Darcy by Moonlight is a sweet variation with a touch of sensuality (kissing). Available this week on major ebook retailers.

Go to the party, nephew. And if you refuse to find a wife, at least take a fabulous lover.

Darcy rubbed his temples with a gloved hand, grimacing slightly. He was not opposed to finding either a wife or a lover—but what man wished to hear that sort of counsel from his aunt?

Though she had been, and still was, a beauty. And had probably taken her fair share of lovers over the years, though his mind shied away from contemplating it.

He'd left Georgiana in her care, spurred on by a simmering restlessness Richard's mother had noticed. Even Richard had noticed.

But Darcy wanted nothing of fortune seeking, simpering debutantes and their predator-eyed mamas.

He wanted nothing of the elegant, jaded ladies of the ton eager to grace his bed.

No, he wanted something different. Was it too much to ask for wit and beauty combined in a woman who cared nothing for his fortune? A woman who simply wanted the man?

The carriage pulled up to Netherfield, and Darcy exited. Once inside Charles' new home, giving the foyer a cursory glance, he heard the voice of his university friend.

"Darcy!" Charles exclaimed, rushing forward. "I was about to send a search party. We thought for sure highwaymen attacked your carriage."

Darcy endured the hearty clap on his back. "Hardly. The roads were barely passable in the rain. But I see you received my note."

"Yes, which is why we expected you a day ago."

Charles ushered him deeper into the house. Strains of music and the tinkle of laughter and conversation assaulted his ears after days of nothing but the muted clop of hooves through mud and only his thoughts for company.

"You will want to freshen up, of course."

He would rather not attend the ball at all. "Please."

Charles gave him a knowing look. "If you plan on drowning in the tub in order to avoid coming down to the ball, I will come up and fish you out myself."

"I have no intention of avoiding your guests." This time. "I wish to meet your new wife." And her sister. The women who were so often the subject of Charles' blithering prattle in every letter the last several months, that Darcy felt he knew them better than he knew his own sister.

Jane was an angel, the most beautiful woman in Meryton. And her unwed sister, Miss Bennet, dark of hair and eye, equally handsome and a wit. He knew how Darcy secretly enjoyed a wit . . . and wrote verbatim many of the roguish, satirical statements Miss Bennet made. The only way Darcy knew Charles did not exaggerate was because his friend would never say the things attributed to this Miss Bennet.

Jane was so sweet natured, a generous soul who showered all and sundry with her rays of sunshine. And her unwed sister . . . who blazed through a room like a merry flame. And had he already mentioned she was unwed?

Charles' intentions were a little too obvious, even for him.

No, Darcy would resist attempts to wed him off to some pretty little country mouse, though he supposed that might be the ideal sort of wife. A woman he could stick at home to manage the estate and who would not trouble him. Darcy admitted to himself, however, that the painting in his mind he had crafted of Miss Bennet over the months intrigued.

He wanted more than a mouse for a wife.

A spark. A knowing.

A balm to his growing loneliness. He was ready for a change, for a woman of his own. Where was she? The moment the universe delivered him even a hint of her presence, he would seize upon it.

A servant escorted Darcy to his room and indicated an already drawn bath. He soaked in the hot water only long enough to thaw his bones and then dragged himself out, making do with a footman as a valet. He left his at home out of consideration for the roads, the time of the year (the man had a family) and Darcy's desire to be alone for a few days.

Alone with Charles' letters, which he had brought along on impulse for company.

Groomed, dressed, and steeled against the inevitable tiresomeness of crowds and balls, Darcy descended the stairs and entered the ballroom.

Netherfield was a well-appointed house from what he had seen, and the ballroom pleasant. No expense had been spared with the candles, throwing the dancers into sharp focus. He glanced around the room, looking for Charles, when a shrill feminine voice assaulted his ears.

"That must be him! The friend Mr Bingley assured us would balance out the numbers. There are not enough gentlemen to dance, and my Lizzy has had to sit out at least one set."

Darcy stiffened and hoped he would not have to make the acquaintance of the owner of that voice.

"Darcy! There you are. No fishing required, I see."

He turned. Charles wove through the crowd, a pale haired woman on his arm who must be his wife.

Darcy studied her. Lovely, for certain, with golden curls cleverly arranged and a rather simple gown in a becoming shade. A certain grace in her manner appealed, perhaps the lack of arrogance in the tilt of her chin. He felt pleasure on Charles' behalf.

After learning about a wedding so sudden Charles had not sent out invitations, it concerned Darcy. Unfortunately an emergency with an injured tenant, and then business in London, kept him away longer than intended. Though nothing could help it now—if Charles wed a fortune hunter, he would now lie on that bed.

"Darcy, may I introduce my lovely bride? My angel, this is Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. A good fellow, and my closest friend."

She curtsied, met his gaze briefly with a soft smile, then lowered her lashes. "Mr Darcy. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. My husband speaks of you with such affection."

Darcy bowed. "And I have heard nothing but admiration and praise of you, madam."

"Mr Bingley! Mr Bingley, you must introduce us."

Darcy stiffened. His gaze flashed to Charles, whose forehead creased in a brief grimace before smoothing to his customary affable cheer.

A . . . woman barreled through the crowd, two young women at her side. Medium height, round, with the signs of once great beauty on her face. Darcy glanced at Jane, whose expression evidenced long-suffering as well as love.

Good God. Could this be Charles' mother-in-law? No wonder Charles wed so quickly. The woman must have set her claws on his fortune and dug in.

"Mama," Mrs Bingley said, confirming Darcy's guess.

Poor, poor Charles.

The woman fixed Darcy with a predatory stare and gave him what he supposed she thought was a charming smile.

"Dear Mrs Bennet," Charles said. "May I present Mr Darcy?"

Mrs Bennet curtsied. "Mr Darcy, we have heard all about you! You must dance with one of my daughters, for there are not enough gentlemen to go around. Lydia is a most accomplished dancer, and quite easily the loveliest lady present but for my Jane."

The young woman, Lydia perhaps, tittered and cast him a flirtatious glance. Darcy prevented himself, by a hair's width of strength, from taking a step back.

Good God.

"I do not dance," Darcy said. He bowed, then plunged into the crowd.

"That looked like a narrow escape," a feminine voice said.

Darcy stiffened. He had slipped outside of the ballroom to a sort of antechamber where there was seating and refreshments.

He turned his head and spied a woman sitting in a corner, still and quiet, a tall plant all but concealing her in a dark gown.

"I beg your pardon?"

She inclined her head towards the ballroom entrance across the hall. "I was watching you in there. You made Mrs Bennet's acquaintance, I gather. She probably attempted to throw one of her younger daughters at you. Do not concern yourself—she does it to every new gentleman who comes to Meryton. Mr Bingley's marriage to Jane has rather emboldened her."

Her familiar use of Mrs Bingley's name caught his attention. "You are acquainted with Mrs Bingley?"

"Since childhood." She lifted a wine glass and sipped, then stood and glided forward a step. "Forgive me. We have not been introduced." She shrugged, not looking at him, as if to say such conventions did not interest her. "Everyone will assume we have been. My advice, if you would like to evade Mrs Bennet and her daughters?"

His silence was assent enough for her to continue.

"Stick to the edges of the crowd. Her eyesight is poor. She will be less likely to see you." The woman began to walk away.

"Wait," he said. "What is your name?"

She paused, glanced over her shoulder at him with her lips curved in a smile. Darcy sucked in a breath. "Miss Elizabeth."

After she left, Darcy pondered the willful blindness of love. Charles' letters insisted Jane was the most beautiful woman in Meryton. That was a lie. He had just looked into the warm, slightly sardonic, drowning dark eyes of a woman far superior in beauty.

Miss Elizabeth. He would make discreet inquiries.

His discreet inquiries became bolder as frustration set in. The lady disappeared, and Netherfield's ballroom was not so large as to make that possible. Perhaps she wandered the house, but would she be so bold? She might have left, but the evening was still young. He considered asking Charles, and discarded that idea, especially since his friend was set on introducing Darcy to Miss Bennet—who so far had not made an appearance. Thankfully, as he could not imagine the daughter of a woman like Mrs Bennet. Surely Mrs Bingley's beauty and gentle manner had been a fluke. Lighting could not strike twice. Even if it had, he did not desire so . . . quiet natured a wife.

Darcy entered the same room where he had first seen the mysterious gentlewoman, the instinct to hunt her down thrumming through his blood. It was empty of guests, the strains of music proclaiming a new set.

An instinct. A spark. A knowing.

"You are quite a restless one, are you not?"

His ears caught the rustle of satin. Darcy turned and narrowed his eyes as she entered the room. "Why do you say that?"

"I have watched you stalk the ballroom and hallways for an hour. Do you not dance? That would be a better use of your energy." She hid what he guessed was an amused quirk of her lips by taking a sip of wine.

Darcy decided to be blunt. He had a feeling she would appreciate it. "I was looking for you."

"Oh?" She regarded him with cool amusement. "I cannot imagine why."

Taken aback, he gathered his thoughts. Had any other woman been told Darcy was seeking her company, she would have been overjoyed. This one appeared mildly curious. Even now her gaze roamed the room, as if he did not quite hold her attention.

He would see about that.

"I surmise your imagination is quite good," he replied, matching her tone. "Would you care to dance?"

"We have not been properly introduced."

Now he knew she was laughing at him behind her fine dark eyes. "Follow me."

It did not occur to him she would not obey, though perhaps it ought to have. Darcy led the way to Charles, tapping his friend on the shoulder.

"Bingley. Introduce me to the lady."

Charles turned, and his eyes widened. "Dear sister! I see you have met Darcy already."

Dear . . . sister? Darcy knew Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst. This woman was neither. Which could only mean . . .

Darcy turned on his heel and stared at her. She curtsied, mirth in every elegant line of her body.

"Darcy, may I present Miss Bennet, my dear wife's younger sister?"

Impossible.