Your devoted wife,
Hyacinth
Postscript—’Tis a good thing I did not seal the letter yet. Lucy just delivered twins. Twins! Good heavens, what on earth are they going to do with two more children? The mind boggles.
“I can’t do this again.”
Lucy Bridgerton had said it before, seven times, to be precise, but this time she really meant it. It wasn’t so much that she had given birth to her ninth child just thirty minutes earlier; she’d grown rather expert at delivering babies and could pop one out with a minimum of discomfort. It was just that . . . Twins! Why hadn’t anyone told her she might be carrying twins? No wonder she’d been so bloody uncomfortable these last few months. She’d had two babies in her belly, clearly engaged in a boxing match.
“Two girls,” her husband was saying. Gregory looked over at her with a grin. “Well, that tips the scales. The boys will be disappointed.”
“The boys will get to own property, vote, and wear trousers,” said Gregory’s sister Hyacinth, who had come to help Lucy toward the end of her confinement. “They shall endure.”
Lucy managed a small chuckle. Trust Hyacinth to get to the heart of the matter.
“Does your husband know you’ve become a crusader?” Gregory asked.
“My husband supports me in all things,” Hyacinth said sweetly, not taking her eyes off the tiny swaddled infant in her arms. “Always.”
“Your husband is a saint,” Gregory remarked, cooing at his own little bundle. “Or perhaps merely insane. Either way, we are eternally grateful to him for marrying you.”
“How do you put up with him?” Hyacinth asked, leaning over Lucy, who was really beginning to feel quite strange. Lucy opened her mouth t
o make a reply, but Gregory beat her to it.
“I make her life an endless delight,” he said. “Full of sweetness and light, and everything perfect and good.”
Hyacinth looked as if she might like to throw up.
“You are simply jealous,” Gregory said to her.
“Of what?” Hyacinth demanded.
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the inquiry as inconsequential. Lucy closed her eyes and smiled, enjoying the interplay. Gregory and Hyacinth were always poking fun at each other—even now that they were both nearing their fortieth birthdays. Still, despite the constant needling—or maybe because of it—there was a rock- solid bond between them. Hyacinth in particular was viciously loyal; it had taken her two years to warm to Lucy after her marriage to Gregory.
Lucy supposed Hyacinth had had some just cause. Lucy had come so close to marrying the wrong man. Well, no, she had married the wrong man, but luckily for her, the combined influence of a viscount and an earl (along with a hefty donation to the Church of England) had made an annulment possible when, technically speaking, it shouldn’t have been.
But that was all water under the bridge. Hyacinth was now a sister to her, as were all of Gregory’s sisters. It had been marvelous marrying into a large family. It was probably why Lucy was so delighted that she and Gregory had ended up having such a large brood themselves.
“Nine,” she said softly, opening her eyes to look at the two bundles that still needed names. And hair. “Who would have thought we’d have nine?”
“My mother will surely say that any sensible person would have stopped at eight,” Gregory said. He smiled down at Lucy. “Would you like to hold one?”
She felt that familiar rush of maternal bliss wash over her. “Oh, yes.”
The midwife helped her into a more upright position, and Lucy held out her arms to hold one of her new daughters. “She’s very pink,” she murmured, nestling the little bundle close to her chest. The tiny girl was screaming like a banshee. It was, Lucy decided, a marvelous sound.
“Pink is an excellent color,” Gregory declared. “My lucky hue.”
“This one has quite a grip,” Hyacinth remarked, turning to the side so that everyone could see her little finger, captured in the baby’s tiny fist.
“They are both very healthy,” the midwife said. “Twins often aren’t, you know.”
Gregory leaned down to kiss Lucy on her forehead. “I am a very fortunate man,” he murmured.
Lucy smiled weakly. She felt fortunate, too, almost miraculously so, but she was simply too tired to say anything other than “I think we must be done. Please tell me we’re done.”
Gregory smiled lovingly. “We’re done,” he declared. “Or at least as done as I can ensure.”