A Kiss for Midwinter (The Brothers Sinister) by Courtney Milan Page B

answer.
    “I’m a doctor; it is not my job to look to anyone’s soul, but to see to their physical wellbeing. I told her that she should be using a French letter or one of the new capotes made from vulcanized rubber. Failing that, I suggested that she consider being fitted with a Dutch cap. The expense would be considerable for her, but not compared with the cost of a child.”
    Lydia turned to stare at him. “What are those things?”
    “Prophylactics.”
    He tilted his head to look at her and must have seen the puzzled look on her face.
    “For the prevention of pregnancy and, in the case of the former two, social disease,” he spelled out. “The French letter goes over a man’s penis and prevents the transmission of sperm; the Dutch cap over a woman’s cervix. Neither is perfect, but they’re certainly better than nothing.”
    The images that brought to mind… Lydia could scarcely breathe, imagining a sheath of rubber being fitted over a man’s… Her cheeks flamed. “I am certain that this is not a proper subject of conversation between an unmarried lady and a gentleman.”
    He rolled his eyes again. “Tell me, Miss Charingford. Do I look like an etiquette advisor?”
    “Not in the slightest.”
    “I’m not a virgin. Neither are you. And even if you were, there’s no need for either of us to be missish about the matter. If a woman is old enough to push a ten-pound child through her birth canal, she can hear words like ‘penis’ and ‘cervix.’ These are medical terms, Miss Charingford, not obscenities.”
    He spoke in such a straightforward way, as if the penis and the cervix were parts of the body no more objectionable than fingers or toes, as if enrobing them in rubber were as simple as donning gloves. He didn’t speak of what one would do after that particular glove were put on.
    Lydia licked her lips and refused to look at him. “Have you used any of them?”
    He didn’t laugh at that highly improper question. “French letters, quite regularly. While I was in medical school, I had an arrangement with a widow who missed sexual intercourse, but didn’t want a husband.”
    She couldn’t believe that she’d asked. She couldn’t believe that he’d answered. She really didn’t want to think about the fact that Doctor Grantham was male, in possession of the standard male parts. That made her feel odd inside. Odd, and aware of her own body in a way that made her uncomfortable.
    “French letters dull the sensation somewhat,” he said. “If I were married, I’d ask my wife if she would consider being fitted for a Dutch cap. But that won’t prevent social diseases like gonorrhea and syphilis.” He looked at her directly, as if daring her to become flustered at the words he used.
    “I really…” The protest seemed a formality, something she had to say. “I don’t think that I should be having this conversation with you.”
    She was certain she shouldn’t be. He’d just told her about his illicit arrangement with a willing widow. Men didn’t tell women these things. And yet he hadn’t boasted about the conquest. He’d stated it as a fact, as if sexual intercourse was just another thing that people did, one that had medical implications.
    She blinked and shook her head furiously.
    But his jaw had squared, and he turned to her. “When should I have this conversation with you, Miss Charingford? Do I wait until you’re married and your body is already falling apart with the strain of carrying your seventh child in as many years? Should I wait until a fifteen-year-old girl catches pregnant because she was seduced by an older man?”
    She couldn’t breathe. “Don’t, Grantham. Don’t you dare talk about that.”
    “Why, because you might get angry again?” He set his bag down and turned to her deliberately. “I would rather infuriate you by telling you that sperm causes pregnancy and that there are methods to help prevent its transmission. The truth is a gift, Miss Charingford, and