Notes: So the storyline I'm building here is kind of referenced in the "Playing With Hair" Christmas fill, in which Theo expresses a bit of insecurity over not being the typical wife a man would seek in this time period. The "problem" (as she sees it) is shown from James' POV here, and then we get the conclusion of it on the fill for day 30. It's not exactly a high-stakes action-packed plotline or anything, but it's just a continuing theme that'll work best when you have all parts – so if things feel a bit vague or like there should be more here, it's because there should, and there will be, on day thirty.

Governor Swann insisted on granting them the use of his London home for the duration of their time in the south of England, and while James had been reluctant to agree – a reservation Theodora shared – for a grand townhouse brimming with servants hardly seemed to lend itself to the kind of privacy and solace they sought on this honeymoon of theirs, he could not pretend he was not happy for it when they arrived. Mostly because it meant large hot baths and lavish meals with delightfully little effort.

Of course, it also lended itself rather nicely to their goal. To schmooze London's high society, acquire further backing and connections for Norne Maritime Protection, and – perhaps most importantly – to show those here that, whatever the rumours drifting out of the Caribbean, he and his wife were of the good sort, and simply could not have acted wrongly in what occurred, nor brought it down upon themselves in any way. The latter goal was rather the trickier one. And Theodora was anxious.

She hid it, of course, even from him. When he asked if she'd been in London before (or, well, after – technically), she murmured the affirmative, along with expressing doubts that she would be able to snag Lion King tickets this time round. James, by that point, confessed himself an expert on discerning when she joked from true levity, and when it came from discomfort, and he knew that to be the product of the latter. And who could blame her? Those gathered in Port Royal had not been particularly kind to her – writing her off as a feral creature, perhaps somewhat soft in the head, who possessed just enough beauty and feminine wiles both to somehow ensnare him along the way. They did not see that he was the lucky one in the equation because they simply did not want to see it.

But her arrival in London was somewhat smoother than the way she'd been catapulted into their lives in Port Royal, she was used to this time now…and they were a team. This would be different. He had faith in that, and in her. Always in her. Not just because she was charming, but because she was clever. Before there was full transparency between the two of them, he'd sometimes been half-tempted to regret that cleverness. Usually for fear of her safety. But now? Now he was free to be thrilled by it at all times.

For she did know how to play a good game.

On the first night they were set to host, she came downstairs bedecked in a gown of soft light floral fabric, contrasting the darker, bolder colours she usually favoured. Her hair was bound up with only a few soft curls left about her neck, white porcelain flowers set amidst the deep red of her hair and a string of pearls about her throat. Beautiful, she looked – beautiful she always was – but not like herself. None here would look at her and guess she was playing role. None here could look at her and possibly think that any of the rumours surrounding her were true. He allowed that fact to ease his sadness at how she clearly thought she had to hide herself to make a good impression.

Save, perhaps, for when it came to the white glove on her right hand, hiding nails that had not yet properly grown back. She hid it where she could – betwixt her skirts, behind her back, beneath anything she held – and when she was asked about it, she grumbled something about looking like Michael Jackson. Given that James had never heard of such a fellow, he could neither support nor reject her conclusion. But he wished he could ease her nerves.

James himself did not consider him adept at people-ing, as Theodora had once referred to it with great distaste. Oftentimes he was perceived as too serious, too dour, too unable to loosen up and give into revelry. He'd just been rather lucky in that all of those things were fine for a man and a soldier to be. But a hysterical once-tortured woman who was either a witch, mad, or both? Those were heavier burdens to bear for his wife. Judging by the pale cast of her face as they waited to make their first impressions on potential backers, she was keenly aware of that.

So James said the only thing he could think to – lowering his head as he heard the butler let the first of the guests in and murmuring to her.

"Ireland, after this."

And it gladdened him to see that it cheered her.

When all had arrived, James was certain none would be able to guess at the doubt and trepidation that had shown on his wife's face just before they'd walked in – at which time she'd straightened, offered one of those brilliantly warm grins of hers, and greeted them as though they were old friends.

She was not quite herself – more subdued even down to her accent – but none were at social events such as these, James himself included. And she was candid, warm, and lovely. That was all Theodora. He soon found that whenever he looked to her to see how she was faring, he had difficulty looking away. Even those who had arrived with a blatant nose to find gossip would share looks with one another as though surprised to find her qualities so abundant.

It had been difficult not to smile his pride at that. To know that not only did others finally see his wife as he did – others who were not pirates, at least – and to see that he had somehow managed to win the hand of such a woman. He couldn't help but think of all the many times his wife had set those piercing eyes of hers upon him before proclaiming herself very lucky, laughing at the thought that she truly had no idea that he was the lucky one.

The door closed behind the last of the guests, Theodora's shoulders dropped and she sighed her relief. James' hand found the small of her back, entirely sharing in the sentiment she'd so silently expressed.

"Nightcap?" she turned a tired smile in his direction, leading him back to the drawing room.

James was not content to allow her to brush off her victory so readily.

"You're a force of nature, do you know that?" he asked as she poured them a drink each.

"Oh, har-har," she snorted fondly.

"Lady Montague made no less than three further appointments to see you while we remain in London," he pointed out, pulling her to sit with him once their glasses were in hand.

"She was kind. And her husband liked you."

"They liked you. They liked us. They're backing us, Lord Montague as good as said so tonight - already. In part because of my very charming wife."

Her eyes lit up at the first part, but at the second she rolled her eyes – albeit kindly – steadfastly refusing to believe that she might be greeted with anything other than scorn in "polite" society. It was a defence strategy, he knew that, so she mightn't care when people – when fools – did dislike her. But it grieved him to see it warping her perception so.

"We found the one crowd in London who find the Irish foundling thing to be a cute novelty rather than an omen of doom, then?"

"Do not discount your victory here, Theodora."

"Is that an order, husband?"

"On this occasion, I'm afraid it is," he teased. "I will not hear it. You were magnificent tonight. I very nearly swooned to witness it."

Another eye roll – but accompanied by a blush. And James was fine with that. He was patient, and he knew their victories would only increase from here. She'd see his point before long. He'd make sure of it.

And until then, he'd marvel at his wife enough for the both of them.