"Parlez-vous français?"
Narcissa arched a delicate eyebrow. "Naturellement," she replied. Lucius knew she spoke French; most English pureblood families did. It probably stemmed from Norman the Conqueror, when French became the superior language. Of course, it wasn't anymore, but it did help on those shopping trips to Paris. Come to think of it, she didn't think she had ever met a pureblood who couldn't speak French. Most understood Latin as well, as it meant all their mottos made sense. Without Latin, how would anyone know what Toujours pur or Sanctimonia Vincet Semper or even Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus, the ridiculous motto of her old school, meant?
It didn't mean that they spoke French all the time. They couldn't use it as a code, because the people that they would talk about all understood French, so really, being bilingual was simply another way of proving that she was good at everything she did. And since her marriage, she'd found numerous other things she was good at, so why her husband was bringing up her language skills, she wasn't sure.
It wasn't until she realised he was watching her with that look in his eyes, that she realised what he was going to say. "Voulez vous coucher avec moi?" he asked, his voice nonchalant, as though he was asking her to pick out a tie for him.
She giggled, knowing full well that Lucius' average grasp of French meant that he never realised how formal he sounded when he said that. But she loved him for it, and would never dream of telling him. "Why, monsieur," she beamed. "I thought you'd never ask."