Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

When Jane Ingleby interrupts a duel in London's Hyde Park, Jocelyn Dudley, Duke of Tresham, gets shot, and Jane, late for work at a milliner's workshop, loses her job. She is angry enough to demand a new job of Jocelyn, and he is angry enough to hire her - as his nurse. Her blue eyes are the sort a man could drown in - if it wasn't for her imprudence. She questions his every move, breaches his secrets and touches his soul and soon the dangerous duke is offering her a different job - as his mistress.

Jane tries to keep it strictly business, an arrangement she is forced to accept in order to conceal a treacherous secret. Surely there is nothing more perilous than being the lover of such a man. Yet as she sees through his devilish facade and glimpses the noble heart within, she knows the greatest jeopardy of all is the rising passion that could tempt her to risk everything. . .

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

The two gentlemen who were in their shirt sleeves despite the brisk chill of a spring morning were about to blow each other's brains out. Or attempt to do so, at least. They were standing on a secluded stretch of dew-wet lawn in London's Hyde Park, facing in different directions, each ignoring the other's existence until the moment should come to take aim at each other and shoot to kill. They were not alone, however, this being a duel of honor in which due process had been followed. A gauntlet had been thrown down, even if not literally, and challenger and challenged had progressed toward this morning's meeting through the medium of their seconds. Both seconds were now present, as were a surgeon and a gathering of interested spectators, all male, who had risen early from their beds--or had not yet gone to them after the revels of the night before--for the sheer exhilaration of watching two of their peers attempt to put a period to each other's existence. One of the duelists, the challenger, the shorter and stockier of the two, was stamping his booted feet, flexing his fingers, and licking his dry lips with a drier tongue. He was almost as pale as his shirt. "Yes, you may ask him,'' he told his second through teeth that he tried in vain to keep from chattering. "Not that he will do it, mind, but one must be decent about such matters.'' His second strode off smartly to confer with his counterpart, who in his turn approached the other duelist. That tall, elegant gentleman showed to advantage without his coat. His white shirt did nothing to hide the powerful muscles of his arms, shoulders, and chest, as his breeches and top boots only accentuated those of his long legs. He was nonchalantly engaged in smoothing the lace of his cuffs over the backs of his long-fingered, wellmanicured hands and holding a desultory conversation with his friends. "Oliver is shaking like a leaf in a strong breeze,'' Baron Pottier observed, his quizzing glass to his eye. "He could not hit the broad side of a cathedral from thirty paces, Tresham.'' "His teeth are clacking like trotting hooves too,'' Viscount Kimble added. "Are you intending to kill him, Tresham?'' young Mr. Maddox asked, drawing to himself a cool, arrogant stare from the duelist. "It is the nature of duels, is it not?'' he answered. "Breakfast at White's afterward, Tresh?'' Viscount Kimble suggested. "And Tattersall's after that? I have my eye on a new matched pair of grays for my curricle.'' "As soon as this little matter has been taken care of.'' But the duelist was distracted both from straightening his cuffs and from his conversation by the approach of his second. "Well, Conan?'' he asked, a touch of impatience in his voice. "Is there good reason for this delay? I must confess myself eager for my breakfast.'' Sir Conan Brougham was accustomed to the man's cool nerve. He had served as his second during three previous duels, after all of which his friend had consumed a hearty breakfast, unharmed and perfectly composed, as if he had been engaged for the morning in nothing more lethal than a brisk ride in the park. "Lord Oliver is prepared to accept a properly worded apology,'' he said. There were jeering noises from their acquaintances. Eyes of such a dark brown that many people mistook their color for black looked back into Sir Conan's without blinking. The narrow, arrogant, handsome face to which they belonged was expressionless except for one slightly elevated eyebrow. "He has challenged me for cuckolding him but is willing to settle for a simple apology?'' he said. "Do I need to spell out my answer, Conan? Did you need to consult me?'' "It might be worth considering,'' his friend advised. "I would not be doing my job conscientiously if I did not thus advise you, Tresham. Oliver is a pretty decent shot.'' "Then let him prove it by killing me,'' the duelist said carelessly. "And let that be within minutes rather than hours, my dear fellow. The spectators are displaying distinct signs of boredom.'' Sir Conan shook his head, shrugged, and strode away to inform Viscount Russell, Lord Oliver's second, that his grace, the Duke of Tresham, did not acknowledge the necessity of any apology to Lord Oliver. There was nothing for it then but to proceed to business. Viscount Russell in particular was anxious to have the meeting over with. Hyde Park, even this secluded corner of it, was a rashly public place in which to hold a duel, illegal as such meetings were. Wimbledon Common, the more usual venue for affairs of honor, would have been safer. But his friend had insisted on the park. The pistols had been loaded and carefully inspected by both seconds. While an expectant hush fell over the spectators, the protagonists each picked up a weapon without looking at the other. They took up their positions back to back and at the agreed-upon signal paced out the regulation number of steps before turning. They took careful aim, each standing sideways in order to offer as narrow a target as possible to the other. They waited for Viscount Russell to drop the white handkerchief he held aloft, the signal to fire. The hush became an almost tangible thing. And then two things happened simultaneously. The handkerchief was released. And someone shrieked. "Stop!'' the voice cried. "Stop!'' It was a female voice, and it came from the direction of a grove of trees some distance away. An indignant buzz arose from the spectators, who had held themselves properly silent and motionless so that the protagonists would have no distraction. The Duke of Tresham, startled and furious, lowered his right arm and turned in order to glare in the direction of the person who had dared interrupt such a meeting at such a moment. Lord Oliver, who had also wavered for a moment, recovered fast, corrected his aim, and fired his pistol. The female screamed. His grace did not go down. Indeed at first it did not appear that he had even been hit. But a bright red spot appeared on his calf, an inch or two above the top of one perfectly polished leather boot, just as if suddenly painted there by an invisible hand with a long-handled brush. "Shame!'' Baron Pottier called from the sidelines. "For shame, Oliver!'' His voice was joined by others, all censuring the man who had taken unfair advantage of his opponent's distraction. Sir Conan began to stride toward the duke while the crimson spot increased in diameter and the surgeon bent over his bag. But his grace held up his left hand in a firm staying gesture before raising his right arm again and taking aim with his pistol. It did not waver. Neither did his face show any expression except intense, narrow-eyed concentration on his target, who had no choice now but to stand and await his death. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from More than a Mistress by Mary Balogh All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

When Jane Ingleby tries to stop a duel, Jocelyn Dudley, Duke of Tresham, is wounded. So it's surprising that she ends up employed as his nurseDand ultimately his mistress as well. But as their relationship blossoms, Jocelyn commits the unpardonable sin of falling in love. In this refreshingly unconventional romance, which boasts an outspoken, memorable heroine, the author again pushes the edges of the genre. Her fans will be waiting. Balogh (One Night for Love) is a well-respected writer of historical romance who lives in Canada. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

When his duel is interrupted by the shriek of a maidservant, Jocelyn Dudley, duke of Tresham, is shot in the leg. As punishment for her disruptive outburst, Jane Ingleby is forced to nurse the ill-tempered Tresham back to health. But impudent and strong-willed Jane is not what she claims. And after making her his mistress-and then falling in love-Dudley learns that Jane is really a missing Cornish heiress, a murderess and thief, and the talk of the town. Rosalyn Landor gives a winning performance, bringing her rich, sonorous voice to the book's aristocratic, Regency-era characters and providing narration that is crisp, well paced, and highly entertaining. Landor produces a host of distinct and believable voices-including a nasally cockney accent for the lower classes-for the many characters that populate Balogh's bestselling romance. A Piatkus Books paperback. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

Best-selling romance author Balogh makes her hardcover debut with this luscious Regency-era delight. Jane startles the Duke of Tresham during a duel, distracting him so that he is shot in the leg. In an attempt to punish the uppity servant girl, the duke insists that she work for him as his nurse for three weeks. She's not at all what he expected, and she is the only one in his life who dares to stand up to him, but she tries to melt into the woodwork when visitors speculate about a Cornish scandal involving the young Lady Sarah Illingsworth, who is rumored to have robbed her guardian's home and slain his heir. Meanwhile, Jane and the duke discover some common ground, and when her time is up, she has three choices: she can make her own way in the world, accept the duke's help in launching a singing career, or become his mistress. Balogh will delight fans and new readers alike with her memorable characters and fast-paced, well-constructed plot. --Diana Tixier Herald

Kirkus Book Review

The dashing Duke of Tresham wonders why he's so attracted to Jane Ingleby, the serving wench who nurses him back to health after a duel—until he figures out that her ladylike manner and accomplishments are the first clue to her real identity. Scandal is nothing new to the handsome Duke, nor are duels. But his latest opponent had the effrontery actually to shoot Tresham in the leg—whereupon Jane happened upon the scene and let out a shriek that momentarily distracted all parties. Nonetheless, Tresham stood his ground and gallantly fired into the air. No matter that he deliberately missed: his brief affair with his opponent's wife isn't worth killing anyone over. Still, the bullet in his calf must be removed, and Tresham must lie abed for at least three weeks. Jane is immediately pressed into service and put at his lordship's beck and call, which beats working as a milliner's assistant. Tresham has no way of knowing that she's an earl's daughter on the run from scheming relatives who control her considerable inheritance, or that her dead father’s wicked brother had encouraged an unattractive and unsuitable young buck to pursue her—and attempt to ravish her—or that Jane whacked him with a thick book, knocked him unconscious, and is now under suspicion of murder (even though the young buck in question is very much alive—just humiliated and in hiding). But by the time the Bow Street Runners catch up with her and drag her back to the family estate in Cornwall, the Duke has caught on. He leaves his beloved London to rescue his lady fair—who's become much more than a mistress in the interim, of course. A pleasant and agreeably sensual Regency romp, although nothing out of the ordinary.. . . Benedict, Helen THE SAILOR’S WIFE Zoland (224 pp.) $24.00 Oct. 2000 ISBN: 1-58195-024-1 A schematic third novel from Benedict ( A World Like This , 1990; Bad Angel , 1995) uses a young woman's learning curve in love and life as a clumsy forum for a debate on freedom versus duty. When 18-year-old Joyce Pearlman meets Nikos, a Greek sailor, in a Miami supermarket in the early 1970s, she's aimless, thinks her parents uncaring, and is ready for the change and love Nikos offers. But Nikos, as handsome as any Greek god, is a traditional man who expects his wife to obey both him and his mother. Once married, he takes Joyce home to the small island of Ifestia, where she lives with Mom and Dad while Nikos sails the seven seas. Mother-in-law Dimitra, a tough old bird who has survived countless wars (her biography conveniently leads to a reprise of recent Greek history), is determined that Joyce, though an American, will make Nikos the wife he deserves. She beats Joyce, makes her do the roughest chores, and keeps her busy working the family's small hardscrabble farm. Initially, Joyce appreciates the closeness her new family offers—she understands that Nikos' parents do love her—and accepts the traditional limits on women's freedom. But when she meets Alex, an educated young Englishman, she begins to question these restrictions.The two meet secretly, and Joyce is again smitten—whereupon the boorish Nikos suddenly returns. Joyce, who has kept her Jewish faith a secret, now finds herself overwhelmed by the flood of other secrets she's keeping. When an English girl tells her that “if you have to hide so much from the people you love, you can never be free,” and when further revelations come out on all sides, Joyce realizes she’s got to make a new life for herself. If only Joyce had remembered to beware of Greeks bearing gifts. As is, she's stuck in a novel with a creaky plot, thin characters, and old arguments.