16. Sienna
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SIENNA
The lid was embossed with the Crow crest in gold. A member of staff carried it into my bedroom while I was trying to decide whether my ankle could survive another evening in heels.
“I believe this is for tonight, Miss Bellemere.”
I looked at the box on my bed.
My heart did something embarrassingly hopeful.
Jamison had sent another dress.
He had kissed me in the back seat of his car four nights ago, then walked me to the door. I had replayed that night more times than I wanted to admit.
I had spent three years trying to understand Jamison Crow. Apparently, one drunken kiss had only made the confusion worse.
Still, the box made me smile.
I closed the bedroom door, untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid.
Darker champagne silk this time. Closer to liquid gold. A low draped neckline and thin straps that crossed over the open back. A slit ran along one side of the skirt, high enough to expose my thigh when I moved. It was elegant, but seductive in a way I usually avoided at dynasty events.
I touched the fabric carefully.
Jamison had noticed the last champagne dress.
His eyes had followed every inch of it before he kissed me, and the memory sent warmth over my skin before I could stop it.
A small envelope rested beneath the silk.
I picked it up.
My name was written across the front in neat black ink. I opened it.
For tonight. The colour belongs on you.
— Weston
I stared at the card.
Oh.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
For a second, I thought perhaps there had been a mistake. Crow styling might have mixed up the delivery or—
No.
My name was written on the envelope. With a handwritten message.
I sat slowly on the edge of the bed.
Weston had been kind at the Tideglass Pavilion.
Flirtatious too, apparently, although I had not realized until Jamison pointed it out with enough irritation.
You’re leaving with me. Jamison had interrupted.
And I had gone.
Because Jamison asked so little from me that even his orders had started feeling like attention.
I looked down at the card again. Weston had chosen a dress for me.
That felt intimate.
But this was a Crow event, and Crow men had strange habits around appearances. Jamison sent clothing through styling departments without notes. Emmie received jewelry from Marcel through staff because he apparently bought things for her faster than he could remember to hand them over himself.
Perhaps this was normal. Surely Jamison would know his cousin sent it.
I placed the card beside my jewelry box and lifted the dress from the tissue paper. It was beautiful. That was enough to make the decision for me.
The Ashmere Harbour Luncheon began late enough to become dinner.
Nobody called it that. A luncheon sounded more relaxed.
In reality, the event had been designed around the summer regatta schedule and the sunset.
The first races moved through the harbour in the late afternoon while dynasty families gathered beneath pale striped canopies on Ashmere’s western lawn.
Cocktails followed on the terrace. Dinner began after the final boats returned and the harbour lights came on.
By then, the whole estate looked dipped in gold.
The Ashmere lawn rolled toward the cliffs in careful green tiers. White stone paths curved between rose gardens, low hedges.
Long tables sat beneath linen awnings near the terrace edge, each one arranged with summer flowers, and little silver regatta flags.
Beyond the cliffs, yachts and racing boats scattered across the water.
Usually, Crow events meant a Crow car arrived for me, or Emmie sent a message telling me when Marcel’s driver would collect me. Today, my mother had appeared in my doorway while I was fastening one earring and told me I was traveling with the Bellemeres.
She looked at the dress for too long.
“A lovely choice.”
I touched the silk at my waist. “It was sent, from Weston Crow.”
“He has excellent taste.” She adjusted one of the straps at my shoulder. Something in her tone made me feel strange.
I couldn’t explain why.
At the estate, staff directed our family toward the upper terrace. My father disappeared almost immediately into a cluster of men discussing corridor voting rights. My mother kissed my cheek and joined my aunts beneath the main canopy.
Weston walked toward me.
“You wore it,” His eyes moved over the dress.
I smiled, uncertain. “You sent it.”
“That wasn’t a guarantee.”
“It would have been rude not to.”
His mouth curved. “Is that the only reason?”
“I liked it.”
“That was the answer I hoped for.”
He stepped closer, his hand lifted to my shoulder and caught one loose strand of black hair where it had tangled against the thin dress strap. He moved it gently behind me. The touch lasted only a second.
My body went still anyway.
“Sorry,” Weston noticed. His hand dropped immediately.
That surprised me.
Most men in dynasty circles did not apologize for touching women they had already decided should tolerate them. Some did not notice the discomfort. Others noticed and enjoyed it.
Weston noticed and stopped.
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “You surprised me.”
His gaze held mine. “I’ll try not to.”
This time, it came easier.
“Come,” he said, offering his arm. “My brothers are waiting. Their wives have threatened to interrogate me if I don’t introduce you properly.”
“Interrogate you?”
“You’ll understand when you meet them.”
I looked toward the terrace. My eyes found the Crow table automatically.
Marcel stood near the lower rail with Emmie at his side. Harrison sat beneath one of the striped canopies, talking to a woman in pink. Jamison stood a few feet away from them with a whiskey glass in his hand, his black shirt open at the throat and his expression dark.
My chest tightened.
He had seen me.
I knew because his gaze was fixed on the dress.
Weston shifted slightly beside me, waiting. I placed my hand on his arm. He guided me toward a different table.
That was the second unusual thing.
I expected to sit Jamison.
The same arrangement as always.
Instead, place cards near the western edge of the terrace placed me between Weston and a woman named Amara Crow.
I paused.
Weston pulled out my chair.
“You’re sitting here?” The question came out before I could make it sound less surprised.
His mouth curved. “I am.”
“I usually sit with—” I glanced toward Jamison’s table. Weston followed my gaze. Then looked back at me.
“With Harlan.”
“Yes.”
“Today you’re with St. Cross.”
I hesitated.
Maybe the seating had been changed because the event involved regional hosting. Perhaps families wanted more cross-region conversation. Ashmere events were built around business, after all. Half the point was introducing people who rarely found themselves at the same table.
That made sense.
Weston touched the back of my chair.
“Sit,” he said gently. “Amara has been waiting to meet you since the ballet stream.”
The woman beside my place card smiled.
She had long dark hair, and a pale green dress that softened the gold at her throat.
“I have,” she said. “Mostly because Weston never stops mentioning the performance.”
Weston looked offended. “That is an exaggeration.”
“Barely.”
I sat.
Amara leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I’m married to Callum. He is the normal brother.”
A man on the other side of the table looked up from his drink.
“I’m sitting right here.”
“You’re still the normal brother,” she told him.
Callum Crow had Weston’s eyes but none of his polished charm. He looked broader, dressed in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Tattoos showed near one wrist. He gave me a polite nod.
“Sienna.”
“Hi.”
Beside him sat another man who looked amused by everything.
“That makes me Elias,” he said. “The interesting brother.”
“That means least supervised.” His wife, Lucille, laughed into her champagne.
Elias grinned.
Lucille wore a red silk dress and a gold chain at her throat. She reached across the table for my hand immediately.
“Ignore him,” she said. “He becomes worse when encouraged.”
Elias leaned back. “I haven’t even started.”
The conversation moved easily after that. I learned Weston had seven brothers.
“Your poor mother,” I said before I could stop myself.
Weston looked at me, delighted. “That was exactly my reaction when I became old enough to count.”
“You have seven brothers?”
“Eight sons total,” Callum corrected. “Weston is the fourth.”
“That explains a lot,” Elias said.
“What does it explain?”
“His need for attention.”
Weston lifted his glass. “Envy is unattractive on you.”
I laughed. Actually laughed, at a crow table. The possibility felt unbelievable.
The men still spoke business between courses. They discussed marina routes, regatta sponsorships, and St. Cross licensing with the same controlled focus every Crow seemed to carry in his bones.
Amara asked about my dress.
Lucille asked about ballet.
Callum wanted to know whether dancers truly destroyed their feet or whether that was society mythology.
Weston listened.
When I answered a question, he didn’t glance toward his phone halfway through. He did not sigh if my answer became a story. He asked another question after the first.
It was strange.
I told Amara about the winter performance and how terrified I had been after the injury. Lucille asked whether I had always danced. I explained that ballet had begun as something my mother considered appropriate and became the only place my body ever felt entirely mine.
Weston just listened.
The first race ended while we were eating. Guests moved toward the terrace rail with cocktails to watch the boats return beneath the lowering sun. A small jazz trio began playing near the gardens. Staff brought trays of champagne, summer cocktails, and tiny desserts.
Weston appeared beside me with a glass of something pale pink.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Watermelon, mint, and something expensive enough to justify the size of the glass.”
I accepted it. “Is there alcohol in it?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough to make the sunset better. Not enough to make the stairs dangerous.”
I smiled. “Thoughtful.”
“I try.”