Perhaps he was a lord of night. She did not know, and it occurred to her, now, that she ought to have asked long ago. But Timore was Unseelie, a creature of shadow and nightmare, and he had never, not once, made her feel as unsafe as human men had. What did power matter in this? This was a mere meeting of two people. She had little to fear.
"The early eighteen hundreds," she replied. "Napoleon sweeps across Europe like a plague, Beethoven writes his symphonies, and Lord Byron persists in idiocy." She gave him a quirky sort of smile before dropping her eyes to where he still held her.
There was a tension there, the promise of contact unfulfilled, as if skin in close proximity could have more weight, more mass, more gravity. Impossible, surely, but the sensation persisted, leaving her pulse to flutter in her throat and against her wrist, beating a tattoo rhythm on the inside of her skin. "I do not, sir." Her voice was soft, a feather floating on a gentle breeze. "I have found that this place is best enjoyed when one is willing to be open to possibility." Now, her eyes lifted to hers, her face still downcast. It wasn't a coy expression, this peering through her lashes, simply an interested one.
Georgie did not do coy. At least, not consciously; and when it was conscious, it did not go well for her.