Maribelle had teased him about being a tour guide, and while he did sound like he was reciting from a manual, I could tell it had taken him a lot to say those words. To disclose a past he hadn’t shared in years.
“Well, with the uptick in essential oils in the last decade, your family seems to have made a good decision,” I said lightly.
He snorted. “Took them centuries to become profitable.”
“This… this is all pretty incredible,” I said quietly.
He looked into my face for the first time since leaving the house. He stared for a long time, as if measuring my honesty.
“Why don’t you tell anyone?” I asked.
He ran a hand over the scar which went across his collarbone and out to the edge of his shoulder. It was raised red skin that blurred the tattoos he had there. Some of the tattoos made more sense to me now. Graceful curving lines not unlike the flowers and trees we’d seen as we’d driven around the estate.
“In high school, everyone knew. Everyone knew because Carson was friends with the dean of the military school I attended. I’m sure it was the reason I’d been accepted to begin with, because I didn’t have the grades to get in at the time. Carson was a frequent visitor during my time there, showing up for all the fundraising events, sponsoring chess and debate teams as well as sports.”
“He was really involved for an uncle,” I gently prodded, but I was already putting the pieces together enough to know that Nash’s parents had clearly not been a part of his life at that point.
“He liked to be important,” Nash said. “When I got accepted to Canoe U, I promised myself no one would know. I wasn’t going to be liked or sought after because someone thought I came from money—or whatever the hell people thought I came from. By that time, I wanted nothing to do with any of this.”
He flung a hand out toward the fields and the greenhouses.
“Can I ask why? It’s obviously a tradition that’s been passed down for generations,” I said.
“There’s more to our existence than adding to the family’s coffers. It’s time the Wellsleys sacrifice for something greater than ourselves.”
His almost speech-like words spoke to the intelligence he rarely showed, his language carefully chosen versus the smooth jibes and jests he was known for.
When I didn’t respond, he asked, “Do you want to go in one of the greenhouses? Or shall I show you the plant and the general store?”
My phone buzzed. I grimaced at Mac’s words.
MAC: Where the hell are you?
Nash read the words over my shoulder and chuckled. I sent him a withering look.
“I told you he was going to be upset,” Nash said with a shrug.
I sighed.
“Maybe we should go back? I have a lot more to do for Brady, and I have a feeling the sound of Mac’s bellowing might scare the birds and the bees,” I said with a weak smile.
Nash looked like he wanted to say no, but instead, he turned the key, causing Betsy to stutter back to life. He made a U-turn in the gravel and headed back toward the house. The scents of lavender and lemon chased us, and by the time we pulled back in, I was sure the smells would embed themselves in my brain, reminding me forever of this day. The day I found out Nash Wellsley was a deeply layered man.
At the manor, Nash took me in yet another door, this one on the far side of the house, which led into a glass and wrought-iron conservatory full of more flowers and plants. The room was warm and muggy. Nash barely glanced at any of it as he strode through it to the interior of the house and up a back staircase. It was hard to imagine him on the run, hiding from someone, but that was exactly what was going on.
The walls were covered in a gorgeous wallpaper which looked as if it had survived the Victorian era, even though there was not one curl or tear. The stripes and swirls were littered with old portraits. Paintings of people who had to be his ancestors. I didn’t have time to absorb them because Nash’s stride was quick and pointed. He eventually stopped, opening a dark, carved door for me.
“This is you,” he said.
The room had a huge canopied bed done up in white, pale greens, and hints of yellow as if a daisy had just bloomed. The canopy was a graceful splash of lace not unlike a bride’s veil. It was delicate and beautiful. Even the furniture was graceful and dainty, made of curling wrought iron painted green, adding to the feel of flowers on their stems. The colors were equally soothing and energizing, the peace and calm of the whites and greens sprinkled with the cheery yellow.
“It’s right above the conservatory,” he said. “If you look out, you can see inside the glass roof from the window.” He pointed to a window seat, where the white eyelet lace cushions were covered in pale-green pillows with the same pop of yellow.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time and gave a curt nod. “I suppose it is.”
“That door”—he pointed to the opposite wall—“leads to a private bath and a walk-in closet.”
He stood at the door for a moment before turning to leave, pausing to say, “You don’t have to work here. There are plenty of rooms downstairs.”
“Where
