And so Prometheus was born...
Chapter One
March 1896
For the third time in as many weeks, Adrian Strathmore sat in the shadowy corner of his family’s private box at the St. James’s Theatre on Duke Street, gazing at the dazzling, raven-haired actress who took her bow on the stage below.
Miss Vanessa Bourke had taken London by storm during the past few months, but Adrian doubted anyone had become quite as captivated by her as he. Since the first time he’d seen her play Celia inAs You Like It, she’d become the object of both his admiration and desire. She acted the part with a noble purity of spirit that called to something deep inside him. She haunted his dreams and provided a brief respite from the carefully laid plans of destruction that filled his days.
Not that a woman like her could ever be his, of course. Even his family’s wealth and power were not enough to camouflage his many flaws, both the obvious physical scars and the ones deep inside him. Eyes tracked him in the dark, those who were far more interested in catching a glimpse of the Earl of Hawkesmere’s disfigured little brother than watching the play. He sank deeper into his seat, despising their curiosity, wishing for anonymity. All he’d ever truly wanted was to be able to walk through a crowd without anyone staring.
In stark comparison, the rushlights lit Miss Bourke’s face with an ethereal glow, and her dark, gypsy eyes flashed with pleasure as another round of applause shook the building. She lived for this moment, relished the adoration of the crowd.
Overwhelmed by loneliness, he brought a single yellow rose to his lips and then tossed it far below him, upon the stage at Miss Bourke’s feet.
* * * *
VANESSA BOURKE REACHEDdown and picked up the yellow rose, blinking against the glare of the rushlights as she searched the private box to stage right. There. In the corner. A flicker of movement. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see her latest admirer’s face. The box belonged to the Earl of Hawkesmere, but the theater gossips said the man who occupied it tonight was the earl’s younger brother, a man who’d been scarred by a fire when he was a child.
As the curtain came down, Marcus Colby, the leading man, gave her a sardonic smile. “Another rose, darling? It appears your beauty has snared the beast.”
“Jealousy doesn’t become you,” she retorted, hurrying toward her dressing room to remove her greasy makeup. Exhaustion pulled at her like a heavy weight, and she wanted nothing more than to return to her tiny flat just a few blocks away and tumble into bed.
“He seems quite taken with you,” Marcus continued, trailing behind her with languid grace. “They say he’s rich as Croesus but quite mad.”
Vanessa pulled open her dressing room door and gestured to the dozens of flower arrangements filling every available surface. “He’s hardly the only one to give me flowers.”
Marcus gave the display a dismissive glance. “He’s the only aristocrat.”
Vanessa glared at her friend. In a moment of wine and weakness, she’d told him of her goal to find a rich husband. He’d been playing matchmaker ever since.
“He’s hardly in a position to be particular,” Marcus continued, lowering his voice. “With his money, you could have the security you want. You could leave all this and start a family, though it still makes no sense to me why you’d want to shackle yourself down that way.”
The mention of a family sent the usual pang of longing skittering through her veins. She’d grown up in abject poverty, and when her mother had died, she’d been sent to live with her father, a drunken struggling actor she’d never met. She’d spent the rest of her childhood dragged from theater to theater, constantly moving, going from feast to famine and back again. Much as she loved the stage, she’d long dreamt of a stable life, one that didn’t depend on the fickle love of the crowd. She was nearly twenty-five. Soon her beauty would fade, and she’d have a hard time finding roles. If she didn’t find a man she could raise a family with before that happened, she feared she never would.
She strode to the mirror and began the arduous process of removing the makeup, hoping Marcus would take the hint and go away. Instead, his elegant hand curled around her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I just hate to see you so depressed, darling.”
