It's truly something to be seen. It lights a soul on fire, to have the world fall away so that the potential in one's gut can be pulled out of the imperfect vessel of one's station in the world. It's thrilling to serve someone who constantly wants--demands-one to be better than one was yesterday.

But this portion of his Commodore's expectations feels utterly impossible.

Most of the skills needed to be a good sailor could be learned and practiced until they were instinct. Many of the skills needed to be a capable leader of men could be as well. The stumbling point was entering the realm of his betters, where the rules were inscrutable and the enemy (inasmuch as there was one; Horatio was fairly certain the brief press of the woman's fingers against his arm had sunk his heart far faster than the sight of a French ship closing in fast from the horizon) could rarely be outwitted by a simple ruse de guerre.

And the dancing. Uncoordinated land-limbs with a tin ear and no training surely couldn't be expected to dance without being far more unacceptably rude than attempting to wrangle his way out of the invitation.

"Sir."

It wouldn't do to actually say any of that, of course. But James is a man who sees him. It's not a hopeless argument to pour into a syllable.