“Lucian, darling, you’ve been staring at that bookshelf for twenty minutes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to memorize the dust.”

The voice was a sharp, silver bell, echoing off the vaulted ceiling of the Aldridge library. Vivian Lancaster stood in the center of the Persian rug, her silhouette a masterpiece of Madison Avenue chic. She was draped in a champagne-colored silk slip dress that caught the afternoon sun, her blonde hair falling in perfect, engineered waves over her shoulders. She looked like a painting come to life, a vision of the woman he had fought to see again.

Lucian didn’t turn around. He remained by...