Page 13 of The Duke’s Duet

But even as she thought it, memories of the Duke's elegant evening attire from their performance flashed through her mind. Even in disarray after their passionate musical collaboration, he had looked every inch the aristocrat.

The remembered image sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach.

Simmons met her at the door with a warm smile that did little to ease Melody's nerves.

"Good morning, Miss Piper. His Grace awaits you in the music room." He gestured to a footman. "Baker will show you the way."

The journey through the house felt like walking through a dream. Corridors lined with priceless artwork stretched before her, each piece probably worth more than her family's entire home. Through open doors she glimpsed rooms that each contained enough furniture to fill her whole house. The thick carpet beneath her feet muffled her steps, making her feel oddly insubstantial, as if she might disappear into all of this grandeur without leaving a trace.

Music drifted through the air — faint at first, then growing stronger as they approached their destination.

Melody's steps faltered as she recognised the piece.

It was one that they had performed together, but this interpretation was nothing like their careful performance. This was raw, passionate, filled with all of the emotion that she had tried to draw from him during their performance.

Then Baker opened the music room door, and she forgot everything else.

Sunlight poured through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like golden stars in the morning light. The pianoforte gleamed, its lid raised to catch the perfect acoustics of the room. And at the instrument sat the Duke, his formal coat discarded, his cravat loosened, his shirtsleeves rolled back to reveal strong forearms as his fingers moved across the keys.

He played with an abandon she hadn't witnessed during their performance, his body swaying slightly with the music, his face transformed by emotion. This, she realised with a catch in her breath, was his true self — the one he hid behind rigid control and proper behaviour. The sight struck her heart like a physical blow. She wanted to freeze this moment, to preserve forever this image of him lost in pure musical passion.

But then he became aware of her presence, and everything changed. His spine straightened as if someone had run a sword up it, his expression smoothed into that marble mask she remembered, and his hands stilled on the keys. The transformation hurt to watch, like seeing a wild creature cage itself.

"Miss Piper." He rose and bowed, every inch the proper Duke once more. Even his voice had changed, becoming deeper, more controlled. "I trust that you are recovered from the excitement of the performance?"

"Quite recovered, Your Grace." She dropped into a curtsey, hating the formality that had sprung up between them like a wall of ice. Where was the man who had matched her passion note for note? Who had let his music soar with hers in perfect harmony? "Though I confess, I am eager to begin work on the next program."

"Indeed." He moved to collect several sheets of music from a nearby table, his movements precise and controlled. "I have some suggestions regarding the selection of pieces."

As he spread the music before her, Melody found herself distracted by his proximity. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to him, mixed with something warmer, more essentially male.

His fingers moved across the paper with such grace and assurance that she could almost feel their phantom touch on her skin. Focus, she commanded herself sternly. The music is all that matters. You cannot afford to notice anything else about him.

But then he began to explain his ideas for one of the more challenging pieces, and despite herself, Melody found her professional interest caught. His suggestions revealed not just technical mastery but a deep understanding of both the music and her voice. He had clearly taken careful note of her performance style, recognising where she tended to take liberties with tempo, and suggesting ways that they might meet halfway between their different interpretations.

She found herself leaning closer, pointing out particular passages, debating interpretative choices. The subtle warmth of his body so near to hers was distracting, but not as distracting as the way that his eyes lit up when she made a particularly astute observation about the emotional arc of a phrase.

"Here," she said, tapping a particular bar, "this is where the character realises her love is hopeless. The music needs to reflect that heartbreak."

Something flickered in his expression — pain? Recognition?

"And you believe that requires disrupting the composer's carefully crafted timing?"

"I believe it requires letting the music breathe with the emotion." She held his gaze, challenging him. "Surely you understand that, Your Grace. I heard you playing when I arrived — you knew exactly how to express such feelings then."

Colour stained his cheeks, but his voice remained steady.

"That was different. I was alone."

"Does emotion only exist in solitude, then?"

The question hung between them, weighted with meaning beyond their musical discussion. For a moment, she thought that she saw an answering challenge in his eyes, a hint of the passion she'd witnessed earlier.

Then he looked away, collecting himself.

"Perhaps we should try some of these pieces," he suggested, moving towards the pianoforte. "Theory can only take us so far."

Melody followed, positioning herself beside the instrument where she could watch both his face and his hands. She had to stifle a gasp when he sat and rolled his sleeves up further, the shockingly exposed elegant muscles of his forearms flexing as he positioned his hands above the keys.