The first time, Gregory had been a wreck.

The second time was even worse. The memory of the first time had done little to calm his nerves. Just the opposite, in fact. Now that he had a better understanding of what was happening (Lucy had spared him no detail, a pox on her meticulous little soul) every little noise was subject to morbid scrutiny and speculation.

It was a damned good thing men couldn’t have children. Gregory took no shame in admitting that the human race would have died out generations earlier.

Or at the very least, he would not have contributed to the current batch of mischievous little Bridgertons.

But Lucy seemed not to mind childbirth, as long as she could later describe the experience to him in relentless detail.

Whenever she wished.

And so by the third time, Gregory was a little more himself. He still sat outside the door, and he still held his breath when he heard a particularly unpleasant groan, but all in all, he wasn’t wracked with anxiety.

The fourth time he brought a book.

The fifth, just a newspaper. (It did seem to be getting quicker with every child. Convenient, that.)

The sixth child caught him completely unawares. He’d popped out for a quick visit with a friend, and by the time he’d returned, Lucy was sitting up with the babe in her arms, a cheerful and not the least bit tired smile on her face.

Lucy frequently reminded him of his absence, however, so he took great care to be present for the arrival of number seven. Which he was, as long as one did not deduct points for his having abandoned his post outside her door in search of a middle-of-the-night snack.

At seven, Gregory thought they ought to be done. Seven was a perfectly fine number of children, and, as he told Lucy, he could barely recall what she looked like when she wasn’t expecting.

“Well enough for you to make sure I’m expecting again,” Lucy had replied pertly.

He couldn’t very well argue with that, so he’d kissed her on the forehead and gone off to visit Hyacinth, to expound upon the many reasons seven was the ideal number of children. (Hyacinth was not amused.)

But then, sure enough, six months after the seventh, Lucy sheepishly told him that she was expecting another baby.

“No more,” Gregory announced. “We can scarcely afford the ones we already possess.” (This was not true; Lucy’s dowry had been exceedingly generous, and Gregory had discovered that he possessed a shrewd eye for investments.)

But really, eight had to be enough.

Not that he was willing to curtail his nocturnal activities with Lucy, but there were things a man could do—things he probably already should have done, to tell the truth.

And so, since he was convinced that this would be his final child, he decided he might as well see what this was all about, and despite the horrified reaction of the midwife, he remained at Lucy’s side through the birth (at her shoulder, of course.)

“She’s an expert at this,” the doctor said, lifting the sheet to take a peek. “Truly, I’m superfluous at this point.”

Gregory looked at Lucy. She had brought her embroidery.

She shrugged. “It really does get easier every time.”

And sure enough, when the time came, Lucy laid down her work, gave a little grunt, and—

Whoosh!

Gregory blinked as he looked at the squalling infant, all wrinkled and red. “Well, that was much less involved than I’d expected,” he said.

Lucy gave him a peevish expression. “If you’d been present the first time, you would have—ohhhhhhh!”

Gregory snapped back to face her. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy replied, her eyes filling with panic. “But this is not right.”

“Now, now,” the midwife said, “you’re just—”

“I know what I am supposed to feel,” Lucy snapped. “And this is not it.”

The doctor handed the new baby—a girl, Gregory was pleased to learn—to the midwife and returned to Lucy’s side. He laid his hands upon her belly. “Hmmmm.”

“Hmmmm?” Lucy returned. And not with a great deal of patience.

The doctor lifted the sheet and peered below.

“Gah!” Gregory let out, returning to Lucy’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean to see that.”

“What is going on?” Lucy demanded. “What do you—ohhhhhhh!”

Whoosh!

“Good heavens,” the midwife exclaimed. “There are two.”

No, Gregory thought, feeling decidedly queasy, there were nine.

Nine children.

Nine.

It was only one less than ten.

Which possessed two digits. If he did this again, he would be in the double-digits of fatherhood.

“Oh dear Lord,” he whispered.

“Gregory?” Lucy said.

“I need to sit down.”

Lucy smiled wanly. “Well, your mother will be pleased, at the very least.”

He nodded, barely able to think. Nine children. What did one do with nine children?

Love them, he supposed.

He looked at his wife. Her hair was disheveled, her face was puffy, and the bags under her eyes had bypassed lavender and were well on their way to purplish-gray.

He thought she was beautiful.

Love existed, he thought to himself.

And it was grand.

He smiled.

Nine times grand.

Which was very grand, indeed.