Page 25 of The Duke’s Duet

"Attempting to appeal to your artistic soul, Your Grace." She let her own passion for music colour her voice. "Think of what we could do with Marcello's 'Heart's Surrender' - your voice has exactly the richness the male part requires, and the harmonies in the final section..."

"You've thought this through quite thoroughly, I see."

Was that admiration in his tone? Or something warmer?

"I have." She moved to the pianoforte, letting her fingers trail across its polished surface. "I chose the piece specifically because it showcases both voices equally, yet maintains perfect propriety. The lyrics speak of loyalty and honour - nothing inappropriate for a Duke to sing."

"My artistic soul, as you call it, must bow to the requirements of my position." But his voice had softened, losing its earlier edge. His eyes followed her movements with an intensity that made her skin tingle. "Surely you understand the differences in our situations?"

"I understand that you're afraid."

The words slipped out before she could stop them, born of frustration and an aching awareness of all that stood between them. His eyes darkened.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not of performing - we both know you have the skill." She forced herself to continue, though her heart felt like it might burst from her chest. "You're afraid of showing too much of yourself. Of letting others see what I've seen when we make music together. Of letting them glimpse the passion behind your perfect control."

The silence that followed felt endless. Brightwood stared at her as if she'd struck him, and Melody fought the urge to step back, to apologise, to pretend that she hadn't just stripped away every careful layer of his defences. The morning light seemed to hold its breath with her, the dust motes frozen in their dance.

"You presume a great deal, Miss Piper." His voice was low, dangerous, yet somehow intimate. "What makes you think that you've seen anything I haven't chosen to show?"

"Because I've heard you play late at night, when you thought that no one would hear." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly though her heart trembled. "Because I've seen how the music affects you when you forget yourself. Because when we sang Richter's piece together, you let all your walls down, if only for a moment. And it was glorious."

He moved then, crossing to the window in two swift strides, as if he needed physical distance between them. The morning light caught his profile, highlighting, again, the tension in his jaw, the careful way that he held himself.

Melody's fingers itched to smooth the stiffness from his shoulders, to draw him back to that moment of perfect harmony they'd shared. But she remained where she was, understanding instinctively that he needed space to wrestle with the truth of her words.

The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of everything they couldn't say. Through the window came the distant sounds of London - carriage wheels on cobblestones, a street vendor's cry, the endless pulse of the city. Yet in the music room, time seemed suspended, waiting for his response.

"A duet would require rehearsal," he said finally, still staring out the window as if the answer to his dilemma lay in London's smoky skyline. "Private rehearsal."

Her heart leaped at this first sign of yielding.

"Yes."

"It would attract attention. Comment."

His fingers drummed against the window frame, an unconscious rhythm that betrayed his internal struggle.

"Everything we do already attracts attention." She moved to stand beside him, careful to maintain a proper distance though every fibre of her being yearned to move closer. "At least this would be for something extraordinary. Something worthy of notice."

He turned then, and Melody's breath caught at his proximity. This close, she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiny flecks of silver in his grey eyes, the way that his cravat shifted with each breath. The morning light softened his features, making him look younger, more vulnerable.

"You truly believe that we could create something worthwhile?"

His voice had roughened slightly, and she watched in fascination as his throat moved with the words.

"I know we could." She wished that she dared touch him, just the lightest brush of fingers against his sleeve, anything to bridge the careful distance between them. "We already have. Every time we perform together, we create something magical. This would simply be... more."

For a moment, something flickered in his expression - a heat that had little to do with music and everything to do with the way they stood, too close for propriety, but not nearly close enough for her heart's desire. His eyes dropped to her lips again, and Melody felt that look like a physical touch.

"I will consider it," he said finally, though his voice suggested that he was already more than half convinced. "But I make no promises."

It wasn't agreement, but it wasn't refusal either. Melody forced herself to step back, to return to safer ground, though every step away from him felt like moving through deep water.

"That's all I ask, Your Grace."

"Now," he turned back to the pianoforte, though she noticed that his hands weren't quite steady as he arranged the music, "shall we continue with our scheduled rehearsal?"