Page 3 of The Duke’s Duet

This room was his secret. Not that his family was unaware of its existence — his mother had redesigned the house when she first became Duchess, after all — but they remained ignorant of the hours he spent here, finding solace in music that he could never express in words.

He began to play, softly at first, a melancholy Mozart sonata that matched his mood. As the music flowed from his fingers, he remembered his father's voice, cold with disapproval: ‘A gentleman may appreciate music, my son, but he does not perform it like some common entertainer. Your obsession with this instrument is unbecoming of your station.’

The memory of the riding crop striking his hands made his fingers falter on a passage. He had been fifteen then, caught playing when he should have been reviewing estate accounts. After that day, he had hidden his passion, indulging it only in private moments like this.

These charity concerts would bring him uncomfortably close to that forbidden world — the world of performers and musicians, of passion expressed through art rather than contained within rigid propriety. He would organise them, yes, but he would remain firmly on the side of patronage, not participation.

The music shifted beneath his hands, the Mozart giving way to something darker, more intense — Beethoven now, the composer whose work he admired but rarely played where anyone else might hear. There was too much emotion in these notes, too much of the raw feeling that the Duke of Brightwood must never display.

As the final chords faded, Harper closed the pianoforte with a gentle click.

He would do his duty - sponsor these concerts, make his appearances, support the veterans. But he would maintain his distance from the music itself.

That, at least, was what he told himself as he locked the music room door behind him.

*****

Melody Piper stood at the parlour window, watching evening shadows stretch across the modest London street.

Behind her, the soft notes of her father's pianoforte filled their small home. Though the instrument was far from new, Mr. Edmund Piper maintained it with meticulous care, ensuring that its tone remained warm and true.

"You're distracted today, my dear," he observed, pausing in his playing. "Are you concerned about the Duke's concert?"

Melody turned from the window, absently tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

"Not concerned precisely. Curious, perhaps. It's an unusual opportunity."

"Indeed it is." Her father shuffled through his sheet music. "Performing at Brightwood House could open many doors, particularly with the patronage the Duke can provide."

Melody crossed the room to stand beside the pianoforte, running her fingers lightly over its worn surface.

"I wonder what prompted a Duke to sponsor concerts for war veterans. From what I've heard, the Duke of Brightwood rarely engages in such public activities."

"The influence of the Dowager Duchess, most likely. She has always been known for her charitable endeavours." Mr Piper adjusted his spectacles. "Whatever the motivation, we should be grateful. This series of concerts will provide steady income for the next few months, not to mention the exposure to potential patrons."

Melody nodded, though her expression remained thoughtful.

The practical benefits were undeniable — her performances supplemented her father's teaching income, helping to maintain their modest but respectable lifestyle, and providing for her younger sister Clara's education.

Yet experience had taught her that performing before aristocratic audiences often came with complications.

"I received the music selections yesterday," she said, indicating a portfolio on the side table. "Mr. Fletcher will accompany me on the pianoforte. He seems competent enough, though we've had only one brief rehearsal."

"Fletcher?" Edmund frowned. "I'm not familiar with the name."

"He's recently arrived from Bath. Pleasant enough manner, though rather rigid in his interpretation." She smiled slightly. "I suspect we may have some artistic disagreements before the concert is done."

Her father chuckled.

"Try not to overwhelm the poor man with your 'interpretations’, my dear. Not everyone appreciates your creative approach to tempo and phrasing."

"Music should breathe, Papa. It should live." Melody moved to stand beside him, examining the score open before him. "What joy is there in perfect notes played without soul?"

"A philosophy that has served your voice well," Mr Piper conceded, "but one that has occasionally tested the patience of your accompanists."

Melody laughed, then sobered as she considered the upcoming performance.

"The audience will be entirely from the highest circles. I must be particularly careful of my conduct."