He filched a kiss. “Anywhere you like, my dear; but no one place too long.”
She was thinking rapidly—“duchess of the left hand”;—never his duchess in name—never anything but a morganatic wife to whom no title passed; but what mattered the title, if she got the settlements, and all the rest. And Ferdinand was easy enough to manage now, and would be, so long as the infatuation held him; afterward—at least the settlements and the jewels would remain.
Truly she had won far more than she had sought or even dreamed of—and won it, whether Lotzen got the Crown or exile. The only risk she ran was his dying, and it must be for her to keep him out of danger—away from the Archduke and his friends, where, she knew, death was in leash, straining to be free and at him. Hitherto she had thought her only sure reward lay in Ferdinand as king; in his generosity for a little while; and so she had been very willing to stake him for success. Now she must reverse her method—no more spurring him to seek out the Archduke and dare all on a single fight; instead, prudence, discretion, let others do the open work and face the hazards.
She gave a satisfied little sigh and drew him close.
“May be you doubt it, dear,” she said, “but I can be very docile and contented—and I shall prove it, whether as duchess of the right hand or the left.”
He laughed, and shook his head.
“You, docile and contented! never in this world; nor do I want you so—I prefer you as you are; you may lose me, if you change.”
“Then I’ll not change, dear,” she whispered, and kissed him lightly and arose.
He reached out quickly to draw her back, but she eluded him.
“Nay, nay, my lord,” she smiled; “I must not change, you said.”