A Regency Romance
Author's Notes: Written for the Doctor/Rose ficathon, with the following prompts: 1)the Doctor meeting a previous version of himself, who gives him advice on how to woo/seduce Rose; 2)Regency era, classic English repression and getting over that repression (so, it's actually Gallifreyan repression, so what?); 3) a bad sexual encounter, and making up for that encounter.
Chapter One
Rose stretched languidly across the console. "Where we goin'?" she asked.
"Ooh, someplace random, I think," the Doctor answered without looking up.
"Random. So … could be a paradise planet, or a slave market, or the middle of a volcano."
"Mm hmm. We might meet fire-breathing dragons, or little old ladies with tiny yapping purse dogs. Or worse, double-glazing salesmen. Oh, hang on," he interrupted himself, as the TARDIS came to a rest with a jarring thud. "Hmm. England, 1812. I'd say the little old ladies are a distinct possibility."
Rose moved to the door and opened it. She stepped into the brisk late afternoon air, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass. The Doctor's voice still issued from inside the ship. "Lap dogs, though. Nobody'd thought of special satchels to carry them in just yet."
He joined her outside, still pulling on his long coat as he reached her side. He gazed at the surrounding countryside for a moment, then pointed off in the direction of a clump of trees in the near distance.
"They're playing croquet," he said delightedly. "Very popular game in the Regency period. The Victorians loved it even more. D'you play, Rose?" When she shook her head he continued, "Too bad. Maybe I'll teach you sometime. Mind you, it's boring as hell, but great for socialising. You wouldn't believe the sort of things you can pick up in conversation over a good rousing game of croquet. I once overheard the tiniest hint of gossip that helped thwart a particularly nasty civil war while I was playing croquet with Lord Nelson. Got so interested in that I lost our wager, though," he added ruefully.
"They look straight out of Pride and Prejudice," Rose commented.
"Oh, you've read Jane Austen, then?" he asked, pleased.
She made a face. "Started it a coupla times. Saw the TV series, though. Colin Firth was …" She shivered happily. "Mmm, those tight little breeches or whatever you call 'em."
"Oh, really?"
She gave him a saucy grin. "Jealous?"
"Never."
The clothes in the TARDIS wardrobe were scrupulously sorted according to type, planet, year, and season. Theoretically. In truth, "sorted" basically meant that there were racks and racks of costumes, some neatly labelled and following some sort of chronological order, some thrown over the tops of mirrors and other bits of furniture, and some hung up randomly here and there so that a Pierrot costume from 1920s France was next to a tribal robe from a planet in the Zaranius system.
Rose managed to find what she needed quickly enough, and proceeded to wriggle herself into a high-waisted afternoon dress of cream muslin in a very short period of time.
She heard a couple of muffled complaints from nearby, and picked her way through the maze till she found the Doctor.
"Look at this!" he grumbled. "I wore these before, for years and years. And now they don't fit me anymore." His fingers held the waistband of the dark red velvet breeches well away from his actual waist. "That's the problem with regenerations. Look at this. It's ridiculous. And I seem to be two or three inches shorter than I was," he added, gesturing down at the hems which dangled well below his knees. The shirt was even more ridiculous. In addition to being too big for him, it had question marks embroidered on the collar for some reason.
Rose gave an involuntary snort of laughter before she managed to quickly stifle it. The Doctor paid no attention as he disappeared round the side of another long rack of clothing.
He reappeared in a couple of moments, wearing a neatly fitting pair of tan breeches, a brown pin-striped waistcoat, dark brown tailcoat and brown knee boots. He stopped in front of a mirror to tie his cravat. "Oh, that's much better," he told his reflection approvingly.
As he looked up to admire the overall view, he caught sight of Rose's image reflected behind him in the mirror and his breath caught. She'd picked up a long ribbon of forest-green satin and was trying to tie it around her blonde hair. The tip of her tongue was just visible at the corner of her mouth as she concentrated, and somehow the rather shapeless gown managed to flatter her figure rather than swallow her up. The whole picture made her look adorably childish and yet irresistibly desirable, and the Doctor swallowed hard.
"Here, try this," he suggested nonchalantly, turning to face her. He took the ribbon from her and reached round behind her back, threading it through his fingers. His thumb grazed the side of her breast as he tied the ribbon just underneath her bosom, and Rose shivered slightly at the contact.
"There. Not bad. Bit more, um, historically accurate. You know." The words themselves sounded completely offhand, but his voice had gone noticeably higher.
They made their way back to the console room, arm in arm. Halfway there, they could hear a loud beeping noise, like some sort of system alarm sounding.
"What the hell?" the Doctor exclaimed, and took off at a run.
When Rose caught up with him he was standing over the console gaping at the scanner in frank disbelief.
"What is it, Doctor?"
He didn't hear her. "That's impossible," he breathed. "Just … I don't believe it. Not again. It can't be possible. It just cannot be," he repeated.
"What can't be?"
"This sensor. I set it ages ago, just after the Time War. And it's only ever … no. I don't believe it," he said flatly. "It's got to be a malfunction or something. Because otherwise …"
"Otherwise what?" Rose persisted.
The Doctor looked up at her. "Otherwise there's another TARDIS in the immediate vicinity. And that's impossible."
"You said this was the last one in the universe."
"It is."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
There was an expression of absolute and utter stupefaction on his face. His brown eyes were wide and staring, and his breathing was shallow. He went back to staring at the monitor. Rose walked around the console till she was standing at his side.
"Can you trace it?"
The Doctor nodded. "Yeah. Signal's coming from the direction of that house back there."
"Well, we were goin' there anyway," she pointed out.
The house was further away than it looked. They'd been walking for a good twenty minutes, maybe longer, before they reached the gates. A large brass plate affixed to one of the grey stone pillars bore the legend Wentworth Hall.
Inside the gates the surface changed to loose gravel, and in no time Rose had collected a stone in her shoe. She held onto the Doctor's arm for support while she took off her slipper and dumped out the pebble. With a sigh, she looked ahead at the incredibly long, winding path of the drive.
"How 'bout we cut across the park?" suggested the Doctor. "I don't see any keep off the grass signs, do you?"
She laughed. "Like that ever stopped you."
With a grin, he took her hand and the two of them ran through the grounds, laughing happily.
It was starting to sprinkle a bit by the time they made it to the hall. The Doctor reached for the huge brass knocker on the door and waited. After a moment, a uniformed butler answered the door.
"Hullo," the Doctor said cheerfully. "Is your mistress at home, or possibly the master? We've come to beg shelter from the storm."
The man stared at him blankly. Realising the problem, he started patting his pockets, looking for the psychic paper. He nudged Rose. "Psychic paper," he said under his breath. She produced it from the little reticule strapped to her wrist.
The butler finally let them through the door, and left them standing in a grand entrance hall, saying she would ascertain if the mistress of the house was at home.
"Bit swash," whispered Rose, just to have something to say. "Like someplace a pop star might live."
"Might well do in your time. Just think, we could be standing in Ozzy and Sharon's house, a hundred and forty years before they were ever born."
Rose giggled. "Poor house."
"Well, I did mention lap dogs earlier," said the Doctor irrepressibly.