The dinner, as it turns out, isn't as much about the food or socialness as is it about showing off. They join a line off other cabs which are also headed in the direction of the mayor's mansion; these would be the other guests. When their cab arrive, they are welcomed by torches leading them into a hallway with a butler ready to take their coats and guide them into a large sitting room with a grand fire place where the mayor is waiting to welcome them. He is wearing a suit similar to that of the doctor, but his is a shade of dark red. He confesses to them, in a voice which is too quiet for anyone else to hear, that he is immensely relieved they could make it: this annual dinner is frightfully dull, he says, and he is desperate for new blood to liven it up. There are other gentlemen there and ladies in the room too, sitting in the sofas or standing in groups around the room. The Doctor and Clara are the last ones in, so after greeting them Einar turns to the room and gives a small speech where he thanks them for coming, and invited them into the dining room: it is time for the first course.
The seating is pre-decided, and Clara and the Doctor find themselves sat next to each other quite far down the table. The food is delicious, and is called things Clara can't even being to pronounce. They both carefully observe the dinner manners of the other guests and copy it as best they can, but with some difficulty; the Doctor has discovered that he can make Clara drop her fork simply by caressing her foot with his, and he is taking advantage of this fact to the fullest. They are making conversation with the other diners as well: the couple directly ahead of them has travelled all the way from somewhere called Fagrheim, which is apparently several days away by sleigh, and the woman next to the Doctor is the Mayor of one of the neighboring villages which Clara visited a few days ago. Old mr. Thorne from their own town is sat on the other side of Clara and confesses, after the cognac has gone around the table a few times, that the only reason he bothers coming to these events at all is the food. As he said, "These folks come from all around, only to show off their new wives and high-up contacts. The small-town life isn't for them, and they aren't for our small town. A right pain up the back side they are, but at least the dining ain't half bad. I get the chance to do a favour for the village kids too, which is always good fun. Observe this carefully, my good Madam". Then he goes on to trip a waiter, who excuses himself excessively and take his messy plate of shellfish canapés back to the kitchen where Gunhild and company will be waiting. Mr. Thorne winks at Clara.
There is also the matter of introducing themselves to their fellow diners. This is a place to impress, after all, and the diners are clearly curious as to what might have warranted their invitation to this otherwise exclusive dinner. The Doctor and Clara have been, shall we say, a bit preoccupied the last few days and have therefore yet to agree on a backstory, but the Doctor improvises marvellously: "The Doctor and Clara, travellers", he says, and he says it in such a tone as implies enigma, action, and secrecy, and that they are chevaliers of fate whose true agenda is far beyond the concept of even these posh elitists. The other guests exchanges glances of approval and timid interest, and are treated to almost the same story Gunhild and Arne pulled from Clara and the Doctor on that memorable day at the beginning of their stay. If you pay attention though, you will notice that our intrepid duo is doing something rather clever: every time they repeat a story or are introducing themselves to new diners they seem to be changing small details of their own stories. Nothing consequential, just small things like their ages, their reason for being in the village, Clara's maiden name and so on. It might be intentional and it might be accidental, but the result is that the growing understanding of the mysterious couple is cloudy and unclear, and when they are being gossiped about in quiet voices in the corners (as they undoubtedly are), the gossipers can never quite agree on anything about them. Soon they are the centre of great interest, and none is questioning their right to be there.
The only boring ordeal of the evening, judging by the frequency of Clara's yawning and the Doctor's fidgeting, is the half an hour in which the gentlemen go to the salon to drink brandy and the women stay in the sitting room drinking tea and eating cakes. The women of the social elite on this planet impresses, Clara has to admit, when they spend the time away from their husbands discussing politics, science and technology rather than gossip, but after the initial five minutes of impressing them with her computer skills she becomes quite bored. Or maybe she isn't bored, but rather something else; at any rate, she keeps looking over towards the door the men left through. One might surmise that the Doctor is thinking something similar there he sits between two of the consuls on a sofa and tries to gauge how long he has to appear interested in the conversation (mostly about wives and girlfriends, ironically) without appearing rude. He sometimes flexes his hand, as if something is missing from it. Eventually their trial is over however, and Clara can take a hold of the Doctor's elbow again as they queue with the other guests waiting to thank Einar for his hospitality and be on their way.
The snow is still falling heavily but the worst of the wind has died down, and so the Doctor and Clara decide to walk home from the mansion. Arm in arm they are walking, taking their time. The tension from earlier is all but vanished, and words and laughter flow freely between them. They stop now and then to admire the decorations they pass or to remark on the various oddities lining the streets, but an experienced reader such as yourself is probably suspecting the truth: They are just stalling, holding the world back from interfering in their happy, little bubble for a while longer.
There doesn't seem to be anyone still awake when they reach the inn: the guests lodging there must have already gone to bed. Clara and the Doctor move as quietly as they can, silently shutting doors and blowing out candles as they return to their own room, and they only start talking again when they have closed their door behind them. The Doctor starts rummaging in the wardrobe again as Clara walks to the bathroom and starts letting strands of her hair down. The conversation, which is about the prospects of making it to that snow cave in the mountains tomorrow, slowly turns into a monologue for the Doctor as Clara stops answering. He notices. "Clara? Are you alright?". There is a slight pause. "Clara?". "Doctor, could you help me take my dress off?". It's a good thing the Doctor wasn't holding anything valuable, because he probably would have dropped it. Clara appears in the doorway, her expression that of someone desperately trying to remain casual. Her hair is falling down now, and she has pushed it all over one shoulder. "It's done up with buttons in the back, and I can't reach. Will you help me?". The Doctor mentally shakes himself. "Yeah, of course, sorry. Come here?". She walks over, and stands in front of him, her back towards him. He can see the problem: starting right at her hairline is a row of buttons leading all the way down, holding the dress in place. He slowly raises his hands, and tucks the last locks of hair over her shoulder before starting at the top. One button. Two. Three. His gaze drifts upwards to the back of her head, and his expression is unreadable. Four. Five. He looks down at his hands again, and suddenly realises what he has been uncovering: there is none of that frilly, white Victorian undergarments he was expecting: instead he has revealed almost 20 cm of Clara's bare skin. His fingers slowly comes to a halt as this fully dawns on him, and he stares, mouth slightly ajar, down at the wonder beneath his hands. He stands like this for a while. Clara doesn't comment, or even move. Maybe she too can feel the tension seeping back into the room. If you were to examine the Doctor's face in this moment, you would find a clear ambivalence: There seems to be a dilemma, a decision, troubling him. Eventually his resolve manifests though, and he does what we all know he would do: he brings one hand up to her neck where it hovers for a while, before slowly, tenderly, lowering his fingers to her skin in a gentle caress.
Clara takes in a sharp breath, and the Doctor, who probably hadn't even realised that he was holding his breath, starts breathing again. He even takes a small step forwards, so that their bodies are almost touching. He trails his hand down toward where the buttons are still attached and starts to work on them again, but this time he is paying just as much attention to Clara's skin as he is to the buttons, trailing and caressing every inch he uncovers. He is so close now that Clara can feel his breath on her increasingly bare neck, and she closes her eyes as she involuntarily trembles slightly. He places a gentle hand at her waist to steady her, as the other continues unbuttoning at a slow pace. So slow it is almost torture. His mouth must be only inches away from her hair, because she can feel every breath. She could probably manage the rest of the buttons by herself now, but that is entirely beside the point. His hand keeps working until it reaches the small of her back and a few buttons further, before it falters and comes to a stop. His knuckles are still caressing her skin, first downwards all the way to the small of her back and then slowly upwards again. His other hand is still at her waist, but it seems to be going by its own accord when it moves to let his arm encircle her waist more fully. Their erratic heartbeats are in perfect time with each other's. The static electricity between them allows no room for any other movement, or even a sound. And then, slowly, like the last rays of the setting sun disappearing behind the horizon and night taking over, he leans forward, and presses a kiss to her neck, directly underneath her ear. Soft lips, full of tenderness and leagues of hidden passion, against the sensitive skin on her neck which has been begging for his attention since he first laid eyes on her in this dress. It is like a dam, finally breaking under the pressure of millions of gallons of water and the sheer force of nature. He pulls her to him, lips placing more kisses down toward her exposed collarbone, and her head falls back against his shoulder and her hand comes up to cradle his head as she struggles to keep her uncontrolled breathing from turning into moans. The soft kisses on her skin turn into passionate kisses, which soon turn into tongue, which soon turn into teeth against her neck. His hand at the small of her back has migrated under her dress and to the front of her belly, between skin and fabric. The hand has just begun inching upwards when-
A soft knock on the door freezes them in position. "Doctor? Are you there?". It's Idun. "Yes…?". "Sorry to wake you", she says, and the Doctor slowly extracts his hands from Clara's body as she gives him a look filled to the brim of mischief, "but I should take your suit and hang it up now. The material it's made from needs tending after use, and leaving it until morning might ruin it. Mrs. Hemstad might expect to have it back tomorrow…". "Of course, I understand. It's no bother Idun, don't worry. I'll bring it down immediately, yes?". "Thank you, that's excellent". Her relief is evident in her voice. His eyes drift back to Clara, who is walking back towards the bathroom and clearly working hard to not laugh. His immense resignation turns to mirth as he watches her, youthful and free, skipping back to the bathroom.
The trip down to the wash room with the suit takes slightly longer than the Doctor expects: on the way down he is side-tracked by Karl who is apparently also still up and stopped for a friendly chat about the dinner party, and on the way up again he is side-tracked by a group of gentlemen from the same party who are drinking aquavit in the sitting room where he and Clara had shared their first kiss. The dinner party has been pushed so far back in the Doctor's mind that finding remnants of it now is almost disorienting. The group invite the Doctor to join in, but he respectfully declines. Still, they won't let him go without sitting him down for a good 15 minutes to tell him how lovely it is with some new blood in the social circles, and how they hope he and his 'lovely young wife' will stay for a while. Clara is already sleeping when he makes it back to the room, and he takes a few minutes to stare fondly down at her in their bed. Then he puts on his night dress and joins her, scooting up close to hold her. She wakes up briefly and turns around in his arms to face him, though she doesn't open her eyes. She kisses him softly, once, on the lips and quietly murmurs "we really need to go somewhere we won't be interrupted all the time", before falling asleep again. He thinks to himself that he couldn't possibly agree more. He doesn't say it though, he just holds her tight as he slowly drifts off and the snow keeps falling outside.