“Bianca.”

Moaning, Bianca stirred as the darkness that shrouded her vision began to fade.

“Oh darling.” Something warm touched her knuckles.

“Mm.” She forced her eyelids apart until she was staring down at Race's unmistakable brown mass of curly hair. She touched it. “Race.”

He raised his head up then, her hand trapped in his. Relief flooded his eyes at the sight of her, yet a frown still claimed his face. “You're alive, and awake.”

Shaking her head, she rose to a sitting position. “Of course I'm alive.” She raised her eyes to the unfamiliar room, confused by her environment and the strange men that stood in the room. Who were they? As far as she could tell, the only person she recognized was Race and the constable who stood aside by a window with a notepad in his hands. “Race?” She turned her attention back to Race who was knelt beside her bed. A frown settled on her face. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing to worry yourself about, Mrs. Belington.” The Constable —a balding old man with a finely curved gray mustache and reading glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose— said. “The fire has been brought under control.”

“Fire?!” She screeched.

“Yes, Mrs. Belington, fire.” He said, not bothering to offer any more explanation before turning his attention to Race. “Lord Camden has been informed and shall be in London shortly. I must take my leave for I must stop by the courthouse.” With a nod, he exited the room, and was followed closely behind by the three other figures she hadn't bothered to look at twice.

She watched them close the door behind them, before turning her attention to Race. “Fire?” She tried again, quieter this time.

He nodded. “Lord Wilson tried to burn down Camden's house with everyone of us in it.”

The blood immediately drained from her face, her heart beat slowing down. Wilson?! He was still in England? He tried to kill Race again?!

Race's grip on her hand tightened. He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it once more. “But thank God I found you and got you out of there. The maid confessed a while ago that he had her drug our meal so we could sleep through the fire and die in it.”

Hissing, she sat up straighter, her hand settling on his face. “Are you okay?!”

He smiled, rising up and settling on the bed beside her. “I almost died, and it wasn't the fire that nearly killed me, it was the thought of losing you.”

“Oh Race!” She fell into his arms then, tears trailing down her cheek. “I am so sorry, everything that happened is all my fault!”

He kissed her neck. “It's not, it's Wilson's and thankfully, he's dead now.”

Her heart must have stopped. “He is?!” She managed to speak past the lump in her throat.

“He might have succeeded in damaging the down part of Noah's home, but the only casualty in his evil scheme was himself. He was shot dead by a nobleman.”

Relief immediately flooded her features as her fingers tightened around his shirt and she leaned further into his embrace. “I am happy this is all over, Race.”

“Me too, love.” His warm breath tickled her neck. “Me too.”

*

Bianca and Race didn't remain in London beyond that afternoon, and neither did Camden. They left London together and arrived Camden on the evening Lady Beatrice went into labor.

Bianca was too fatigued and inexperienced with the art of childbirth to help, and Camden was too irritated by their presence to require them to stay, so he requested —in a less than cordial way— that they returned to their own estate. They were informed the next morning, while Bianca was suffering from a bout of morning sickness, that Lady Beatrice had brought forth a son into the world.

“I shall pay Camden a congratulatory visit.” Race said, once Bianca was cleaned and settled on the sofa with a tea cup in hand.

She nodded. “Would you pass across my regrets to Lady Beatrice? I am not certain the queasiness in my stomach is fully gone and I would hate to have vomit all over the poor baby.”

He grinned, leaning down to claim her lips. “I can't wait to be a father.”

“Me too, Race, but mostly because I cannot wait to be rid of this feeling of discomfort.”

Once Race was gone, she relaxed against the sofa and closed her eyes, a soft sigh of relief escaping her lips. It almost felt like she had been holding her breath all these months —through her unfortunate evening with Race that led to their marriage, through her parents' death and the transfer of her father's debts to Race, through her miscarriage and Lord Wilson's attack on her, through Race getting shot. It felt like she was finally being allowed to breathe.

A soft knock sounded on the door, pulling her attention back to the present. Without bothering to open her eyes, she gave the command to enter.

“Bianca?” Carla's voice in the room surprised her.

Tearing her eyelids apart, she sat up straighter. “Carla.” It was surprising to find her sister standing before her. After the news of their financial status went public, Carla had been actively avoiding her.

“Race said you almost died.” She thought she detected a slight tremble in her voice.

She shrugged. “I was merely drugged, nothing more.”

“But this said you were raped.” She held up a newspaper.

Bianca immediately felt lightheaded, her vision swirling before her as her lips fell wide open.

“Is this true? I mean I know these things barely hold any credence, but it says Lord Wilson confessed to...”

Bianca sprang to her feet then, and snatched the paper from Carla. Turning sharply to the side as tears pricked her eyes, she tossed the cursed thing into the burning hearth.

Shame clung to her, an unspeakable, indescribable feeling of shame. It was a feeling of standing bare before all of England covered in mud. Her heart pounded dully in her chest as her tears slowly began slipping down her cheek; this was it, wasn't it? Carla was here to mock her! She was here to laugh in her face, to have her know that nothing was ever going to be fine in her life. She wasn't allowed moments of deep breaths or fresh air. She wasn't allowed a second of relief. Her life was ruined, and by a dead man no less. The newspaper was no doubt in homes all over London, her deepest, most shameful secret now laid bare for everyone to see.

“Bianca,”

“Leave!”

“Bi—”

“Get out! Get out, leave me alone! Go!” Her body trembled, her knees threatening to give way beneath her.

Still, rather than leave, Carla remained, her arms curling around Bianca. And rather than shove her vile sister away, Bianca clung to her, desperate to hang on to something, anything to keep her from drowning in this very deep river of grief.