"Has it only been twenty minutes?" I mumble, and Percy swats his hand at me.

"You have to be nice too. That road runs both ways."

"Yes, mother," I say, and Monty laughs, this time less at me than with me, and we trade a look that is, shall we say, not hostile. Which is good enough.

It takes Monty an excessively long time to dress. There's the jumper, mostly obscured by a jacket and an overly large coat, then heavy boots and fraying gloves, all topped by an adorably misshapen cap that I like to imagine Percy knit for him. It also takes him half a dozen false starts before he actually manages to reach the street—first he has to come back for his scarf, then to change into thicker socks, but most times the thing he comes back for is one more kiss with Percy.

When Monty finally leaves in earnest—the whole building seems to tip a bit more westward when the door slams behind him—Percy smiles at me and pats the spot on the bed beside him. "You can sit down, if you like. I promise I won't try to cuddle you."

I perch myself on the edge of the bed. I'm assuming he's going to dive face-first into an interrogation on the subject of why exactly I have made my bedraggled appearance on their doorstep begging for shelter. But instead he says, "Thank you for the paper you sent."

I was so prepared to make protestations that my surprise visit to London is not a sign of an impending crisis that I turn a bit too hard into this subject. "Wasn't it fascinating? I mean, it's annoying that he calls it Saint Valentine's Malady the whole bleeding paper, but it's brilliant how many physicians are advocating alternatives to bloodlettings and surgeries. Particularly for a disease like epilepsy where we still don't have much of a real idea where it originates. And his footnote about the unlikeliness of epilepsy having any relation to illicit sexual desires was gratifying—that isn't often acknowledged. But the whole idea of a consistent preventative dose of pharmaceuticals rather than treating in a moment of crisis—preventative rather than prescriptive—for a chronic illness that doesn't manifest every ..." I trail off. I can tell Percy is struggling to follow so many words spouted so quickly and with so much vigor. "Sorry, I'm rambling."

"Don't be sorry. I wish I had something intelligent to offer in return. Maybe when I'm a bit more ..." He waves a hand vaguely to indicate his current invalidity.

"Have you tried anything suggested? He makes a good case for quinine."

"Not yet. We don't have the money right now. But the Royal Academy of Music here in London will be looking for violinists in the fall, and one of the lads in my quartet is a student of Bononcini and said he'd introduce me—I'm hoping something will come of that." He leans back against the headboard as he studies me, legs curling into his chest so that his toes are no longer hanging off the end of the bed. "Are you all right?"

"Me? Yes, of course."

"Because we are very happy to see you, but your arrival seems rather ... unplanned. Which would cause a concerned party to wonder if you had left Edinburgh in some kind of distress."

"It would give cause, wouldn't it?" I hope my casual tone might stall him, but he goes on staring at me, and I sigh, my posture sinking into a very unladylike slouch. "Mr. Doyle—the baker, you know, the one I work for." Percy nods, and I continue with great reluctance. "He has expressed an interest in someday making a proposal of marriage to me."

I expected some fantastic start, the same sort of surprise that struck me when Callum made the actual ask, but Percy's face hardly changes. "How very clinical."

"You don't seem surprised."

"Should I be? Were you?"

"Yes! How did you know?"

"Because of everything you wrote about him! Unmarried gentlemen don't pay young ladies that sort of attention unless they have long-term plans. Though I suppose you Montagues are first-rate at not noticing when someone is smitten with you." He might mean for it to make me laugh, but instead I take a strong interest in picking at the pills of wool on my skirt where my rucksack rubbed. "You don't sound very excited."

Excerpted from The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy by Mackenzi Lee. Copyright © 2018 by Mackenzi Lee. Excerpted by permission of Katherine Tegan Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.