The near compulsive scowl that twists the corner of Lucius' mouth is probably enough to communicate how he feels about playing house with the Other Malfoys-- or being accused of it.

"Believe me," he says, his voice dry, with its own particular edge to it that only developed in the last few years of his early 40s, "that playing house with them is not a choice I freely made." Slowly does it, he rests cane back into a more neutral and walking stick-like position, the end sinking into damp grass as he lifts his chin, regaining something back of gentlemanly conversation as opposed to wolfish wariness. He spends a lot of time fighting the compulsion to withdraw.

Or not fighting it, alternately. "What's wrong with the apocethary?" Hint of a smirk.