‘I do,’ he says to my surprise, clarifying it with, ‘Most of the time.’
‘With Beca?’
He shakes his head quickly, seeming almost perturbed at the idea. ‘She hates it up here,’ he explains in response to the confused look on my face.
Why would he choose to live in the damp, dark woods instead of in a grand mansion in the sun?
Things could be a little hectic at home…
Just because the ordinary house I’d pictured in my mind is different to the mansion he grew up in doesn’t mean the statement itself can’t still be true, I realise.
‘You told me you used to hang out at Taran’s house a lot; that things could be a little hectic at home. Did you mean it?’
‘I meant everything I said to you,’ he replies seriously, picking up a mug and passing it to me. ‘I struggled, growing up there.’
A shimmer of heat licks over my skin as our fingers brush and I stiffen.
He looks pretty tense himself as he picks up his own mug and settles back in his chair. The fire is blazing away in the fireplace, but I keep the blanket around my shoulders, needing the extra comfort.
‘Why did you struggle?’ I prompt.
‘That house has been open to visitors my entire life.’
I let out a small snort and he frowns, shifting on his seat.
‘Yeah, okay, I know how privileged that sounds,’ he saysgruffly. ‘But can you please just try to imagine it? I’m not an extrovert like my mother. I’ve never felt comfortable walking around the grounds like she does.’
I’m conflicted. I don’t want to feel sorry for the son of a viscount.
‘My bedroom used to be in the Tudor wing of the house,’ he continues. ‘The building overlooking the courtyard?’
‘I know where the Tudor wing is, Ash.’
He has the grace to look self-conscious. And then he says, ‘Never mind.’ And I hate that he’s given up on trying to get me to understand.
He rakes his hand through his hair. It still looks windswept. A couple of strands fall forward into his eyes. He stares towards the window, his jaw clenched.
‘Tell me about your bedroom,’ I say, softening my tone. Silence. ‘Ash,’ I prompt.
‘Never mind,’ he says again, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
I wish I hadn’t shut him down.
‘I know how you feel about posh twats,’ he mutters, taking a sip of his tea.
‘Is that why you didn’t tell me?’ I ask. ‘About all this?’
‘I would have told you eventually.’
My heart squeezes.When?
‘I understand how much it must have freaked you out to hear me switching between accents, but it’s something I’ve done all my life,’ he says. ‘I spent just as much time in this house as I did in that one.’ He nods in the direction of Berkeley Hall. ‘Gareth and Carys were like second parents to me.Taran and Celyn were like brothers. Taran, especially, as we were the same age. I used to hang out at the workshop all the time. I felt comfortable there. I didn’t like to sound different, though, and at some point I just started speaking like the people around me. But then I’d go home, and my parents would freak out. They sent me off to boarding school, which I hated, but it’swhat we doin our circles,’ he finishes sardonically.
I frown at the fire, taking a moment to process all that he’s said.
He sighs. ‘Haven’t you ever adopted a different accent to fit in?’ he asks.
I have done that. I did it when I went to private school, but I still made a conscious effort to sound like myself around Stella and my grandparents. Now, though, I simply sound like one person, not two.
