Since Percy’s idea of him writing, or whether it was his own he was unsure and neither did it matter, Boleyn had been busy considering and drafting his work. It was more a narrative at its current stage than anything. Rhyme was not difficult for him. Regardless of arrogance, he was more than aware that he was talented at writing which was why he had embraced the notion of doing it so readily. Yet he did not want to cloud his vision of what made a decent content with worrying what rhymed with what. In some ways he didn’t especially want to add rhyme, even if he supposed that would be the proper thing to do. It seemed that, since rhyme was to be expected, it made more sense to exclude it from his writing. Then again, George had also considered the possibility that if he did not include rhyme of some sort, then his critics (which he had already envisaged as rusty old men clasping at straws in order to mow down his literary aspirations, since there was bound to be absolutely nothing wrong with his work) would use it against him and say that there was none there because that level of thinking was suitably beyond his consideration, let alone mastering it enough to apply it to his own writing.

All in all, however, it was going rather well. He had already devised the majority of the story, apart from the conclusion, and it was reading well. His own impression of it reading well was evidently the same as others reading it well, and he did not feel the need to consider alternative impressions of it. As such, he was keeping it a much guarded secret which he would not relay to anyone. In fact, Boleyn was quite sure that it was only Henry who had any idea that he was making a keen effort to write something, unless word had spread round that he was jotting things down. It was a rare sight to see him writing, having never had any need to do it before, and he supposed it would be quite noticeable. Indeed, writing had consumed the majority of his free time, and when he was not physically putting something in ink, he was mulling over details and aspects in his mind. Laboriously toiling away day and night, it was perhaps the most effort he had put into anything. It was just a shame that he was beginning to see the tediousness in such activities.

Truthfully, he was beginning to miss his old past times. One would expect that he missed female company the most, yet he was rather missing the company of men more. Not in that sort of sense, since that was a very rare and odd time that he liked to indulge in men’s company of that sort, but he missed gambling and drinking. The absence of the former was the heaviest burden he was suffering from, both in actual money and as a pastime. Whilst he was accustomed to losing occasionally, when he did win it still allowed for him to add a considerable amount more to his own money which had been around out of his father’s pocket. Yet it was a source of fun too, and he was missing the evenings where he could stay till nine or ten in the morning, getting as much money out of people as he could. It was with a begrudging dedication that he had give it up, and his patience was becoming more and more strained on that matter by the day.

Never the less, George still found himself in the library. It was beginning to get later, and the sun would soon set. In usual circumstances, he would be getting dressed into his best clothes and preparing himself with going out to secure female attention. But he had been in the library since very early in the morning. It had been uncommonly quiet, and was deserted as he sat there, reading a book for inspiration for his own. Since he had been there a considerable time, his shoes had found themselves deposited onto the floor beneath the table he was stationed at, abandoned and he having no intention of putting them back on. George had reasoned that nobody looked under tables, and if they did then there were far more complaints that were reasonably to be directed at him than that. However, despite seemingly relaxing, he was still very fatigued as he glanced around the quiet rows of books.

Her first week of court was coming to a close, and Millicent was pleased to say that she wasn't bored yet. There seemed to always be something exciting happening, and she had gotten caught up in the whirl of gossip and lovely people. Her goal for the week had been met; Millicent had made a handful of friends, a child's handful, but it was better than nothing. Among the best of them was Isabel. She had finally found someone else with the kind of intense infatuation with literature that she herself had. But now she missed the solitude she had at her father's house, and sought refuge in the castle library. It's not that she grew tired of all the good conversation that she's been having. Millicent longed for the feel of parchment under her fingers the way men might long for the silk of a woman's skin for the touching.

The deep blue dress she sported was relatively quiet compared to the rest of her wardrobe, so Millicent managed to squeeze through the library doors with little noise. She smoothed down her skirt with her palms absently and scanned the room two times fast. It looked like she had found the right place. She had spent the last hour looking for this place, and smiled at the satisfaction of actually finding it on her own. It seems she had a good sense of direction, despite what other people who had seen her meandering about the grounds might say.

Millicent double took after a third look around, however, and stopped walking toward a bookshelf that looked interesting. There was someone else here, and she had overlooked him at first. The sudden realization of someone else there startled her at first, so she gasped lightly and dove behind the bookshelf she had been headed toward. Immediately, she began chiding herself. The library isn't off limits to everyone but you, Millicent, you ninny. It is just a man...

A man? That sudden registered as her thoughts began to clear, and a forward grin played on her lips as if it were a reflex at the sight of the opposite sex. Millicent pinched the tender underside of her wrist to make it go away, knowing it was rude. She didn't even know if the man could see her, though. No need to take a chance, nor interrupt the fellow. He appeared to be reading, and she knew that she would get rather testy if anyone stopped her in the middle of a good book. Millicent lifted her hand and ran it across the spines of many books, most of which she had never even heard of before, taking small looks at the man between the cracks of their covers. Eventually, she finds something that looks interesting and plucks it from the shelf. But she couldn't help herself anymore; in a few quick, nearly silent strides, Millicent walks behind the man sitting at the table and looks over his shoulder, knowing very well that her breath was hitting his ear.

"Forgive me for bothering you, but pray tell, what is this you're reading here?"

In the natural pauses he took during reading the book, George spared a few glances down at his appearance, and also measuring what his expression was. As someone quite handsome, it pleased him to be aware of what he looked like, and it also allowed him to take a few liberties in is appearance. Whilst he would never be so drastic, he would be more than comfortable if he was reduced to rags where his appearance was concerned. Of course he would hate the rags and was sure people would look at them rather than him. Yet he was also sure that if there was anyone in court that could look good in rags, then it was him. Indeed, he was quite sure that him in rags would look far better than anyone else in finery. At that moment, his attire was good enough. A simple black outfit sufficed well enough for the day, and despite its expense, its intention was not to impress greatly. On his legs were plain black tights of a god quality and in good condition. His shoes, whilst, unknown to him, hardly the nicest smelling thing in the room, were of good quality also and had been deposited in good order onto the floor, though one was lopsided, revealing the inside should one look at it from the front where usually all would be seen was the standard part of the shoe. His hair was in very nice shape as well, despite the occasional leaning of his hand on it.

After a brief span of the room and of his own attire, he commenced reading again, becoming quite oblivious to the rest of the room. Its content was good enough, but what interested him most was that the writing of it was very good indeed even if a little difficult to make out at times. However, he was intelligent enough to appreciate that whoever had spent the time in creating it, or perhaps copying it, had put much effort into it and discovering how it had been written was almost as interesting as what it was actually telling. But he soon became distracted again, though this time it was not natural. On the contrary, he had the distinct impression that someone else was about the room and as he concentrated on that opinion more, he became more than aware that there was a breath hitting his ear. It wasn’t a heavy nor a unpleasant smelling breath either, which perhaps enticed his interest more than anything, his impression that it was a female breath being confirmed when he heard the voice.

Turning his head at the newcomer, he was quite impressed with the appearance. Though hardly smitten with love at first sight (he had seen enough women, even if he was at present very much missing their company), he could tell that he had been joined by a very pretty woman. If it was a plain one then his impression would have been accordingly different, and he would not have been as interested. Allowing a charming smile to compliment his features, he shut the book firmly and passed it in the general direction of the stranger. “You are welcome to read it. I never did bother with the title. I just get straight on with it. I’ve read it before I think, and that past time I allowed a similar ignorance to pass over its name. However, like I said, you are more than welcome to acquaint yourself with it” he said, watching the woman closely.

It was true that there were many women whom he would be wary to speak with. She was far too old to be a mother of a past ‘love’, and so that removed that from his mind, but she was still young enough to be a cousin or a sister. His mind not being naturally suspicious though, he did not think she was there to reprimand him and demand some kind of compensation. Rather, he just expected her to have come there to read a book and had instead found him to be the most interesting thing in the room. It was a natural conclusion to come to after all. “Are you going to sit with me? Only, you will be hard pushed for alternate company” he commented, the charming smile remaining. “I am George Boleyn at any rate. I would not expect you to join me without being firmly of the opinion that I was the right sort to be sitting with. You can rest assured, therefore, that you will not be sitting with a stable boy or a cook.”

He turned to look at her, and though many men had smiled at her, he had a very charming smile. Millicent was surprised to find her heart fluttering. She smiled back in a friendly way, but slowly, as if teasingly tugging the expression onto her face. Millicent tucked her girlishness away in favor of a cooler and more confident air. He had a pleasing face, but she knew better than to coo over someone because they were fair. She thought it was a shame that those with fair personalities were harder to like because of plain or ugly faces. And yet, it was a shame not admire those who were handsome. Which quality was truly better to look upon with fondness, anyway?

“You are welcome to read it. I never did bother with the title. ... However, like I said, you are more than welcome to acquaint yourself with it”

Millicent couldn't keep the delight off of her face. It was futile to hide her subtle glee; she recognized the book as something she had not read before. Eagerly taking the book from his hands, Millicent drags a slender finger across the cover as if it were the cheek of a lover.

"Oh, I haven't read this before," Millicent giggled sweetly, but stopped herself politely. "Do forgive me, but I really do enjoy a nice read. Thank you. ...How did you like this one, did it entertain well?"

She now held two book in her hands; the one given and the one she had plucked from a bookshelf before. With a careful shuffling, she had her own book choice on top of the other, and offered it to her new acquaintance by sliding it onto the table beside him. She tapped the cover once before drawing her hand away. "Why don't we have a book trade? Here is something for you, if you would like to look at it. Perhaps you haven't already read it?"

“Are you going to sit with me? Only, you will be hard pushed for alternate company”

"I believe I shall, thank you," Millicent let her eyes flutter, but it wasn't over-exaggerated. Just a simple little batting to draw attention to her ice blue eyes. The eyes are where the power is, and she liked to play with her own to gain it over others. Not that she was going to seduce this man, she had just met him. But flirting was fun, and she hadn't really had that kind of fun all week. She sits down and puts her new book on the table before her, folding her hands daintily over it.

“I am George Boleyn at any rate. I would not expect you to join me without being firmly of the opinion that I was the right sort to be sitting with. You can rest assured, therefore, that you will not be sitting with a stable boy or a cook.”

"Ah yes, the fact brings much comfort," Millicent laughed delicately, and brushed some auburn hair away from her face. It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Millicent Prowd, and not a scullery maid, for your own comfort."

Naturally, as not to be rude, George collected the book from the table and glanced over the first few pages as if iota gain an impression of the text just by glancing at it. However, he was not at all concerned with reading now that he had company, and of a female and attractive sort at this. His day had been consumed by reading, and now that there was an alternative he was surely going to grasp it firmly. That had been why he had so readily passed over a book in the first place. “Yes. The one I gave you is a very entreating read and I am sure this one will be also” he said, quite dismissively but not with a cold tone. If he was to make an appropriately enjoyable acquaintance, then that would have surely been not the way to go about doing it. As a man who praised himself on his merits of being able to talk to anyone at some sort of level, despite the torrent of rather scandalous happenings attached to his name, he was feeling very comfortable with the situation he had been placed in.

Within a few moments, she was sitting down beside him. Had he noticed some eye flutter? George could not help but think that he had, even if he was not entirely sure. Either way, her eyes had certainly attracted some sort of attention and he was suitably impressed. Of course, he had paid some kind of attention prior to when she had (or at least he thought she had) made sure that they received some kind of impression. Eyes were an odd thing as far as George was concerned. Whilst he had seen many eyes and had been subjected to many compliments on the matter for his own, he had never sat there and thought that he was looking at an awfully ugly pair of eyes of someone else. Some were not as nice as others of course, yet there had never been a pair which had struck him as completely rotten. However, that was neither here nor there in the current situation, since he was more than pleased with hers, as he was with many women.

“I am glad to have made your acquaintance then Millicent Prowd” he answered, laughing slightly himself. “I suspect that you would want to leave should I say that I mistook you for a scullery maid. But I am afraid that coming from me it would not be a very heinous insult. I have had many discussions with scullery maids, and other things besides” he said, a suggestive grin replacing the previously charming smile. Whilst he did not usually leap straight into suggestive comments such as those, he had been rather bored by himself in the library and however that comment was took it would allow for entertainment. Besides, he doubted very much that she would get the meaning he had hinted at, and even if she had it was even more unlikely that she would comment on it as far as he was concerned. It would took a very brave lady to be outraged with a man who had made a perfectly explicit comment which could mean a large variety of things.

Never the less, as he glanced down at the book once more that she had given him (a pretence, since he still had no real intention of actually reading it), the grin still remained firmly in place. It would probably need some sort of explanation, yet he was not prepared to give one until she had commented back to him on the matter. There was no need in apologising or offering some sort of excuse as to why he was making comments which for all he knew had been relayed into her mind as something entirely innocent to say. Indeed, he could have just meant that he enjoyed to help them with washing the floors. The white, flawless skin on his hands seemed to contradict that of course, which only served to help the grin to return in full force.

He was full of pride. It could be seen in the way he carried himself and how he spoke. Some ladies might find this to be unattractive and show their disdain, or keep the dislike to themselves while going through the motions of conversation. But Millicent wasn't like other ladies in many ways; she was not one to judge so quickly. She bit her lip for a moment as she pondered over this man, this George Boleyn. Pride could be a cover for low self-esteem. She would know, from the many years of verbal abuse from her family. Sometimes pride was all one had left. It was too early to assume things, however, and not even her place to do so. After all, as stated before, Millicent isn't one to judge. So she drops the train of thought and smiles pleasantly. She noticed attention had been drawn to her eyes, and allowed a dreamy quality to soften them further. Millicent studied her companion's own eyes, trying to gauge any emotions in them, and just to admire their color. As he responded to her question, she and could barely hide her grin. It seemed Mr. Boleyn cared more for her company than for her books. That suited her just fine.

“I suspect that you would want to leave should I say that I mistook you for a scullery maid. ... I have had many discussions with scullery maids, and other things besides”

Not only could she spot his pride, but good glee, he was a bold one as well! Millicent blinked at him, three quick bats in a row, before cocking her head to the side. The posture she took would suggest that she were going to respond innocently to George's rather forward statement, but the expression growing on her face said otherwise. She watched him looked down to his book with that adorable grin on his face. It reminded her of a little boy who had thought he had just gotten away with something rather naughty. Her lips were soon mirroring it; she could no longer hide it. At first, soft laughter made her shoulders shake as she tried to hold it in politely, but then, she could no longer control that either. Millicent laughed, though clearly not at the fellow. His comment had surprised her in a good way. It was quite clear she had understood the meaning of it. She covered her mouth, still giggling just a bit.

"Well well well, it seems there are some men at court with spines, and as you so charmingly said, 'other things besides'," Millicent cleared her throat quietly, a hand flying to her chest. Mock surprise, even when she had just made a suggestive comment of her own. "Perhaps it is fortunate that I haven't the misfortune of being a lowly maid, or I might not stand a chance."

Millicent gathered herself after that, giving an inconspicuous rub to her soft cheek. It was warm with a blush, a snowy pink on her fair skin. Even after all the things she's seen and done, she still had it in her to blush at a simple little statement. Or perhaps it was just being in the company of such an appealing man, the thrill she got from flirting. Millicent curled up her hand and placed it beside it's twin, folded together on top of the book George had given her. She would definitely look at it later, but she was occupied right now.

"Have you been at court long, Mr. Boleyn? The spirit hasn't been drained out of you yet, I see. I have found that many of the gentlemen here are either too shy or much too tense for my taste in company. I hope it is not forward to say that you are a refreshing difference."

He was pleased, naturally, that she had not been offended. George would have been quite embarrassed for himself if he had had to assure her that he had meant no harm by what he had said, and that it was all meant in jest which was not reflective of his own personal feelings. But some women were such bores when it came to comments. It was as if one ill placed comment would sour their nature and respect indefinitely even if that was a ridiculous thought to have. He was very much relieved not to have came across one of them types, and he had done so many times. However he was also glad that she had not only not been offended by the comment, but had also understood what he had meant by it. The conversation would arguably have been even more awkward if she had supposed that he enjoyed helping out with the cleaning, or that he was responsible for the care of his own clothing, by the comment that had been made. As there were prudish women, there were also those who were very unintelligent and were embarrassing to have to speak with. Never the less, from what he could tell, he had had the fortune of meeting a woman outside of both of those categories.

“You are quite certain that you stand a chance now? I find that to be very courageous of you to say so” he replied, with a small shrug and another boyish grin. She was attractive of course, yet there was no harm in making her belief that he was of the opposite opinion. What would court be like without a bit of innocent banter? However, something told him that she would be quite secure in her own attractiveness and would not really believe that he supposed her to have rather wretched looks. “I could find your dress ill fitting or your hair lacking a certain gleam. For all you know, I could think that your nose is too big and has completely outgrown the grounds of me giving you a chance” he added, still smirking (which, he supposed, probably showed that he was in jest). There was also, of course, the fact that with good looking it was perfectly fine to call them ugly yet with actual ugly women it was entirely unacceptable to even allude to their looks let alone insult them.

It was probably of note that he avoided thanking her for the compliment paid to him. George, on that occasion, did not feel like revelling in the glory of being complimented. If it was a powerful and respected man like his uncle then of course he would be thanking them. Yet there was no need to be doing so on that occasion and it was entirely unnecessary besides. Whilst he was comfortable enough with his powers of distinction to avoid looking surprised rather than being confidently approving of the statement, there was always the risk that when thanking women it looked like a desperate attempt to get anything out of a rare compliment. Compliments were not rare to him of course. In some form or another he was complimented every day and he liked it to be so. There was no shortage of things to compliment him about, and as such he had become rather blasé to it unless it was off of someone important, or someone whom he was surprised at it by.

Never the less, the conversation had soon progressed and there was nothing to tether him to the appreciation if she had wanted it. “I have been here since I was a boy. Perhaps I am better at weathering the conditions of court than they all were” he replied, oddly pleased at his reply. George had expected her to think that he was new and so proving that he was not, and she was still impressed, was another compliment to his pride. There were quite a few men who could be fun however. It was just around women that they pulled up the respectable facade which so frequently made them seem the dullest of the dull. “How long have you been here? I can imagine... perhaps a month? Two at the latest I would say. I am sure that you would have heard of my name before now if longer.”

(OOC: Sorry that I left it so long)