Page 126 of A Vicious Love

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.