"Not a fan of poetry, then?" he gave a slight smirk. Early eighteen hundreds. Well, that helped a bit. It gave detail and shape to some of the vague guesses that had been forming in his head about her. Her manner, her speech, the strict adherence to social etiquettes that were of a time long since past. It shed some light as to the possible origins of that sadness he'd caught. She was living in a time period which was... unkind, to put lightly, to women.
In those days human's lives were far more brief. They died of plagues, illnesses that swept the land; on battlefields, during childbirth. It was a harsher time. A busier time, for him.
He had a moment of wondering at whether or not she would seek to return to her eighteen hundreds, once the gala was over. But it was not the time nor the place for him to ask. It would have cast a dread to the atmosphere, and he was enjoying the way she was beginning to soften, to become open to possibility, as she'd put it.
So instead he lifted his hand to brush a few errant strands of hair from her face, fingertips barely brushing her cheekbones and jawline as he went. "There are many possibilities to be had here, that much is true." His voice dropped a bit, a richer, more intimate hum to it. "Every desire is welcome, every curiosity meant to be sated." And he very much wanted to figure out where her own yearnings were.
"I want to kiss you, Miss Holmwood," he confessed softly, his gaze drifting to her mouth, then back up to her eyes. His fingertips went back to her wrist, light little strokes and touches. He remained still, awaiting her response. It was forward of him to say such a thing, particularly to a woman of her time period, he realized. But he would not advance without her permission, nor would he push beyond what she was comfortable with.