Miss Marwick's eyes met his without modesty, and a thrill ran through him. She was defiant, this one. Trying to control the smirk that wished to curl his lips upward, he bowed once more. "Damien Roskin, at your service," he murmured. Her spirit seemed a tangible thing---restrained only by the chains placed upon her by society. He could feel the desire to remove those shackles rising in him. He would show her, if she was amenable, the thrills of life without such restraints.
"I admit to having a rather marked aversion for balls as a whole," he confessed, "though I have enjoyed this particular ball more than I am used to." He paused, then continued slowly. "And you? Is there a particular gentleman you are hoping to avoid? Or perhaps you are awaiting a beau," he suggested. His eyes glinted mischieviously. "In the case of the latter, I do hope I am not inconveniencing you."
His eyes trailed along her exposed skin, lingering at the pale milkiness around her collarbone. In his mind, he could see the crimson vintage of her veins sliding thickly across the unblemished expanse. There was no urgency in the daydream, for he had already had his weekly fix just the previous night, though it had been less than appetizing. Fresh blood was far superior to the stale, cooled stuff he had been used to of late.