Chapter Two
Adrian sank gingerlyinto a chair in front of the roaring fire in his bedchamber, exhausted and in more pain then he wanted to admit. The trip home from Miss Bourke’s flat had sapped the last of his strength. He lifted his hips and stripped off his tattered trousers, frowning when he saw how much blood had soaked through the bandage. If he were wise, he would send for a doctor, but he didn’t know of anyone he could trust as much as Clinton, his longtime butler.
In a few moments, he’d ring for Clinton to help him clean and stitch the wound, but for now, he just wanted a few quiet moments to relive the brief time he’d spent with Miss Bourke. Running a finger along the satin ribbon she’d used on the bandage, he thought of the way she’d melted into his kiss, the soft, breathy sound she’d made as he’d pulled her into his arms. For the first time in his adult life, his scars hadn’t mattered. The mask had given him the anonymity he craved.
Of course, she never would have given herself so sweetly if she knew the truth, if she knew Prometheus was Adrian Strathmore. But perhaps, if he could arrange a few more meetings with her while he was masked, she would come to care for the man behind it.
The thought was foolish and self-delusional, but he let himself get lost for a few minutes in the fantasy. He didn’t know why this particular woman had taken such a hold of him, but she’d become a fire in his blood he couldn’t extinguish.
Erotic dreams haunted his nights, and he’d been unable to stay away from the theater. Tonight’s encounter had only fueled his desire to know her better, to drown himself in her loveliness.
With a sigh, he poured himself a shot of whiskey and rang for Clinton. Tonight had been amazing, a perfect memory he could take to his grave, but he’d be an idiot to think he could ever repeat it.
* * * *
“ADRIAN!” THE EARL OFHawkesmere’s voice cracked like a whip in the silence of the quiet bedchamber.
Adrian startled awake, dropping the tumbler of whiskey he’d fallen asleep holding, then hissing in pain as the sudden movement disturbed his newly stitched wound.
“Who let you in?” he asked his older brother sullenly.
“Clinton sent word that you’d been shot,” Lucien replied, crossing the room to Adrian’s side. “My contact at Scotland Yard claims they almost caught you tonight. You’re taking too many risks.”
“I was always one step ahead of them,” Adrian countered. “And I had some help.” A tendril of warmth weaved its way through his chest as he thought of his beautiful guardian angel.
“What are you talking about?” Lucien asked suspiciously, sinking into the chair across from him.
“I was forced to take shelter with none other than Miss Vanessa Bourke.”
“The actress?” Lucien shook his head. “What the hell were you thinking? I’m guessing you didn’t end up there by accident. How did you even know where she lived?”
“You needn’t worry,” he told his brother, wishing he’d never mentioned the encounter. “She has no idea who I am.”
“So what was she like?” Lucien asked, suddenly changing tactics.
“Lovelier than words can describe,” Adrian replied a little wistfully, realizing with chagrin that he’d broached the subject out of an uncharacteristic need to talk about it. “She was frightened at first, to wake and find me there, but she recovered admirably, kept her head, and bandaged my wound. Then she let me kiss her.”
Lucien frowned. “You do realize that by going to her as Prometheus, you’ve ruined your chances to get to know her as yourself.”
Adrian laughed bitterly. “As if a woman like that would ever give my scarred face a second glance.”
