A/N: Some of you may have noticed the change in rating. This is to reflect the fact that now that I have an ending to this story (there's only one more chapter) and I know exactly what's going to go down. The original M rating was more of a safety net for me than anything else. I personally prefer needing to go down a rating than up, so yeah. Apologies.
2.
When it came to choosing her third paramour, there was no contest.
The Marchioness had received the elite squad from the capital alone, her husband away at the border taking part in skirmishes with Cyberan forces. After years of the Marquis requesting aid from the main army, the King finally sent a small task force of twenty soldiers, all hand-picked from various regiments as some of the best the kingdom had to offer. They were there to assist the Marquis in various tasks, such as recruit training and freshening up their defense tactics and other such things that were continually straining his ability to both command and govern.
"You say your post is for a year?" she asked from her seat high on a dais, the one used for governance and sessions of court. The group commander nodded.
"After a year, our unit will be given our new orders. Whether it's to stay here or disband, we do not know, but in the meantime we are at your husband's disposal, milady."
"Mine as well," she reminded her. "Until I bear a child, I am next in line for his position." The Marchioness waved her hand, motioning to the empty chair next to her with a practiced air of indifference. "Stars in the sky forbid, anything happens to my husband while he is on the front lines in your care and this seat is mine. Do not forget that, Commander Stewart."
"Of course, milady," the commander said, bowing in embarrassment. "With your permission, I would like to head out with the rest of my men to meet the Marquis, so we can go straight to work."
She sighed, feigning annoyance. "That is fine. I do wish to talk with one of you though, to get a feel for what I should expect. How about…" She scanned the group and pretended to choose; she had seen him the moment he walked in, and honestly saw no other amongst them. "You. Have your things brought to a room and make yourself presentable. Afterwards a servant will see you to the war room." The soldier, tall and broad-shouldered and neatly-kept, saluted.
"You wouldn't be more comfortable with one of my female subordinates…?" the commander questioned. She recoiled slightly when the Marchioness shot her a cold glare.
"Did I ask for your opinion?" she replied. "I asked for him; maybe in the future I will ask for one of the women, or even you. For now, he shall stay here and explain to me the strategies you wish to present to the Marquis. Depending on how things go, he shall follow you within the week."
"I understand. Alright men, back to the horses! I want to be in the Marquis's tent by nightfall!"
The soldiers left, allowing the Marchioness to dash up to her quarters and quickly straighten herself. She changed her dress, found perfume, and quickly put her hair in a twist before making her way over to the war room. It was a dark, windowless chamber with small vents for air and a secret passageway out that she had been down only once before. She left the door open, as the lock set automatically and very few people had a key (the other being away at the border), and waited for him to arrive.
Not even ten minutes after she sat down at the far end of the oval table, he walked in. His jaw was set and his chest puffed out—his soldier's mask. He saluted her, clicking his heels together with a flourish.
"You wished to see me, ma'am?"
Her heart stung. "Yes. Please close the door." As he did so, she stood and began to walk around the table. He returned to his original position, trying not to look down at the woman now at his side.
"What is it that you wish for me to explain first, ma'am?" he asked. She turned his body to face her and reached up to place a hand on his cheek, gently pulling him down for a kiss.
"How you kept such a straight face while we were in court," she laughed through tears. He leaned into the kiss and swept her up into his arms, refusing to put her down until he found a chair to sit in and place her in his lap. She draped her arms around him and dug her fingertips into his short hair.
"Oh my gods, Clara… I missed you so much…"
"I did too, Daniel." Her voice cracked as she tried not to choke on her words. "I… I almost thought I'd never see you again. Now that you're here, I never want to let you go."
He chuckled at that. "I still need to do my job, you know. It's all I've done since I last saw you and if they catch me slacking off they'll think something suspicious is going on."
"You will be my advisor so that you can come back often, and stay and be in my company and there be legitimate reason so none can argue," she said, trying to fight back against the stinging that was sitting in her eyes.
"…but your lord husband…"
"…wants me to build my military knowledge for when he's gone from this life. He won't object to me keeping an advisor, although how to convince the king to let you remain after a year is another thing entirely."
"Then it's a good thing this is my last assignment," the soldier grinned. He brushed his fingertips against her cheek, looking deep into her eyes. "Once I'm done here I'm done with the king's service and I will be in want of a job."
"This must mean I need to make sure a position opens on payroll between now and then," she giggled. She bent down and kissed him, her heart racing in unbridled joy unknown to her since the last time they met.
Not a single military maneuver was spoken of that night, or the night after. In fact, when the soldier rejoined his unit in the field a week later, he had not uttered a single word about strategy since arriving in Kasterborous, and he was fine with that.
A month had passed and the ruse was still intact. The Marchioness's paramour, as handsome and attentive and romantic as she remembered, had made the trip back to Gallifrey to confer with her the plans against the Cybera Kingdom's current campaign. They were conferring in the study, her pinning him down on the settee as he caressed her curves further accentuated by her corset. The door opened and they stopped—the Marquis had finally returned from the border.
"Oh, when did you get in?" the Marchioness asked before descending down on her soldier's neck, speaking between kisses. "If I had known you were coming, I would have drawn up the month's expenditures for you to sign off on." The man under her, however, began to shy away from her touch.
"Uh… uh… it's not what it looks like, sir…!" he stammered, attempting to sit up as the Marquis crossed the room. To the soldier's surprise, the other man simply sat down at the table and began to shuffle through the papers scattered there.
"How is this one working out?" the Marquis asked simply. He did not look up from his work, astounding the soldier with his lack of reaction.
"Daniel was the suitor that prompted my father to marry me off," she said. "I love him; I always have, and I always will. He's the one."
"What is going on here?" the soldier asked. "Clara, why isn't your lord husband angry with us?"
"Do you see this scar on my hand?" she asked, holding out her palm. He examined it closely, seeing the faint puckering along a crease in the skin. "The blood that stained my wedding bed came from there—the union was never consummated."
He had to double-take, not all that sure he could believe what he was hearing. "You've been married almost two years and you haven't shared a bed?"
"Only for sleeping," the Marquis chimed in. He glanced over at the two on the settee and paused, feeling a curious weight form in his stomach. "I'd wait until the wedding night with him, if I were you. We look too different for me to pass his child as my own."
"Wait, what…? You mean, you're encouraging this?"
"Clara is my heir, and one day she will become the Fourteenth Marchioness, the Thirteenth Doctor, and you will be her Companion. Your firstborn will be the Fifteenth Marquis and Fourteenth Doctor, and so on and so forth, as long as your bloodline prevails. Mine is done and over with—I am the last in my line."
"You don't marry an heir," the soldier stated.
"You don't adopt an adult woman with a father still living, who possesses the ability to go toe-to-toe with anyone the king decides to throw up here to watch over us," the Marquis growled, narrowing his eyes. "Wives are as good of heirs as sons, and considering my long absences, I'd be cruel to not let her keep around someone that can do for her what I cannot. Be thankful you will be consort to a woman that can give your children status and power—if I remember correctly, the only thing you have to give them is a broad back and a soldier's stance."
"Excuse me?! I have more to give a child than my looks," the soldier snapped back. "Love, compassion, manners… your world may run on wealth and riches, but don't think that means I buy that for myself." He kissed the Marchioness on the cheek and stood up, smoothing out his clothes. "Sorry, but I have to go."
"…but…"
"I'll see you tomorrow; I have a lot of letter-writing I need to catch up on." He then left the room, with his lady snapping her head towards her husband with enough force to kill.
"He is the one, Johan," she hissed. "You told me I could have a paramour and he is it."
"Well, he seems fairly self-important for a man with no family, no lineage, no anything," the Marquis snorted. "It's not every day you're handed the opportunity to found a dynasty with the full consent of the ruling one."
"Yes, says the man with no family, no legacy, and had to marry in order to find someone who would put up with you long enough to be your heir," she spat. "Wasn't your grandfather a twin? You have a cadet branch lying in-wait."
He scoffed at the idea, clearly finding it ridiculous. "Why would I hand over everything I've worked for to those idiots? I'd rather leave the march in the hands of an actual child… which is how you're acting right now, thank you."
"Go to hell," she spat before storming out of the study. She spent the rest of the day in her bedchamber, glaring at the wall she shared with her husband, only feeling calm again when she awoke to find flowers on her nightstand. Rue and baby's breath and roses—yellow and white and a dark, musty pink—made her stare and wonder why her husband had knowledge of such things. It was the gardener in the glasshouse, or him choosing at random, she eventually decided before dressing for the day. She did not yet forgive him, but it was a start.
'Meet me in the war room as soon as you can find the time,' read the note. The Marchioness furrowed her brow at the words written in her husband's quick scrawl. That sure was a way to announce he was home after whole months away. Did he come back home with her love, or did he have to stay in the field a few more weeks to not draw suspicion? She went down to the war room at once, sliding her key into the self-locking door and admitting herself to the dirge that waited inside.
Around the table sat a small handful of the King's elite task force, most beaten and bloodied and injured to some capacity. At the head sat the Marquis, a cut upon his brow and his face set in steel. Maps covered in miniatures blanketed the tabletop, clearly having been shuffled around several times within a short while.
"What happened?" she gasped, her blood running cold in her veins. She almost asked for her suitor's condition, but caught herself. "Please tell me you'll be fine, Johan."
"It's a scrape; nothing to worry about," he grunted. "I'm far better off than most of the others that survived the retreat."
"R—retreat…?"
"It was a sneak attack by Cyberan soldiers," one of the king's men explained. "Some of our best died or were captured out there."
Died? Captured? She could feel the color draining from her face. "Where is my advisor?"
"I don't know—no one does," the man explained. He ignored the trembling inhale the Marchioness took to calm herself as she let the information soak in.
They didn't know.
Just like that—no search party, no returned token, no fiery declaration to liberate him from his captors. He was gone, possibly to never be seen again, and there was nothing she could do. She looked at her husband, whose eyes were apologetic and hurting.
"I know you trusted him," he said, "and I would rather have told you alone, but I do not know how long this will keep me from bed tonight."
She paused, unsure of what else to say, what else to do. Quickly she composed herself and hid behind her wifely ruse. "No… I understand. It is good to know I don't need to wait up. Will you wake me if I am needed?"
"Get your rest, my dear. We'll talk in the morning."
After bowing her head in a curtsey, the Marchioness excused herself from the war room and returned to her chambers. It was something of an accomplishment that she made it all the way to the wash basin before vomiting, she recounted later, after crying so hard her eyes hurt. She sent away her servants and laid in bed, watching the sky out her window change from bright blue to deep red. As night fell she changed into her bedclothes and attempted to sleep.
Tossing here and turning there, she soon discovered that rest as not going to come easy. Eventually she heard movement on the other side of the wall—the Marquis—and decided that what good was a husband unless she took advantage of that fact every once in a while? She eased herself out of bed and padded over to their shared door.
"Johan…?"she asked, her brow pressed against the painted wood between them. "May I come in?" She heard shuffling and rustling, and the door opened. Her husband looked at her with worry in his tired, bloodshot eyes.
"Are you alright?"
"Please, can I stay with you tonight?" Her heart was heavy as she looked at the wallpaper, avoiding eye contact. "You're not Daniel but…"
"…something tells me you're in need of a friend," he finished, giving her an understanding smile. He held the door open for her, shutting it as she entered his bedchamber for the first time. She did not so much as glance around, for as soon as she found the mattress she slid under the bedding and curled up.
Climbing in next to her, he pulled the blankets over them and, after some internal debate, carefully wrapped an arm around his wife's waist, folding the other underneath his head as a pillow. She pressed her face into his chest, gripping the fabric of his nightdress tightly. A minute of silence passed before she shook, a sob escaping into the night.
"Don't cry now; we don't know what happened to him," he said in an effort to soothe her. The attempt was in vain, however, as she unwittingly ignored his concern and panic. He wracked his brain in order to find the right words to say. "He could walk in the front door tomorrow for all we know. No one knows for sure."
"It's not fair…" she croaked. "He's gone, and the only answer anyone can give is that they don't know. He didn't go out in a blaze of glory. He didn't die protecting his comrades. He wasn't captured after manning a stronghold by himself for three days. No one knows… and that's so boring."
"We did what we could with what we were presented with, Clara," he murmured. "Now you know my fears for every time I leave Gallifrey. You don't deserve this; I will find you an answer, I can promise you that."
"Make it a good one, Doctor," she whispered. Propping herself up on an elbow, she kissed him on the cheek in thanks. She nestled back into her husband's arms, failing to see the wide eyes and slack jaw that adorned his face in shock. He looked at the top of her head, feeling her breathing slowing against his chest, and tightened his grip around her. She made a little noise, sad but assured. It was going to be okay—he was going to make sure of that.
With reinforcements from Gallifrey, the Cyberan soldiers were pushed back into their own lands in less than a few days. The Marquis went and took a survey of the dead—his wife's beloved was nowhere amongst the fresh corpses, nor was his things amongst what was stripped of the bodies the Cyberans had burned beyond recognition. All he could find was a metal cuff adorned in the style of the paramour's homelands, fallen off in a struggle or dropped during a looting. He took it home and presented it to his wife in private, with her sitting on her bed and he knelt down before her. She cried as she put it on her wrist, appreciative of what little her husband could bring. They slept in her bed that night, and every night for the remainder of the month.
Her room stayed well-stocked in marigolds and heather and eglantines as she privately mourned. She ached in places that shouldn't and had to force herself to eat. Court and servants alike thought it was merely the first close loss of war finally hardening her constitution into that of a future commander of steel and stone. Only the Marquis knew it was a woman widowed in spirit, and did his best to keep that knowledge to himself.
"I'm going to the Daleki border tomorrow, and I'll probably be gone for a few weeks," he said as they sat up in the study. "Will you be alright on your own?"
"Yes," she replied quietly, adding sums. "I suppose… I need to start looking for a new paramour."
"Take your time," he said. He reached across the table and gently placed one of his hands on his wife's, bringing her to pause her writing. "It has barely been two months. If you choose now, you'll likely do something you'll regret later. I know what it's like to be widowed, remember that."
"Did you do something you regret?"
"Nearly; I almost let an old friend lead me down the wrong path. Luckily I caught myself before anything terrible happened. Just know that I understand, alright? Don't go looking for another quite yet."
"I won't," she nodded. The conversation ended there, for the topic veered off into finances and military goals. It was not as if they ignored the gaping hole in her heart, but to mind it, to let it sit and fester, would be the exact opposite of help.
She saw him again next as they sat down to dinner, nearly three weeks to the day hence. One look at her husband and she burst into giggles.
"What?" he asked, almost insulted.
"Your whiskers," she snickered. She pointed at his face, as if he did not realize there was a moustache and carefully-sculpted beard covering his chin. "I never knew you to let them grow longer than two days."
"Oh, I usually end up growing this out in the field," he huffed. "It makes for a shorter time preparing for the day ahead. I tend to cut it off by the time I see you again, but there was no time between arriving and dinner."
"Well it definitely is an interesting change, milord," she smirked, taking a spoonful of soup. The Marquis blinked perplexedly—she had barely called him anything other than his name in well over two years, and definitely not in jest. He felt his heart skip a beat and his face grow warm as he watched her eat.
"Do you… like it…?"
"You could do worse."
"Should I keep it?"
"Only if it is what milord wishes," she replied. She then went back to her dinner, dropping the subject entirely.
Later, as he dressed for bed, the Marquis kept glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He had never given much thought to long whiskers before, and now that his wife made mention of it he saw that he rather liked them. They did make him look more lordly… he supposed, in a way. With his nightdress on, he turned to look at the door. Something churned within him, a sensation both old and young at once. She was there, just on the other side of the wall, past the door that had been built to give whoever ruled the land access to his wife even during marital spats. He approached the painted wood and touched the knob—no, he had to rest.
No sooner was he warm within his bedding did he hear the very door that joined the bedchambers open and the Marchioness creeping into the room. She slipped under the blankets and wrapped her arms around his middle, placing her nose in his hair.
"I missed you," she whispered. "I didn't know you being gone would make things so lonely."
"You were not without one of us for very long for quite a time," he replied, grateful she was pressing herself into his back and not his front. "We shared a bed every night for weeks."
"…and I slept in here for the weeks after. It still smells like you, even when you're not here. It's a comfort."
"Go to sleep, Clara," he sighed, hoping his voice remained level as he bit his lip and his eyes grew wide. She muttered something back, already halfway there, and matched her slow breathing to his.
He had been away only a few days, though when he returned he could barely wait to see her.
"I got you something," he explained happily, a grin plastered across his face. She raised her eyebrows and put down her book.
"Really now? What's the occasion?"
"No occasion; I just… thought you'd like it…"
She looked at her husband curiously as he stood in the middle of her bedchamber, displaying emotions never really shown to this degree before. It was unusual—the most excited he usually got was when he saw the tail end of a political convoy.
"What is it?" she asked, playing along. He held out a hand.
"I need to bring you to it," he said. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards.
"Alright then, let's go." She followed him out the door and into the corridor, only for him to hunch down and stare at her straight in the eyes.
"Don't look," he requested. She paused, giving him another questioning glance, before closing her eyes tight. It was only a moment before she felt her left hand in his and his right hand lightly rest on her other shoulder, guiding her along. "Trust me, please."
"I trust you," she echoed.
They walked through the castle, ascending staircases with fair warning and traveling through drafty areas she could not place. Eventually they stopped and he bent down to hiss quietly in her ear.
"Open."
She opened her eyes and saw directly in front of her a telescope, over half her height in length and adorned in intricate circular designs. The room around them was mostly empty, save for them and a few boxes in the corner covered in sheets—they were high in one of the towers. Turning her head, she looked at her husband with their noses almost touching.
"You got this for me?"
"It was reclaimed, just the other day, from a Cyberan camp. The original owner no longer has use for worldly possessions, and I thought you'd be interested in the stars for the nights when I'm not here."
"What about the nights when you are here?" she quipped, pecking his cheek. She moved from his blushing grasp and examined the device. "It's beautiful… thank you."
"That's Old Gallifreyan on it," he said. "It's nothing more than an ancient scholar's language best used as schoolboys' code, but I can teach you to read it, if you want."
"You mean this says something?" she asked. She traced one of the designs with her fingers. "What does it say?"
"'Look to the stars, and your problems on the ground will be solved.' It's an old expression pretty much saying to not worry too often."
"It's lovely. I think maybe I would like a lesson, to see how I like it."
"Then we can start right now." He began to move his long fingers over the designs, sounding out the words as he went. She followed suit, and before long they were back in the study, poring over books written in the old language with the Marchioness insisting she learn as quick as possible. Kasterborous and Gallifrey were now her home as well—and not knowing her people's ancient writings was nothing more than an insult.
"Why do you say 'hearts'?" the Marchioness asked one day. Her husband looked up over his papers and cocked an eyebrow.
"Pardon?"
"Just now, you muttered about your hearts were not in the taxes you need to levy this year. Why hearts?"
"Oh… that…" He took off his spectacles and put down his papers. "You know how I'm the Doctor?"
"Yes…?"
"Well, it is said that the Doctor has two hearts. One is the same as everyone else's, from yours to the servants' to the folk in the hills'. What sets the Doctor aside from all others is his second heart, the one that's tied to the people and the lands that he serves. You will be given the second heart symbolically at your creation ceremony."
"How poetic," she smirked. "Is that another holdover from before Kasterborous was a march?"
"Yes." He turned back to his work, leaving his wife to ponder the notion. A man with two hearts was bound to possess twice the love as a normal man. She smiled privately and looked back down at her book.
"How dare you," the Marchioness hissed, her eyes narrowing as she bolted up from her chair. She slowly descended the dais, coming within feet of the man who stood before her. "You think that you can just come into my lord husband's house and speak such lies of him in his own court? He, the Most Noble and Potent Prince of Kasterborous and Gallifrey?"
"I speak the truth, milady," the man replied as he struggled to keep his frown set. She was a head shorter at the least, but his instinct was telling him to flee. "He had sent enforcers to the foothills that razed and raped our village. They bore his symbol."
"You would be surprised at how many things can be falsified," she growled. In his chair, her husband shifted in place, watching in awe at her conduct from behind his marquis's mask. "The only person that was to go to your village was a tax collector, to take half of what you owe and come back for the rest in a fortnight. You should be here asking my husband for help in capturing the criminals, not accusing him of being one."
"How would you know who he sent?" the man spat.
"He didn't send anyone, because I sent the tax collector, not him," she said, her voice all venom and spite. "I may be the Companion, but one day I will be the Doctor, and that does not mean I sit in my chambers doing needlework all day and pleasing my husband at night. Now that I know why I had not heard from the collector when scheduled, we can start the investigation as to his whereabouts and who it was that had his credentials. You are dismissed."
The village man recoiled slightly, his nerves fraying. "You can't just dismiss me!"
"I already have." She spun on her heel and made a vague gesture with her hand, prompting the guards to escort the man out of court. The Marquis watched her as she climbed back to her seat, a fire igniting low in his gut and a chill creeping up his spine. It was a privilege, he knew, to see his wife's potential for wrath and glory as raw as what she had just displayed.
'I want her,' he suddenly realized. His face grew hot at the idea, knowing he wanted everything about her: her sweetest giggle, her damning fury, and everything in between. 'Stars in the sky help me… I desire my wife… she is my heir—her future is supposed to be Kasterborous and Gallifrey, not me. What should I do?'
He did not look at her the remainder of the court session, only halfway committing to glances made towards his left. His legs were crossed and his face was flushed with color—he yearned for his wife more than anything and he did not know how to go about it.
Sweet-smelling lilacs found their way to her room the following day, along with a vase of orange lilies and pale yellow pear-flowers. She thought the vase to be the gardener's joke, or him running low on other blooms, when she found in it a single sprig of coriander blossoms. It was amusing, definitely, though part of her wondered if her bouquets ever did have meaning behind them after all.