Page 49 of The Duke’s Duet

The Dowager Duchess' expression was troubled as she spoke to her son, her eyes occasionally darting towards Melody and the still-effusive Signor Bianchi.

"You will consider my offer, yes?" The impresario pressed a thick envelope into her hands. "All details are here. Take time to think, but not too much time. Such opportunities, they do not come often."

Melody's fingers closed around the envelope, feeling the weight of possibility that it contained.

Everything she'd worked for, everything she'd dreamed of professionally, was within her grasp.

So why did her heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vice?

*****

Melody sat in her father's study long past midnight, still wearing her concert gown, the envelope from Signor Bianchi lying unopened on the desk between them. The room held the comfortable shabbiness of long use - worn carpet, shelves overflowing with musical scores, the old pianoforte that had seen thousands of lessons. Every surface spoke of their precarious position between genteel respectability and genuine poverty.

"You haven't opened it." Her father's voice was gentle, understanding. He looked tired in the lamplight, the silver in his hair more prominent than she remembered. "Are you not curious about the specifics?"

"The specifics hardly matter, do they?" She traced the edge of the envelope with one finger. "He stated the main points quite clearly at the concert. Six months in Italy, beginning with Florence. Artistic freedom. More money than we see in a year."

"Then why do you look as if he'd offered you exile rather than opportunity?"

The question hung in the air between them. Melody rose, moving to the window where, again, rain traced patterns on the glass.

Her concert gown whispered against the threadbare carpet - burgundy silk that had cost more than she should have spent, chosen because she'd once heard Brightwood mention his fondness for that particular shade.

"Do you remember," she said finally, "when I was small, and you taught me about harmony? How you said some notes were meant to go together, that they created something greater than either could achieve alone?"

"Melody..." Her name emerged on a sigh. "Music is not life, my dear. No matter how much we might wish it were that simple."

"Isn't it?" She turned to face him. "When we perform together... Papa, I've never experienced anything like it. It's as if we can read each other's minds, anticipate each other's interpretations. The music we create together is more than just notes on a page. It's..."

"It's love." He said it simply, without judgment. "You've fallen in love with him."

The words struck her like physical blows.

She'd been so careful not to name this feeling, this ache in her chest that grew stronger every time she saw Brightwood, every time that they made music together.

"It doesn't matter what I feel." But her voice betrayed her, cracking slightly on the words. "He's a Duke. I'm nobody."

"You are not nobody." Her father's tone sharpened. "You are a talented artist, a dedicated musician, a woman of intelligence and integrity. But..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "But you are not what society would consider a suitable Duchess."

"I know that." She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting a sudden chill. "I've always known that. Even before... before Vauxhall Gardens."

"What happened at Vauxhall?" When she didn't immediately answer, he pressed gently, "Melody? What happened?"

"Nothing. Everything." She closed her eyes, remembering coloured lanterns and the warmth of Brightwood's hands holding hers. "We almost... he nearly... but Lady Pembroke warned us before anything improper could occur."

"Thank God for Lady Pembroke's discretion." Her father's voice held both relief and sympathy. "If you had been caught in a compromising position..."

"I know." The words emerged barely above a whisper. "It would have ruined everything - his reputation, the concerts, any chance of a respectable career for me."

"And yet..." Her father rose, moving to join her at the window. "And yet you're reluctant to accept an opportunity that would remove you from this dangerous situation. That would advance your career while protecting both your reputations."

"You make it sound so rational." She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. "As if it were simply a matter of weighing advantages against disadvantages."

"Isn't it? Let us consider the possibilities." He touched her shoulder gently. "If you stay, what future can you envision? Continuing the concerts until gossip makes them impossible? Watching him eventually marry some suitable young lady of quality while you perform at their wedding breakfast?"

Each suggestion felt like a knife to her heart.

"Papa, please..."