're different when you perform with her, Harper. More alive. More yourself. I haven't seen you so genuine since before your father's strict training began."

The observation struck uncomfortably close to home. Harper turned away, ostensibly to place his empty glass on a passing footman's tray.

"You're imagining things."

"Am I? Then why have you spent the last quarter hour comparing every young lady here to her? Don't deny it - I've watched your face. Lady Harriet was just the latest in a long line of ‘not quite right’."

"You're being ridiculous," Harper said, but the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "I simply find these social occasions tedious. You know I've never enjoyed the marriage mart."

"No, but you've always played your part perfectly. Tonight..." Pembroke gestured subtly towards where Lady Harriet still stood watching them, "you can barely maintain the pretence of interest. And don't think others haven't noticed. Lady Jersey was commenting just yesterday about how your musical partnership with Miss Piper has made you quite... distracted."

The implications in that observation sent a chill down Harper's spine. If Lady Jersey was commenting, the entire ton would soon be speculating. He could not allow scandal to touch Melody's reputation.

"Our partnership is purely professional," he said stiffly. "And temporary."

"Is it?" Pembroke's voice gentled. "Because the way that you look at her when she sings... that's not temporary, old friend. That's not professional. That's a man seeing something he desperately wants but thinks he can't have."

Harper's carefully maintained control cracked.

"What I want is irrelevant. I have responsibilities, duties, expectations—"

"To whom?" Pembroke challenged. "Your father is gone. Your mother, for all her managing, wants your happiness above all. The title? It would survive if you chose to marry someone who actually makes your eyes light up when she enters a room."

"Charles—"

"No, listen to me. I've known you since we were boys at Eton and Oxford. I watched your father grind every spark of passion out of you, turn you into this perfect Ducal automaton. But when you perform with her..." He grabbed Harper's arm, forcing him to meet his gaze. "When you perform with her, I see my friend again. The one who used to compose music in secret, who lived for more than just duty."

The words struck Harper like physical blows, each one finding its mark with devastating accuracy. Before he could respond, a burst of laughter from nearby drew their attention. Lady Harriet had moved to the pianoforte, where she was apparently demonstrating her perfect posture while playing a simple melody.

"Just look," Pembroke said softly. "Look at what society says you should want. Then think about Miss Piper, and tell me which makes your soul sing."

The image rose unbidden in Harper's mind - Melody at the pianoforte in his music room, her entire being alight with passion for the music, her voice soaring with pure emotion as their harmonies blended together. No concern for appearance, no thought for propriety, just the pure joy of artistic creation.

He needed air.

Without a word to Pembroke, he turned and strode towards the terrace doors. The night air hit his face like a shock, blessedly cool after the stuffiness of the ballroom. He moved to the stone balustrade, gripping it until his knuckles turned white.

Behind him, the sounds of the ball continued - elegant music, refined laughter, the subtle whispers of the ton passing judgment. Everything he'd been raised to consider normal, natural, right. Everything that suddenly felt as artificial as the painted scenery in a theatre.

How had this happened? How had one passionate, talented, utterly inappropriate woman managed to shake the very foundations of his carefully ordered world?

*****

"Brightwood?"