Page 7 of The Duke’s Duet

With that parting shot, his mother swept from the room, leaving Harper to contemplate just how thoroughly his day had been ruined.

He crossed to the window, bracing one hand against the frame as he stared unseeing at the courtyard below. The late afternoon sun caught the crystal drops of the chandelier above him, sending rainbow patterns dancing across the polished floor.

Soon the ballroom below would be filled with London's elite, all watching, judging, measuring him against the impossible standards set by his father.

"Your Grace?" Simmons appeared in the doorway. "Miss Piper has arrived. Shall I show her here, to the music room?"

Harper straightened his shoulders, adjusting the perfectly tied cravat that suddenly felt like a noose.

"Yes. And Simmons? Have some tea sent up. I suspect we shall need it. I must step out of the room for a few moments, but will return to see her very soon."

He needed a few moments to prepare himself, truth be told, and he slipped along the corridor to his study, his thoughts filled with the rather terrifying prospect of what he had agreed to.

*****

Melody Piper stood at the window of Brightwood House's elegant music room, trying to still the trembling in her hands. Everything about the room spoke of wealth and privilege — from the expensive silk wallpaper with its subtle pattern of musical notes, to the magnificent pianoforte that dominated the space. Even the sheet music on the stand was bound in leather, gilt-edged and perfect, like everything else in this imposing house.

She touched one of the leather-bound volumes, remembering her father's careful handling of their own well-worn scores, how he would repair tears with such precision that the mends were almost invisible. Music was their life, their passion, their means of survival — but here it was just another display of wealth, another way to showcase the family's ability to afford the very finest of everything.

"Stop that," she muttered to herself, withdrawing her hand from the volume as if it had burned her. "You have performed in grand houses before. This is no different."

But it was different. She had never performed with a Duke for an accompanist, never attempted to create art with someone who would view her as little better than a hired entertainer. And never, never without proper rehearsal.

"I should never have agreed," she whispered, touching the cool glass of the window.

But even as she said it, she knew she'd had no choice. Her father's gentle reminder of their financial situation had made that clear enough.

This series of concerts could secure their position for months to come, could mean the difference between maintaining their modest but respectable living and sliding into genuine poverty.

The memory of her father's face as he'd urged her to accept still burned. "My dear, we cannot afford pride. And think of the opportunities this might bring — to perform at Brightwood House, to be heard by the cream of society..."

A soft sound behind her made her spin around, her heart leaping into her throat.

The Duke of Brightwood stood in the doorway, and Melody dropped automatically into a curtsey, using the moment to study him from beneath her lashes.

She had seen him from a distance at various musical evenings, of course — his tall figure and aristocratic bearing were difficult to miss — but never this close. He was younger than she'd expected, perhaps early thirties, with features which might have been carved from marble for all the emotion they showed.

His clothes were of the finest quality, but somehow austere, as if he deliberately avoided any hint of ostentation. But it was his eyes that caught her attention — grey as storm clouds, and holding something which might have been apprehension before he masked it.

"Miss Piper." His voice was deep, cultured, and utterly controlled. "I trust you have been informed of our... situation."

"Yes, Your Grace." She forced herself to meet his eyes. "I understand that there has been a change in the program."

"Indeed." He moved to the pianoforte, his long fingers trailing across the keys in what seemed an unconscious gesture. The simple movement betrayed him — no one touched an instrument that way unless they knew it intimately. "Mr. Fletcher is indisposed. I shall be accompanying you this evening."

"I see." She took a deep breath, gathering her courage. "Then we should discuss interpretation. I tend to take a somewhat... flexible… approach to tempo."

His head snapped up, those storm-grey eyes narrowing.

"Flexible?"

"Music must breathe, Your Grace. It must live and feel and speak to the heart, not just the mind. When I sing, I let the emotion of the piece guide my interpretation."

"Music must be respected, Miss Piper." His voice had gone cold. "The composer's intentions—"

"Were to move people's hearts, not merely demonstrate their skill at musical mathematics."

The words escaped before she could stop them, her own passion for music overwhelming her careful training in proper behaviour.