Lucius harbours suspicions that he may have had it coming, although this is in such mirror reflection that he can conveniently attribute the blame elsewh-- look, it's complicated.

Sleeve: out of the way. Disposition: unchanged. He sets the coffee aside as well, creaking out of his position so that he might better face her a little when she sits down. Conveniently, he isn't in much of a rush himself. "I suppose it mightn't please you to know that I won," is-- supposed to be humour? Maybe? His tone never makes it very easy to tell.