Page 42 of The Duke’s Duet

Then Brightwood cleared his throat and withdrew his hand, the movement almost too controlled.

"Perhaps we should try something else. The Mozart, I think."

But his voice had roughened slightly, betraying that the moment had affected him too. Melody drew in an unsteady breath, trying to gather her composure. The loss of his touch left her fingers tingling, aware of every place that their skin had met.

"Yes, of course. The Mozart."

They continued working, but something had shifted again. The careful distance they'd maintained at the start of the rehearsal had cracked, letting something more dangerous seep through. Every time their eyes met over the music, every time they moved in unconscious harmony, Melody felt that same awareness spark between them.

The Mozart proved particularly challenging - not because of its technical demands, but because it was a piece about love, about passion barely contained by proper forms. Brightwood's playing grew more rigid with each measure, as if he were fighting not just the music but himself.

"You're holding back," Melody said before she could stop herself. "The piece needs to breathe."

His fingers stilled on the keys.

"The tempo is precisely as marked."

"The tempo, yes. But the emotion..." She moved slightly closer, drawn despite herself. "You're playing it like you're afraid of it."

His head snapped up, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of real feeling in his eyes before the careful mask slipped back into place.

"Not everything requires emotional abandon, Miss Piper."

"No? Then why did Mozart write it this way? These phrases..." She reached past him to indicate specific measures, aware of how he tensed at her proximity. "They're meant to build, to grow more passionate, more urgent. Like lovers' hearts beating faster together."

She realised what she'd said too late. Heat flooded her cheeks as Brightwood's breathing changed, became slightly uneven. They were standing too close again, and the space between them felt charged, as if filled by sparks which might burn them at any moment, so charged was everything that they weren't saying.

"Miss Piper..." His voice emerged strained. "Perhaps we should—"

The door opened, admitting Mrs. Williams with a tea tray. The interruption felt like cold water dashed over heated skin. They sprang apart, Brightwood moving to the window while Melody retreated to the far side of the pianoforte.

The housekeeper's expression revealed nothing as she arranged the tea things, but Melody noticed that she left the door slightly ajar when she departed - a silent reminder of propriety which made Melody’s chest ache with fresh awareness of their impossible situation.

As they took tea, the silence between them grew heavier. Brightwood remained by the window, maintaining a careful physical distance that seemed to emphasise the emotional gulf widening between them. Melody watched his reflection in the polished surface of the pianoforte, noting how his fingers clenched around his teacup, how tension radiated from every line of his body.

When he finally spoke, his voice held a carefully measured quality that set off warning bells in her mind.

"I received an interesting letter this morning," he said, his tone too casual. "From Signor Bianchi in Italy. He's seeking talented performers for a series of concerts in Florence."

Melody's hands stilled on her teacup, a chill running through her despite the warm morning.

"Indeed?"

"He specifically mentioned seeking a soprano with..." Brightwood paused, as if choosing his words with extreme care, "…with passion and artistic integrity. Someone not bound by conventional interpretations. Someone who could bring fresh life to traditional pieces."

The words were perfectly chosen, perfectly proper, yet Melody heard the underlying message clearly. Here was an escape route being offered - a way to end whatever this dangerous thing was between them before it could damage either of their reputations.

"How thoughtful of him to inquire." She set her cup down with precise movements, fighting to keep her voice steady. The delicate porcelain made a tiny clicking sound against its saucer, betraying the tremor in her hands. "Though I wonder what prompted his interest in London talent particularly."

Brightwood didn't answer immediately.

He stood utterly still, silhouetted against the window, his profile carved in light and shadow. When he did speak, his voice held something she couldn't quite identify - regret? Resignation?

"Your reputation grows, Miss Piper. These concerts have brought you to the attention of many who appreciate true artistry."

"Have they?" She couldn't help the edge that crept into her tone, as sharp as the morning light cutting across the room. "And is that all that they've brought me to attention for? Or perhaps there are other... considerations?"

He turned then, and for a moment she caught a flash of something raw in his expression before his careful mask slipped back into place. The sight made her heart clench - he was struggling with this as much as she was, though he hid it better.