Page 40 of The Duke’s Duet

Chapter Eleven

Melody sat at her father's worn pianoforte, fingers hovering above the keys but not quite touching them. The instrument, though well-maintained, was nothing like the magnificent one at Brightwood House. Yet it held memories of countless lessons, of learning to match her voice to its slightly uneven tones, of developing the skills that had led her to where she was now.

Where she was now. The thought brought a bitter smile to her lips. Where exactly was that? Caught between two worlds, belonging to neither?

"My dear." Her father's voice drew her from her reverie. He stood in the doorway, morning light catching the silver in his hair, his expression heavy with concern. "We must talk about these concerts."

Something in his tone made her stomach clench.

"The concerts are going well, Papa. The veterans' fund has benefited considerably."

"So I hear." He moved into the room, settling into his favourite chair - the one where he'd sat through thousands of lessons. "I also hear other things. Things that concern me greatly."

Her fingers pressed down on the keys, drawing forth a discord that matched her inner turmoil.

"What things?"

"That duet..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "People are talking, Melody. About the... connection… between you and His Grace. About the way you looked at each other while performing."

"We were singing about emotional matters. Of course we appeared connected - the piece demanded it."

"Did it demand quite so much... intensity?" Her father leaned forward. "I've taught music for thirty years, my dear. I know the difference between artistic expression and something more personal."

Heat rose in her cheeks.

"Papa—"

"Let me finish." His voice gentled. "I saw your mother perform that same piece once, long ago. But she sang it with professional distance, no matter how passionate the music. What people saw on that stage the other night... that was something else entirely."

Melody rose from the pianoforte, moving to the window.

Outside, London was awakening - vendors calling their wares, carriages rattling over cobblestones, the endless pulse of the city that cared nothing for one woman's troubled heart.

"What would you have me do?" she asked finally. "Withdraw from the concerts? Leave the veterans without their funding?"

"I would have you guard your heart, my dearest girl." The pain in his voice made her turn. "His Grace may be different from other aristocrats in some ways - may truly appreciate music, may treat you with genuine respect. But he is still a Duke. Still bound by duties and expectations that we can hardly imagine."

"I know what he is, Papa." The words emerged more sharply than she’d intended. "I'm reminded of it every time that I enter that house, every time I see the way that some of them look at me - like I'm some curiosity they can't quite categorise."

"Then you understand why I worry?" He stood, moving to join her at the window. "Your sister told me how you practice his favourite pieces late at night. How you spend hours studying scores, choosing music you think will please him."

Melody shot a betrayed look toward the stairs, where she knew Clara lurked, probably listening to every word.

"I choose music appropriate for our audiences. For the concerts' purpose."

"Do you? Is that why you suggested that particular duet? A piece about duty warring with desire?"

She couldn't meet his eyes.

Because he was right - she had chosen that piece deliberately, had felt its meaning deep in her soul. Had hoped, perhaps, that performing it together might make Brightwood understand...

"My dear child." Her father's arm went around her shoulders. "I remember what it was to be young, to believe that talent and passion could bridge any gap. But the world doesn't work that way. Not for people like us."

"And what are we, Papa? Less worthy because we earn our bread through music? Less real because we weren't born to titles?"

"No. Never less worthy. But different. Living in a different world, with different rules." He squeezed her shoulders gently. "Rules that can break your heart if you forget them."

The morning light caught on the worn carpet, the carefully maintained furniture, the piles of music that represented their livelihood. Everything in the room spoke of respectable poverty, of making do, of maintaining appearances on limited means.