Prudence blinked, but he couldn’t remotely tell what she was thinking. “Why is Agatha in hospital and they are not?”
“Agatha’s moods are quite severe. Her rages and bouts of despair were so challenging to handle that my grandfather committed her to the asylum when she was nineteen. She’s been there ever since.”
Prudence stared at him in shock, her eyes round and her mouth open.
He wanted to stop, but knew he had to keep going. “I’m told my father’s moods were similar to Agatha’s, but he drank a great deal of alcohol, which tended to mellow his emotions. Until it didn’t, and he would lose himself to anger and frustration.” Bennet recalled so many occasions in which his father went from drowsy intoxication to growling fury, throwing things and driving everyone away from him. “He was also incapable of making good decisions for the most part. He gambled away nearly everything. Many of the things that are gone from the house were sold by him before he died.”
“Oh, Bennet, I wish I’d known.” She spoke so quietly that he could barely hear her.
“My grandfather wasn’t like this, but his sisters were—Flora and, to a lesser extent, Minerva—as was his brother, who died when a horse threw him at the age of twenty-five. Cousin Frances is his daughter, and she is also afflicted. Judith, however, does not seem to have the illness. Nonetheless, she chose not to marry or have children lest she pass it on to them.”
Her features seemed to be carved from stone. “You did the same. Or at least, you wanted to.”
“I never wanted to marry, but then my father made it so I would have to. I’d hoped to avoid having children. That’s one of the reasons I chose to wed Mrs. Merryfield. She already had children. I didn’t think she’d mind when I refused to have any.”
“You really were content to let the title die with you?”
“More than. The thought of my child ending up like Aunt Agatha…” He pressed his lips together and clenched his jaw.
“You don’t know that will happen,” she said. “It didn’t with Judith, apparently.”
“She is in the minority.” Bennet didn’t want to have to justify his fear or what he knew to be true—the risk was too great. But it was too late now. The baby was coming, its fate already decided. Panic rose in his chest, stoking his fury. “Furthermore, I am afflicted. My emotions get the best of me, as they are doing right now, and I make horrid decisions such as kidnap people.” He turned from her and stalked to the window. His fist burned to punch through the glass if he could. He would welcome the pain if it would dissipate his rage and reclaim his control.
The silence in the room was more frightening than if she’d railed at him. He looked back at her over his shoulder and felt a surge of anguish. Her face was unreadable.
“And not telling me about any of this.” Her voice was low and dark, and he felt the tremor of it in his chest. “That wasn’t a good decision either.”
“Perhaps not.”
Her nostrils flared. “Now I understand why you didn’t want me to come here. I think it’s best if I return to London.”
Overwhelmed with hurt and anger, Prudence started to turn.
Bennet turned away from the window and took a step toward her. “Wait.”
“For what? I suppose I must ask what else you’ve kept from me.”
“Nothing.”
That was good since this was all quite enough. “Just that your family has an affliction that our child may or may not have. You should have told me. You had ample opportunity to.”
She’d wanted to discuss his family at Riverview, and he’d pushed her off. They’d traveled for several days before reaching Aberforth Place, and he’d avoided saying anything, even after they’d arrived and she met his great-aunts!
“I couldn’t think of how to tell you.”
“But I am your wife. And I’m carrying your child.” She recalled what Minerva had said about him not planning to have children, that he’d meant to be the last Viscount Glastonbury. “Were you ever going to tell me about not wanting children? Be honest. Please.”
Distress lined his face. “I’d hoped not to. What would be the point?”
“The point is that you’re afraid, and you didn’t want to share your fear with me.” Proof yet again that feelings were useless. Here she was, feeling far too much and she didn’t want any of it.
“I was scared. And ashamed.”
A tear slid from her eye. She swiped it away furiously, her brows pitching low over her eyes. “You didn’t want this. I entrapped you, regardless of what you insist. Furthermore, I didn’t want this either.” Not originally, but she’d come to want it very much.
Emotion, impossible to hide away or ignore, roiled inside her. She tried to take a deep breath and failed, her chest constricting. She felt like she was drowning, her throat blocked as panic overtook her.
Too much had happened. She’d found out she was carrying a child. She’d discovered her real mother—and that her friends were her cousins. Then she’d gotten married to a man who’d been engaged to someone else and who hadn’t even wanted to marry her. She’d entrapped him, and it was no surprise he hadn’t told her his deepest secrets. Why would he?
She’d also realized she’d fallen in love with this man, who couldn’t possibly return the emotion.
Tuck it away, Prudence.
Her mother’s voice sounded in her head, a welcome balm to the chaos tossing inside her. The moment of calmness was fleeting. She needed quiet and serenity. She needed to get away from Bennet.
“Pru, you don’t have to go.”
“I do, actually. You didn’t want me here, and I think that may have been your best decision. I’ll leave for London immediately.” She pinned him with a cool stare as she shuttered her emotions as best she could. They were still there, boiling beneath the surface, making her feel as though she could burst into tears at any moment. She refused to do that. “You’re going to let me go.”
Then she turned and left his study, eager to put time and space between them.
Two days after Prudence left, Bennet began to rouse from his drunken stupor. That meant it was time for more wine. Or whatever he could find.
He stumbled down to the kitchens and made his way to the wine cupboard only to find it locked. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, rattling the door.
“There you are,” Great-Aunt Minerva said crossly, surprising him so that he banged his forehead against the wood.
“Ow.” He rubbed his hand over his wounded flesh as he turned.
Great-Aunt Minerva was not alone. Hell, she was never alone. Those bloody squirrels were always in her apron. Great-Aunt Flora also stood at her side.
“You look terrible,” Great-Aunt Minerva said. “I realize you’re upset about Prudence, but this isn’t like you.”
“I’m more than upset.” He felt as though his insides had been torn out and stomped into the ground. There was nothing but an aching despair. He’d been so stupid not to tell her the truth. No, he’d been stupid to think they could have a real marriage after she’d been clear about not wanting one.