Page 50 of The Duke’s Duet

"No, my dear. You must face this squarely." His voice remained gentle but firm. "I've watched you these past weeks. Watched you come alive when performing with him, seen how your music has grown more passionate, more emotionally true. But I've also seen the toll it takes - how you practice his favourite pieces late at night, how you choose music that speaks of impossible love, how you light up at the mere mention of his name."

Melody turned to face him, surprised by this evidence of such close observation.

"I didn't think you'd noticed."

"I'm your father. Of course I noticed." He smiled sadly. "Just as I notice now how you're trying to convince yourself that Italy represents some sort of exile, when in truth it's the opportunity you've dreamed of since you were a girl."

She met his eyes, and the love and kindness she saw there nearly brought her to tears.

"But that was before..."

She stopped, unable to finish the thought.

"Before you found someone whose music matches yours perfectly? Before you discovered what it feels like to perform with someone who truly understands your artistic soul?" He paused, then added softly, "Before you fell in love with a man who, no matter how much he might return your feelings, can never act on them without destroying both of your lives?"

The truth of his words struck her hard, unforgiving.

She sank into her father's old armchair, suddenly exhausted.

"How can you be so certain that he returns my feelings?"

"My dear girl." Her father's voice held infinite tenderness. "I heard you perform tonight. It was kind of them to allow me to attend, for I desperately wanted to see that performance, to be certain… And I am certain now. No man plays with that much passion, that much emotional connection, without feeling something deeper than mere artistic appreciation. The way that he watches you when he thinks that no one is looking... it's clear that his heart is as engaged as yours."

"Then why..." She swallowed hard. "Why did he write to Signor Bianchi about me? Why arrange this opportunity if..."

"Because he's trying to do the right thing. The honourable thing." Her father knelt beside the chair, taking her hands in his. "He's offering you a chance at the career you deserve, while removing temptation from both of your paths."

"Honourable," she repeated bitterly. "Everything about him is honourable. His attention to duty, his care for his position, his determination to do what's proper rather than what his heart wants."

"And is that not part of why you love him?" The gentle question brought fresh tears to her eyes. "His sense of honour, his dedication to duty - these are integral parts of who he is. Would you have him be less than that? Would you want him to throw away generations of responsibility for a love that society would never accept?"

She closed her eyes, remembering Harper's face in the gardens at Vauxhall - the conflict there, the desperate longing warring with ingrained duty.

"No. No, I wouldn't want him to be less than who he is. Even if who he is means that we can never..."

Her voice broke.

Her father gathered her into his arms as he had when she was a child, letting her cry against his shoulder while he stroked her hair.

"Italy is not forever," he said finally. "Six months - time enough for both of you to remember who you are beyond this connection that you've found. Time for your career to flourish, for your reputation to grow beyond London's drawing rooms. And perhaps..."

"Perhaps what?"

"Perhaps time for society's rigid rules to soften slightly. The war changed so much when it showed us that courage and worth aren't limited to those of noble birth. In six months, who knows what might be possible?"

Melody pulled back, wiping her eyes.

"Now who's being unrealistic?"

"Maybe." He smiled gently. "But I prefer to think of it as hopeful. And in the meantime, you have a real opportunity before you. One that could secure your future, establish your reputation, and give you the artistic freedom you've always wanted."

She looked at the envelope still lying on the desk.

Inside were the details of everything she'd dreamed of professionally - artistic control, appreciative audiences, the chance to perform music which she chose, rather than what society deemed appropriate.

"I'll think about it," she said finally.

But they both knew that she'd already made her decision.

The only question was whether her heart would survive the choosing.