All For Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 3)

by Watts, Beverley

  The Admiral sighed, suddenly and uncharacteristically wishing things had turned out differently. Picking up a photo from his desk, he gazed at the picture of his dead wife, Victory’s mother.

  Celia would have loved all this shenanigans. If she’d been here, she would have been in the thick of it. It was at times like this he missed her the most. She was the one person in the whole world who truly understood him – in fact she knew him better than he knew himself. What would she have done in this situation?

  But he didn’t really need to ask the question, because he knew the answer. Loyalty was something else Celia understood. But he had yet to broach the subject to Victory and Noah. At the end of the day, it was up to them whether they went along with the notion of having a doddering old priest officiate at their big day.

  One with a flatulence issue so bad that it could well result in none of the guests actually surviving the ceremony - all with the whole world looking on, and of course providing old Boris didn’t actually keel over during the service.

  He heaved another sigh, wondering why life had to be so complicated and whether it was it was too early for a glass of Port…

  ~*~

  By Saturday I’m finally beginning to feel as though I’m on top of everything. My filofax is no longer empty, in fact it’s satisfyingly bulging at the seams, and I’m no longer looking forward to tonight’s dinner with the same enthusiasm that I’d be approaching my own execution, so all in all, things are looking up.

  We’re supposed to be assembling for pre dinner drinks at seven. I glance down at my watch. Five o’clock. I need to allow an hour to get over the river to the Admiralty if I want to avoid arriving as though I’ve just taken part in a marathon, so that gives me an hour to get ready. Plenty of time…

  …Or not. It’s nearly six fifteen by the time I’m finally ready. To be fair it never usually takes me this long, and I don’t normally go through my entire wardrobe before picking an outfit. I glance over at the mound of clothes still piled high on my bed. Still, it’s my duty to look my best as the person managing such a large and glamorous affair, and as I stare critically at myself in the mirror, I almost believe it. I’ve finally plumped for a pair of wide leg chiffon trousers in a dove grey, together with a slightly loose black silk top, which slides with a certain amount of sexy sophistication just off one shoulder. I don’t have to worry about wearing a bra as my top half in no way compares to Tory’s impressive rack. Nevertheless I stick my chest out slightly, wondering if I could be actually mistaken for a boy. The first time he saw my boobs on holiday, Freddy had peered closely at them before asking me if I’d tried Clearasil.

  Nope, despite being the butt of Freddy’s ongoing itty bitty titty jokes, I think I actually look quite feminine and desirable. Not that I care what anyone at dinner is likely to think…

  Sticking my tongue out defiantly at my reflection, I fluff up what’s left of my hair and head out of my bedroom to grab the satchel holding the nuts and bolts of my best friend’s wedding. Then I hunt around for my car keys.

  I’ve left it too late to do my mountain goat impression up the steep hill that masquerades as The Admiralty’s front garden and looking like a Sweaty Betty is not how I want Jason Buchannan to see me. Although, of course, I don’t care really…

  Naturally I’m late. I love living in Dartmouth but it has to be said that whenever there’s a ferry involved it’s always a bit hit and miss. Unfortunately, the only way over the river is via one of two car ferries, a single passenger ferry, or, as a last resort, by rowing - so I don’t really have much choice.

  However, it does mean I’m the last to arrive, just when I so didn’t want to look unprofessional in front of Mr Poker Pants. I creep in through the back door, hoping to make an unobtrusive entrance, but with two of the world’s noisiest dogs in residence, there’s practically no chance of that.

  Dotty, who can hear a biscuit wrapper at one hundred yards, is first, and comes tearing into the kitchen to launch herself delightedly at my lovely silk top, followed by Pickles who contents himself with jumping up at my chiffon trousers. Unable to help myself, I shriek, trying to pull Dotty away before the off the shoulder turns into off the arm, dangerously exposing my right breast. (Why oh why didn’t I wear a bra…?)

  ‘What the bollocking hell’s going on?’ Oh joy, first on the scene is of course the Admiral, whose idea of low-key is to keep his voice down to a level of less than a hundred decibels.

  Pickles takes one look at his master, and very obviously deciding that discretion is the better part of valour, gives me a last hurried lick before doing a runner to parts of the house unknown. As the spaniel dashes through the kitchen door, he’s replaced by Noah, who luckily wastes no time striding into the kitchen to take the enthusiastic little dog from my arms before the slippery black silk drops off my top half completely.

  ‘Sweetie, the just been laid look is so you…’ The next arrival is Freddy, leaning nonchalantly against the kitchen door, and I glare murderously at him while trying to readjust my clothing. However, just as I’m about to deliver a scathing retort, Jason Buchannan appears next to him.

  ‘Kit what on earth are you doing?’ Tory’s astonished face appears behind Freddy, completing the line up. Yep, I think that’s everyone. My humiliation is complete.

  ‘Oh Kit, I love your top. Is it hot culture? I once had a top just like that - it was Channel.’

  No, not quite everyone. I forgot about Mabel…

  Fortunately, the combined efforts to interpret Mabel’s cryptic announcement, aside from being a potential bonding experience, also takes the attention away from me, and by the time everyone’s worked out that she actually meant haute couture and Chanel, I’ve managed to put myself back together and escape into the living room, where I’m firmly ensconced with a large fortifying glass of wine and an even larger bowl of peanuts.

  Tory sits down next to me. ‘Sorry,’ she mouths, helping herself to a handful of nuts. ‘I really think I’m going to have to take Dotty to dog training classes.’ I look down at the object of our discussion, now shamelessly sitting on my feet in an effort to get closer to the nuts.

  ‘I think she needs to go on a diet,’ I murmur, leaning down to give her a quick fuss, just on the off chance that my comment might hurt her feelings. Good grief, I’m getting as bad as Tory. Goodness knows how little miss centre of the known universe is going to take to playing second fiddle to a baby…

  Slowly the others filter in and I’m relieved to see Noah talking animatedly with Jason. ‘How are we going to do this?’ I ask Tory, noting with concern that she’s now looking a little pale, which might actually be a result of all the nuts she’s scoffed, rather than her usual morning sickness.

  She takes a deep breath before responding. ‘Thought we’d have dinner first then get on to the nitty gritty. You know, give everyone a chance to relax a bit.’ My best friend looks anything but relaxed and as I watch, her face slowly goes an interesting shade of green.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ I ask, hoping to take her mind off her roiling stomach. Unfortunately, it appears to have the opposite effect, and after abruptly shouting, ‘Chicken,’ she jumps to her feet and dashes towards the door, leaving a sudden silence in her wake.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s wrong with her?’ the Admiral mutters gruffly in her wake, ‘Just lately she’s been behaving like a damn fart in a colander. Why only yester…’

  ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ Noah butts in quickly, before the Admiral has chance to get into his stride, ‘I’ll just go check on her.’

  ‘I’ll go if you like,’ I volunteer hastily. Even holding Tory’s hair while she vomits into a toilet is preferable than making small talk with Jason Buchannan and the Admiral - not to mention Freddy who’s nearly as bad as Tory’s father at making polite conversation without giving offence.

  Noah grins at me, totally understanding my reasons for offering to go to Tory’s aid (to be fair, I am slightly concerned about my friend as well…)
>
  ‘It’s okay Kit, I’ve got this. Why don’t you go check if Mabel needs any help in the kitchen?’

  I grasp his suggestion like the lifeline it is, and grabbing my glass of wine, I thankfully escape, with Dotty close on my heels (I think she heard the word kitchen). As the door shuts behind me, the last thing I hear is Freddy saying serenely, ‘So Jason, any good looking sailors up at the College this term?’ I wince and grin in equal measure, wishing I could be a fly on the wall during the three way conversation that’s sure to follow.

  Which unfortunately is likely to be sooner than I’d hoped. The merry widow appears to have everything in hand, and after lingering, making small talk and generally getting under Mabel’s feet for five minutes, I’m unceremoniously sent packing with instructions to tell everyone that dinner will be ten minutes. Once back in the hall, I hover outside the living room door for a second, reluctant to go back in. Idly I glance round the large square hall with its oak panelling and sweeping galleried staircase. I can totally understand why they wanted to use this house to film The Bridegroom.

  Then, knowing I can’t put it off any longer, I lift my glass to take a quick sip of my wine, just as the door to the living room is thrown open and I find myself face to face with Jason Buchannan. The shock ensures that I miss my mouth completely and I now have a large trail of red wine decorating my sadly crumpled best silk top.

  We stare at each other for what seems like hours but can only be a couple of seconds, before the Admiral appears behind him. ‘I’m just showing Jason where the heads are,’ he booms at his usual level of decibels. Then glancing at my top, continues, ‘What the bloody hell have you done to yourself now girl? Is that wine you’ve poured down your front? You’ll be needing a bib soon. You’re not drunk already are you?’

  Surprisingly the dinner didn’t turn out to be the disaster I was dreading. Once we were called to the table, Mabel (who has inexplicably morphed into Delia Smith) prepared an amazing meal, and Tory was able to keep it down without rushing off to the bathroom. I could see that Jason and Freddy clearly had their suspicions, both eyeing her carefully during the meal, but as usual, the Admiral was as observant as one of the three blind mice, so luckily it went over his head.

  Now it’s my turn to take the chair, and given that I’ve managed to get through the meal without spilling anything else over myself, or getting completely trollied - although it was tempting - I’m now reasonably confident that I have everything under control. I cough to get everyone’s attention and risk a glance at Jason seated opposite.

  To my surprise, he’s already staring at me. Or more accurately, at my mouth. Self consciously I run my tongue experimentally over my lips, wondering if my certainty about not dribbling anything may have been a little premature. I glance up again and this time my heart slams hard into my ribs as I experience the full heat of his gaze, until he turns away, leaving me feeling strangely bereft and disorientated.

  Face flaming, I look down at the paperwork in front of me, willing my pulse to slow down. It was only a look for goodness sake. But my heart knows differently. For a few brief seconds, Jason Buchannan had looked as though he wanted to devour me, and my whole body had undeniably tightened in response.

  Self consciously I begin passing round the wedding details I’ve collated so far, before risking a quick glance back up to see Jason scrutinizing the wedding list spreadsheet. What is it about the man that makes me act as though I have nothing in between my ears but fresh air? He’s sitting in between Noah and Mabel, and contrary to earlier, he looks relaxed and at ease, as though he’s actually enjoying himself.

  I continue to throw covert glances at him as I finish handing out the spreadsheets. The white shirt and black dinner jacket he’s wearing accentuates his dark maleness, and right now his beautiful silver eyes are for once dancing with mischief and delight as he laughs at an anecdote about a previously attended Hollywood wedding being related by Noah. No poker in sight.

  I cough self consciously, bringing everyone back to the matter at hand. ‘Well, that’s everything I’ve got. Jason, I think you’ll find that the guest details are pretty comprehensive, and as soon as we’ve made the final decision about flowers etc, I’ll make sure that you have full details of all the suppliers immediately.’ My heart sinks as the smile slowly leaves his eyes and he turns his attention back towards the reason he’s here.

  Picking up the guest list again, he nods acquiescence. ‘I’ll keep you informed if there are any security issues with any of these names. Have you worked out the timings yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Tory and I are getting together this week to finalize. I think we’ve got everything under control – apart from the evening entertainment, but you’ll have to speak to Noah about that.’ I smile over at the actor who winks and gives me a lazy grin in return.

  ‘There is one slight problem we might have to contend with,’ comments Jason, causing all eyes to turn towards him. ‘I’m assuming that you’re expecting the College Chaplain to conduct the ceremony?’ Tory and Noah glance at each other, then at me. ‘Well, yes I think so,’ Tory responds at Noah’s shrug. ‘Why, is that an issue?’

  ‘It could be I’m afraid,’ Jason answers, hands busy stacking his sheets in some semblance of order. ‘We’re actually between padres at the moment - the new one was due to arrive at the end of November. However, it appears he’s broken his leg rather badly and I think it unlikely he’ll be joining the College until the New Year. Do you know of anyone else who could officiate at the ceremony at such short notice?’

  There’s a silence as we all rack our brains for possible chaplains we might have hidden away in a spare closet somewhere. Just when it looks as though the small problem could be a much larger one, the Admiral, who it has to be said has been uncharacteristically silent during the meal, coughs, and with a smile big enough to strike terror into the heart of everyone who knows him, says happily, ‘Well, it just so happens, I might be able to help you out there…’

  Chapter Five

  Jason tossed and turned in the big four poster bed that had been the resting place for first commodores and now captains since BRNC was first built. Despite the long walk back to the College, he wasn’t tired.

  He was anxious about the celebrity wedding to come and heartily wished that it wasn’t taking place on his watch. But that wasn’t the real reason he knew. Images of soft green eyes and streaky blond hair were preventing him from sleeping.

  Without even looking, Jason had been overwhelmingly aware of Kit throughout the evening. The look her eyes when she’d caught him staring and the smell of her perfume as she leant forward to lay the spreadsheets on the table in front of him had incredibly left him hard and aching, something that hadn’t happened since he’d been a naïve cadet.

  He’d allowed himself to glance at her once, and nearly lost himself in her clear gaze, wanting nothing more than to drag her up in to a bedroom, any bedroom, and bury himself in her soft willing flesh. He hadn’t dared to look again.

  He groaned. What the hell was the matter with him? She’d intrigued him when they first met in Scotland. But now?

  Turning over yet again, the only certainty Jason knew, as he abandoned the possibility of sleep any time soon, was that attraction had somehow turned into almost uncontrollable desire. He hadn’t craved a specific woman’s touch in years, and since Laura, he’d never let a woman get under his skin.

  Until now.

  ~*~

  ‘It couldn’t have worked better if I’d planned it.’ The Admiral’s self satisfied smirk caused Jimmy to look at his friend carefully.

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’ He wouldn’t have put it past the Admiral to have engineered something dodgy, but he’d be very concerned if Charles Shackleford had stooped to grievous bodily harm.

  The Admiral looked over at the small man irritably. ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous Jimmy. It was just a lucky coincidence that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t think the God walloper who’s lying in hospital
with his leg up in a brace is likely to see it quite that way Sir,’ Jimmy responded mildly. ‘Anyway, I assume you warned everyone about Bible Basher Boris’s err, issues?’

  ‘Come on Jimmy, your turn to get the drinks in, I’m dryer than a popcorn fart.’ The Admiral’s abrupt change of the subject told Jimmy all he needed to know.

  ‘You haven’t told them have you?’ Ignoring the question, Charles Shackleford waved the barmaid over, and looked pointedly at his friend. Heart sinking, Jimmy ordered their drinks. He was sick and tired of keeping the Admiral’s bloody secrets, but this was one skeleton he was determined would see the light of day long before it resulted in a nasty surprise on Tory’s wedding day.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with old Boris,’ the Admiral continued once his pint was placed in front of him, and he’s coming down in a couple of weeks to stay in a flat until after the wedding.’

  ‘What about his problems?’ Jimmy put his pint onto the bar and leaned towards his friend, emphasizing the word problems. ‘Come on Sir, what if he starts letting fluffy off the chain right in the middle of the service? There are going to be important people at Tory’s wedding, and she’ll never live it down. YOU CAN’T JUST IGNORE THIS SIR.’

  The Admiral looked at Jimmy in astonishment as the small man’s outburst got the attention of the whole pub. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. Then, finally, sulkily, ‘I thought I’d mention it on the day.’

  Jimmy sighed. ‘That’s like rearranging the deckchairs on the bloody Titanic Sir. You just can’t do it.’

  To Jimmy’s amazement, the Admiral simply blinked a little before resting his head in his hands. ‘I’ve got to Jimmy lad, I can’t get out of it. I just can’t let the old bugger down. It means so much to him. I promised him Jimmy, I promised him.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ he whispered finally, actually wringing his hands in anguish.