It didn't matter. None of it mattered because they both knew.

"I can't do it without you," he blurted out. Bloody hell, he went an hour without speaking and this was the first thing he said? "I mean, I can, because I would have to, but it'll be awful, and honestly, I won't do such a good job. I'm a good father, but only because you are such a good mother."

If she died . . .

He shut his eyes tightly, trying to banish the thought. He'd been trying so hard to keep those three words from his mind.

Three words. "Three words" was supposed to mean I love you. Not- He took a deep, shuddering breath. He had to stop thinking this way.

The window had been cracked open to allow a slight breeze, and Gregory heard a joyful shriek from outside. One of his children-one of the boys from the sound of it. It was sunny, and he imagined they were playing some sort of racing game on the lawn.

Lucy loved to watch them run about outside. She loved to run with them, too, even when she was so pregnant that she moved like a duck.

"Lucy," he whispered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "Don't leave me. Please don't leave me.

"They need you more," he choked out, shifting his position so that he could hold her hand in both of his. "The children. They need you more. I know you know that. You would never say it, but you know it. And I need you. I think you know that, too."

But she didn't reply. She didn't move.

But she breathed. At least, thank God, she breathed.

"Father?"

Gregory started at the voice of his eldest child, and he quickly turned away, desperate for a moment to compose himself.

"I went to see the babies," Katharine said as she entered the room. "Aunt Hyacinth said I could."

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"They're very sweet," Katharine said. "The babies, I mean. Not Aunt Hyacinth."

To his utter shock, Gregory felt himself smile. "No," he said, "no one would call Aunt Hyacinth sweet."

"But I do love her," Katharine said quickly.

"I know," he replied, finally turning to look at her. Ever loyal, his Katharine was. "I do, too."

Katharine took a few steps forward, pausing near the foot of the bed. "Why is Mama still sleeping?"

He swallowed. "Well, she's very tired, pet. It takes a great deal of energy to have a baby. Double for two."

Katharine nodded solemnly, but he wasn't sure if she believed him. She was looking at her mother with a furrowed brow-not quite concerned, but very, very curious. "She's pale," she finally said.

"Do you think so?" Gregory responded.

"She's white as a sheet."

His opinion precisely, but he was trying not to sound worried, so he merely said, "Perhaps a little more pale than usual."

Katharine regarded him for a moment, then took a seat in the chair next to him. She sat straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and Gregory could not help marveling at the miracle of her. Almost twelve years ago Katharine Hazel Bridgerton had entered this world, and he had become a father. It was, he had realized the instant she had been put into his arms, his one true vocation. He was a younger son; he was not going to hold a title, and he was not suited for the military or the clergy. His place in life was to be a gentleman farmer.

And a father.

When he'd looked down at baby Katharine, her eyes still that dark baby gray that all of his children had had when they were tiny, he knew. Why he was here, what he was meant for . . . that was when he knew. He existed to shepherd this miraculous little creature to adulthood, to protect her and keep her well.

He adored all of his children, but he would always have a special bond with Katharine, because she was the one who had taught him who he was meant to be.

"The others want to see her," she said. She was looking down, watching her right foot as she kicked it back and forth.

"She still needs her rest, pet."

"I know."

Gregory waited for more. She wasn't saying what she was really thinking. He had a feeling that it was Katharine who wanted to see her mother. She wanted to sit on the side of the bed and laugh and giggle and then explain every last nuance of the nature walk she'd undertaken with her governess.

The others-the littler ones-were probably oblivious.

But Katharine had always been incredibly close to Lucy. They were like two peas in a pod. They looked nothing alike; Katharine was remarkably like her namesake, Gregory's sister-in-law, the current Viscountess Bridgerton. It made absolutely no sense, as theirs was not a blood connection, but both Katharines had the same dark hair and oval face. The eyes were not the same color, but the shape was identical.

On the inside, however, Katharine-his Katharine-was just like Lucy. She craved order. She needed to see the pattern in things. If she were able to tell her mother about yesterday's nature walk, she would have started with which flowers they'd seen. She would not have remembered all of them, but she would definitely have known how many there had been of each color. And Gregory would not be surprised if the governess came to him later and said that Katharine had insisted they go for an extra mile so that the "pinks" caught up with the "yellows."

Fairness in all things, that was his Katharine.

"Mimsy says the babies are to be named after Aunt Eloise and Aunt Francesca," Katharine said, after kicking her foot back and forth thirty-two times.

(He'd counted. Gregory could not believe he'd counted. He was growing more like Lucy every day.) "As usual," he replied, "Mimsy is correct." Mimsy was the children's nanny and nurse, and a candidate for sainthood if he'd ever met one.

"She did not know what their middle names might be."

Gregory frowned. "I don't think we got 'round to deciding upon that."

Katharine looked at him with an unsettlingly direct gaze. "Before Mama needed her nap?"

"Er, yes," Gregory replied, his gaze sliding from hers. He was not proud that he'd looked away, but it was his only choice if he wanted to keep from crying in front of his child.

"I think one of them ought to be named Hyacinth," Katharine announced.

He nodded. "Eloise Hyacinth or Francesca Hyacinth?"

Katharine's lips pressed together in thought, then she said, rather firmly, "Francesca Hyacinth. It has a lovely ring to it. Although . . ."

Gregory waited for her to finish her thought, and when she did not he prompted, "Although . . . ?"

"It is a little flowery."

"I'm not certain how one can avoid that with a name like Hyacinth."

"True," Katharine said thoughtfully, "but what if she does not turn out to be sweet and delicate?"

"Like your Aunt Hyacinth?" he murmured. Some things really did beg to be said.

"She is rather fierce," Katharine said, without an ounce of sarcasm.

"Fierce or fearsome?"

"Oh, only fierce. Aunt Hyacinth is not at all fearsome."

"Don't tell her that."

Katharine blinked with incomprehension. "You think she wants to be fearsome?"

"And fierce."

"How odd," she murmured. Then she looked up with especially bright eyes. "I think Aunt Hyacinth is going to love having a baby named after her."

Gregory felt himself smile. A real one, not something conjured to make his child feel safe. "Yes," he said quietly, "she will."

"She probably thought she wasn't going to get one," Katharine continued, "since you and Mama were going in order. We all knew it would be Eloise for a girl."

"And who would have expected twins?"

"Even so," Katharine said, "there is Aunt Francesca to consider. Mama would have had to have had triplets for one to be named after Aunt Hyacinth."

Triplets. Gregory was not a Catholic, but it was difficult to suppress the urge to cross himself.

"And they would have all had to have been girls," Katharine added, "which does seem to be a mathematical improbability."

"Indeed," he murmured.

She smiled. And he smiled. And they held hands.

"I was thinking . . ." Katharine began.

"Yes, pet?"

"If Francesca is to be Francesca Hyacinth, then Eloise ought to be Eloise Lucy. Because Mama is the very best of mothers."

Gregory fought against the lump rising in his throat. "Yes," he said hoarsely, "she is."

"I think Mama would like that," Katharine said. "Don't you?"

Somehow, he managed to nod. "She would probably say that we should name the baby for someone else. She's quite generous that way."

"I know. That's why we must do it while she is still asleep. Before she has a chance to argue. Because she will, you know."

Gregory chuckled.

"She'll say we shouldn't have done it," Katharine said, "but secretly she will be delighted."

Gregory swallowed another lump in his throat, but this one, thankfully, was born of paternal love. "I think you're right."

Katharine beamed.

He ruffled her hair. Soon she'd be too old for such affections; she'd tell him not to muss her coiffure. But for now, he was taking all the hair ruffling he could get. He smiled down at her. "How do you know your mama so well?"

She looked up at him with an indulgent expression. They had had this conversation before. "Because I'm exactly like her."

"Exactly," he agreed. They held hands for a few more moments until something occurred to him. "Lucy or Lucinda?"

"Oh, Lucy," Katharine said, knowing instantly what he was talking about. "She's not really a Lucinda."

Gregory sighed and looked over at his wife, still sleeping in her bed. "No," he said quietly, "she's not." He felt his daughter's hand slip into his, small and warm.

"La la la Lucy," Katharine said, and he could hear her quiet smile in her voice.

"La la la Lucy," he repeated. And amazingly, he heard a smile in his own voice, too.

A few hours later Dr. Jarvis returned, tired and rumpled after delivering another baby down in the village. Gregory knew the doctor well; Peter Jarvis had been fresh from his studies when Gregory and Lucy had decided to take up residence near Winkfield, and he had served as the family doctor ever since. He and Gregory were of a similar age, and they had shared many a supper together over the years. Mrs. Jarvis, too, was a good friend of Lucy's, and their children had played together often.

But in all their years of friendship, Gregory had never seen such an expression on Peter's face. His lips were pinched at the corners, and there were none of the usual pleasantries before he examined Lucy.

Hyacinth was there, too, having insisted that Lucy needed the support of another woman in the room. "As if either of you could possibly understand the rigors of childbirth," she'd said, with some disdain.

Gregory hadn't said a word. He'd just stepped aside to allow his sister inside. There was something comforting in her fierce presence. Or maybe inspiring. Hyacinth was such a force; one almost believed she could will Lucy to heal herself.

They both stood back as the doctor took Lucy's pulse and listened to her heart. And then, to Gregory's complete shock, Peter grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and began to shake.

"What are you doing?" Gregory cried, leaping forward to intervene.

"Waking her up," Peter said resolutely.

"But doesn't she need her rest?"

"She needs to wake up more."

"But-" Gregory didn't know just what he was protesting, and the truth was, it didn't matter, because when Peter cut him off, it was to say: "For God's sake, Bridgerton, we need to know that she can wake up." He shook her again, and this time, he said loudly, "Lady Lucinda! Lady Lucinda!"

"She's not a Lucinda," Gregory heard himself say, and then he stepped forward and called out, "Lucy? Lucy?"

She shifted position, mumbling something in her sleep.

Gregory looked sharply over at Peter, every question in the world hanging in his eyes.

"See if you can get her to answer you," Peter said.

"Let me try," Hyacinth said forcefully. Gregory watched as she leaned down and said something into Lucy's ear.

"What are you saying?" he asked.