Elisabeth Fairchild, RT Career Achievement Winner
"A winning mix of wit and humor. Baldwin makes delightful mischief in her debut Regency romp."

From the Publisher
Fiona Hawthorn would like nothing better than to venture out unnoticed. Alas, everywhere she goes, mayhem seems to follow. It isn’t as if she invites trouble, it just seems to find her. Yet, one gentleman refuses to believe the worst. Lord Wesmont, her devastatingly handsome neighbor and childhood friend, scoffs at the notion of a curse. But when Fiona all but offers him her love and he storms away, she is convinced that her bad fortune extends to matters of the heart as well... Scarred by his hellish experiences on the battlefields of Spain, Tyrell, Lord Wesmont, has returned to England a changed man. Angry and brooding, he wants nothing to do with the eligible females his interfering mother insists on foisting upon him. But at a glittering ball, he finds himself reacquainted with the one human being capable of making him smile. Fiona Hawthorn has gone from mischievous imp to bewitching minx. And Wesmont soon falls under the sweet spell of love.

Excerpted from Lady Fiasco (Zebra Regency Romance) by Kathleen Baldwin. Copyright © 2004. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Excerpted from Chapter 1 Coming Home He stood like a smoldering statue, and if she were not his mother he would have strangled her. "Tyrell, for pity sake, won’t you please dance. You’re embarrassing me. Surely one of these young ladies..."Not bloody likely. "Your father would have wanted it this way. He abhorred excessive mourning. You know he did. He would have wanted you to have a proper welcome home. You’ve been gone so long, it’s only right to reintroduce you to the neighborhood. Really Tyrell, I planned this whole party for your sake."He knew exactly why she’d thrown this abominable ball and for what purpose."It’s true." She fanned herself a little harder. "How can you doubt my intentions? I am, after all, your mother. It’s my duty to look after you." Knowing how punishing silence can be, Tyrell said nothing. "Have you no heart?" she sniffled. Heart? No. That useless mechanism stopped working in Spain, on the battlefields of Badajoz to be precise. Music jangled through his ballroom, infuriating him with the sound of frivolous plinking harpsichords and squealing violins. Candles flickered, as dancers stirred up the air bounding across his floor like a flock of mindless sheep. He would rather be trapped in a bat-ridden cave than here. To distract himself from his mother’s prattle he studied Fiona Hawthorn as she made her way through the guests on the other side of the room. She looked nothing like the sobbing young girl who had run after him as he rode away to war. She’d grown into a woman, shapely and undeniably striking. And now, his idiotic neighbors stepped out of her path as if she had the plague. The women backed away clutching their skirts like frightened children in the wake of a specter. Superstitious morons. His mother whispered a plea that lashed across his thoughts. "How can you treat me so ill? All I ask is one small grandson, so I’m not thrown out in the cold should anything happen to you." He remained as immovable as a wax general at Madam Tussaud’s. The dower cottage would serve her adequately. "I simply can’t bear to think of my home entailed to some distant-uncle’s-cousin-or-other, who won’t care two figs for what happens to me." She clutched at his arm. "A baby boy I can dandle on my knee, that’s all I’m asking, an heir. Is that so much?" Yes, too much, much more than he could give. Sons required fathers, preferably with the aforementioned heart intact. He continued to watch Fiona as she moved to the rear of the ballroom, away from the dancers and the gabbing, giggling circles of young women. She sat on a chair swathed in shadow behind a column. Hiding. Tyrell clamped his jaw tighter. "Must you seethe like some sort of caged tiger? Truly, it isn’t good for you. You’ll rupture your spleen." What would she have him do? Upturn the tables? Shove all of her unwanted guests down the stairs and out of his house? Smash that musician’s squeaky fiddle over his white-wigged head? "Our friends came here with the perfectly reasonable expectation that you would honor at least one of their daughters. You simply must dance with one of these young women or I shan’t be able to show my face in society again. We have our name to consider. At the very least you could--" "Very well. One." He marched straight across the ballroom, heedless of the dancers, who moved quickly out of his way while trying to maintain their places in the set. The heels of his shoes reported loudly against the wood floor, but he didn’t slow his pace until he stopped squarely in front of Fiona’s chair behind the column. She sat in a dreamlike pose, swaying to the rhythm of the country-dance. He cleared his throat and waited for her to open her eyes and focus. He continued to wait as her gaze slowly climbed up to his face. She blanched. "Oh dear," she murmured and rose abruptly upsetting her chair. In a tangled string of movements she reached back, caught the chair before it clattered to the floor, curtseyed, and then seemed to loose her breath before she could speak. He forestalled her. "Good evening Elf."

FROM THE PUBLISHER

Lord Wesmont came home from fighting Napoleon a hardened man. Nothing can breathe life back into his cold heart, nothing except, perhaps, the love of an unusual young woman who regularly turns his life upside-down. Can a young lady bound for disaster stumble into love?

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