Version One: Elizabeth appreciated manners and honesty and propriety. But she craved rudeness. She yearned for un-truths. She wanted roguishness. And she got it.
Jack Sparrow was more than what she expected, but at the same time so much less. He had the golden tan and handsome features she had expected. But the dreadlocks and trinkets and oddness were the opposite. She didn't like it. Not like she thought she would.
Somehow the pirate in her mind's eye was dressed in the raiments of high society. High piratanical society, mind you, but high society nonetheless. Elizabeth's pirate had the handsome features and the golden tan, but he also had a black leather coat with gold trimming. He had fine brown hair tied with a ribbon in back, the color white perhaps, but only for ironical purposes. Elizabeth's pirate had hands and neck free from bijouterie. He did not wear knoll, he did not have hands and nails imprinted with years of dirt, he certainly did not sway, and Elizabeth's pirate did not drink rum. Brandy, scotch, wine, yes. But rum, no. But most importantly, Elizabeth's pirate had a big hat, maybe brown, maybe red, with a large feather.
So when Will had bravely run up to herself, her farther and the Commodore—her fiancée—wearing a striking grin, a slight bronze, a red cape, hair fine and wild, left round his shoulders and a great, large hat, she thought that maybe Will Turner was close enough.