Winterberry Spark: A Silver Foxes of Westminster Novella (The Silver Foxes of Westminster #2.5)(2)

That was all she needed. A tearful smile filled her pale face. She grabbed Gil’s hand and sped off with him down the frozen alley. Twin sensations of lust and grief warred within Gil. His body wanted what it wanted, but his heart throbbed for something else. How did women end up in such pathetic situations? Who had failed this poor woman so badly that she was forced to stand on street corners in the middle of winter, underdressed, selling her body just to keep from freezing? And was he a sinner or a saint to pluck her up and warm her with his needs?

They ducked through the door of a shabby building, filled with what Gil guessed were cheap flats, and up a narrow, stinking stairway.

“I’m at the top,” the woman explained with an apologetic smile.

Gil nodded and followed her, past three landings and several doors. A couple shouted behind one, a baby screamed behind another, and a woman moaned with what could have been pleasure or despair behind yet another. It was the most miserable place Gil had ever been. He wanted to turn and run, but he wanted to help the woman even more.

At last, they reached a tiny door with one corner cut off by the slant of the roof at the top of the stairs. The woman fished out a key, unlocked it, and pulled Gil inside. Her room was no better than a closet, with a narrow bed on one side, a basket piled with dirty blankets in one corner, and a battered suitcase against one wall. The wind howled against the roof above, screaming in through cracks that probably leaked in the rain.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” the woman said, her voice shaking and full of false cheer.

She shut the door, then started on the buttons of Gil’s coat, then his suit jacket. Her hands trembled so much that she had a hard time with it. Gil was speechless with misery as she glanced up at him with apology and sadness in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaked at last, blinking back tears. “M-my hands are too cold to undo all these buttons.”

“It’s all right.” He drew her into his arms, wrapping his coat around her and closing her in his warmth. She was stiff as iron. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut. Slowly, she relaxed, pressing closer to him. Her trembling eased, and she bend her head toward his shoulder. Gil swallowed the lump of horrified sadness in his throat, closing his arms more tightly around her. She rested her hands on his chest, then slowly lowered them to his waist.

She took a breath and reached for his crotch. Gil flinched as she cupped his fading erection, bringing it back to life again. The rush of pleasure her touch brought was eclipsed by a tidal wave of guilt. Every bit of moral sense he had told him to back away, but she unfastened his trousers and slipped both hands into his drawers to tease and stroke him. He let out a strangled sound of pleasured torment.

But it was another sound that caught his attention, causing him to gasp in shock. The plaintive cry of a baby.

“Oh!” The woman pulled her hands out of his trousers and stepped away from the heat of his coat. She turned to the basket in the corner. The blankets inside were writhing. A conflicted frown creased her brow, and she bit her lip. “She’ll be fine,” she said to herself, then turned back to Gil. “I’ll take care of you first.”

She pushed his coat off his shoulders, then made much quicker work of the buttons on his jacket and waistcoat than she’d been able to before. Gil stood frozen in shock as she tugged his shirt out of his loosened trousers and spread her hands along the hot skin of his abdomen. He couldn’t do this. He had to put a stop to things. The baby’s crying grew louder, but it was weaker than any other baby he’d ever heard. The woman’s face pinched in misery as she slid her hands back into his trousers.

“Oh, dear,” she gasped, leaning back and looking down. Wet patches had appeared on her chemise and corset over her breasts. The tangy scent of milk filled the air. “Oh, no.”

The woman stepped back, quickly unhooking her corset and lifting her chemise to expose her ripe breasts. Her nipples were taut and leaking. The sight was so arousing that Gil turned away.

“I’m sorry,” he heard the woman say as she crossed the room to the basket.

He listened as she lifted the crying baby. The crying was quickly muffled. Gil was certain that if he looked back, he’d find the woman nursing, which was even more arousing, not to mention shame-inducing.

He heard the woman sit on her pitiful bed, then gasp. “Oh. I should have asked.”

“Asked what?” Gil kept his back to her.

“Some men like milky breasts. I should have offered them to you first.”

Gil’s stomach turned, and he fought down temptation. He was a man with impulses, but more than that, he was a gentleman. Fury that the poor woman had been forced to offer her milk for a man’s amusement rather than her baby’s nourishment dampened his arousal. He edged around the room, keeping his back to her and refastening his trousers as he went, until he reached the basket. He bent to pick up a worn, old blanket, then handed it over his shoulder to her.

“You can cover yourself up,” he said.

“I—” A shocked silence followed, before the woman took the blanket.

Gil checked gingerly over his shoulder, making sure she’d covered up, then turned fully to her. Her breasts and the baby were fully concealed, and the poor woman stared at the top of the blanket, looking bereft.

“What’s the baby’s name?” he asked.