The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy (Montague Siblings, #2)

by Mackenzi Lee

With a chunk of his finger missing, Callum is the most interesting he has ever been to me.

I blot the stitching—which is much cleaner than I had previously thought; I am far too hard on myself—with

I am as clever and capable and fit for the medical profession as any of the men who have denied me a place in it.

He reaches out, like he might pat my hand, but I pull it off the table, for I am not a dog and therefore need no patting.

My brother, always one for histrionics, has made his fall into poverty as dramatic as possible.

“Surprise!” I say weakly. Then I throw my hands in the air like it’s some sort of celebration

“I know it’s shit,” he says before I have to come up with a compliment that is actually a lie. “But it’s our shit.

And we have a stove, which is grand. And there are significantly fewer cockroaches than there were in the summer. More mice now, but fewer cockroaches.” He does a little victorious gesture with his hands clasped above his head.

“Oh.” It comes out more relieved than I meant it to—I’m far more comfortable discussing epilepsy than fornication.

“Oh my, but Scotland has made you vulgar,” Monty says with delight.

Because I was born a girl but too stubborn to accept the lot that came with my sex.

“Felicity.” Monty sits up and leans forward with his arms around his knees, looking very intently at me. “Apologize for nothing. It has been made clear in many a letter you are always welcome with us. I was anticipating if you ever took us up on that offer, there would be some notice, so you’ll have to put up with our current states of invalidity and concern for said invalidity. But had you written, I swear to God our answer would have been ‘board the first coach south.’”

I look away, right at a pair of trousers tellingly discarded upon the floor, and resign myself to the fact that their affection is unavoidable. Particularly if I’m to be staying with them. “Are you two still nauseatingly obsessed with each other? I thought by now you’d have mellowed.” “We remain completely unbearable. Come here, my most dearest darling love of loves.”

That initial fondness I felt toward him has already begun to rot like an overripe melon.

When stripped of the illegalities and the Biblical condemnation, their attraction is no stranger to me than anyone’s attraction to anyone.

but most times the thing he comes back for is one more kiss with Percy.

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 didn’t realize it would be so hard.” “To study medicine?” Yes, I think, but also to be a woman alone in the world.

I nearly laugh, but then he’ll be pleased with himself, and if I have to see those dimples this early, I might punch him.

“You really think I’d let you do this alone, you goose?” he says as we walk. “It’s a lot to take on by yourself.”

“I’m not saying you’re not capable. But it’s nice sometimes, to have someone to cheer you on.

“Love has made you terribly soft, you know,” I say to him without looking. “I do,” he replies. “Isn’t it grand?”

“I don’t want to be a midwife. Or a nurse.” “You’re so determined to become a lady doctor then,” he says. “No, sir,” I reply, “I’m determined to become a doctor. The matter of my sex I would prefer to be incidental rather than an amendment.”

“Please don’t compliment me on my morals; it makes me feel very obsolete.”

Percy pipes up, “Monty has nice shoulders.” Monty pillows his cheek upon his fist in a swoon. “Do you really think so, darling?”

They strut, hand in hand and tripping over each other in delight. Obnoxiously proud to be in love.

“If you’re going there to, say, as what I hope is an extreme example, murder someone, or set the house on fire, I’d rather not be complicit in that.

“I’m not murdering anyone.” “And yet you’re silent about arson.”

“You look upset.” “And your scarf has a hole in it,” I snap. “Oh, look, we’re all making observations.”

simpering and simple, my two least favorite things for a woman to be, but the two things men like most—to

Perhaps this is how people feel when they talk to someone they fancy—all fluttery and silly and everything tuned to the highest key. I’ve certainly heard Monty’s voice pitch when Percy walked into a room.

For a woman who boasts that she doesn’t give a fig what anyone thinks of her, I certainly have a lot of party-related anxiety.

The room is warm and smells like dust, and just the presence of so many books makes it easier to breathe. It’s remarkable how being around books, even those you’ve never read, can have a calming effect, like walking into a crowded party and finding it full of people you know.

Your beauty is not a tax you are required to pay to take up space in this world,

Returning to a place you once knew as well as your own shadow isn’t the same as never leaving at all.

Then I brace my feet against the casements and rescue myself.

“Oh, please. You tried to take your elephant of a dog on a diligence with you.”

Men are so dramatic.

you should not be frightened of the darkness, but instead be sure that the most frightening thing in it is you.

“Anything can be a compliment if you take it as one.”

“Then let her be ugly,” I reply. “Because you’re not her, and you’re glorious.”

I want to know it all so badly it feels like a bird trapped inside my chest, throwing its body against my rib cage in search of the strong wind that will carry it out into the world. I would tear myself open if it meant setting it free.

Or if not bright, you’re at least confident. And often people can’t tell those two things apart.”

But beyond the physical observations, it’s nothing. Not wholly unpleasant, but neither something I’m anxious to repeat. Just a thing people do. She pulls back, her hand still upon my cheek, and looks at me. “Did that work any sort of magic?” “Not really.” “That’s a shame.” She settles back into our little nest of cloaks, pulling the collar higher around her face. “It worked for me.”

I do not need reasons to exist. I do not need to justify the space I take up in this world.

But I am a wildflower and will stand against the gales. Rare and uncultivated, difficult to find, impossible to forget.

But there he is, swaggering into the room in a way that would have been ridiculous had he not been so good-looking, all scruffed up and mussed like he’s been weeks on the unforgiving sea. Had he not lost that ear, he’d be far too pretty to pass as a convincing sailor. It’s Monty.

Monty points to me. “That one’s got a squint like she reads too many books.”

“Dear sister,” he murmurs, so low only I can hear, “look what you get yourself into when I’m not around.” “Dear brother,” I reply, “I have never been gladder to see you.”

There’s a heavy step from the fo’c’sle behind us, and before I can turn I’m nearly knocked flat as Percy wraps the entirety of his long limbs around me. “Dear Lord, Felicity Montague,” he says, and somehow he holds me even tighter. “I’ve been sick over you.” I don’t say anything, just press my face into his chest and let myself at last be held. Behind me, I feel Monty’s arms wrap around the pair of us, the long-ago threatened Monty-Percy sandwich manifested, and I don’t mind it. It feels safe, and good to have been missed after so long thinking I had no one to return to.