{A Bowman Girls Release} Hearth or Heart by Emily Lane

Hearth or Heart by Emily Lane
Series: The Bowman Girls #1
on July 13th, 2026
Genres: Fiction, Adult, Romance, Historical
Available with KU Subscription
Goodreads

After her father dies, Effie Bowman and her eight sisters are left penniless, homeless, and alone. Salvation comes in the form of the new custodian of the estate, Mr Thornaby. But the more she learns of Mr Thornaby, the more she realises he needs her discretion as much as she needs his security.

In her efforts to moderate the wild Mr Thornaby, she recruits the unlikely aid of ton society’s most determined widower, Sir John Callander.

As the season progresses and Effie pulls Sir John deeper into her desperate schemes to moderate Mr Thornaby, both are forced to wonder if Effie is attempting to tame the wrong gentleman.

Exclusive excerpt from Hearth or Heart

Of all the consequences to befall a clutch of daughters belonging to an entailed estate, this one was quite outside the common.

“£20 a month in pin money?!” cried Effie.

“Each.”

Mrs Thornaby, ensconced in a cream morning gown of twilled French silk that seemed to defy her age, smiled most becomingly upon her niece.

“That is just for your frills and affects and whatever other small accouterments you young girls require these days,” said Mrs Thornaby. “Your dresses, gowns, and hats, of course, can be drawn against my son’s account.”

“Ma’am, I could never.”

“Oh, yes, you could,” said Mrs Thornaby. “That boy has too much money.”

Effie’s eyes flashed, and she yanked her gaze down.

Grimacing, Mrs Thornaby said, “So, your mother has told you a little of it, I collect.”

“She has, ma’am,” Effie admitted.

Mrs Thornaby looked her up and down.

“Your mother tells me you are an exceptionally good manager.”

Now the talk of money had faded, Effie’s calm, dark eyes levelled upon Mrs Thornaby once more.

“Yes, ma’am, it’s true.”

“I suppose with eight sisters, borne of a mother of my sister’s temperament, you, as the eldest, should rather be forced into such a role, even if it was not of your disposition.”

A smirk crossed Effie’s features as she declared, “That much is true, to be sure.”

“But men and boys are a different matter indeed.’

Effie”s hands, trying to thread a needle, paused. She set her embroidery box down and took up her cup of tea. 

“I have no brothers.”

“Clearly,” said Mrs Thornaby. “And husbands? What thoughts have you on them?”

“Not so many, ma’am. I can scarcely imagine having one, never mind plural!” 

Mrs Thornaby did not laugh. Instead she set down her teacup with a clatter.

“As you may have heard, my son returned last night from Brighton.” She paused. “My son is… a particular kind of fellow.”

Effie’s brow arched. Having heard—during the small hours of the morning—this particular kind of fellow stumble through the upstairs hallway singing about the roast beef of Great Britain, she was inclined to agree with a great many insinuations that issued from that vague sobriquet. 

“Indeed?”

“He is now, of course, the custodian of your late father’s estate—by some contortion of family lines.”

Society in the northeast of England was sparse. Somehow, Mrs Thornaby’s son had ended up taking title to the entail of her sister’s late husband’s estate. 

“Yes.”

“It is all that is natural, then,” Mrs Thornaby went on. “That my son should marry you, to maintain my sister’s place at Barraton.”

What little of the sisterly rivalry that had been passed on to Effie permitted her to regard this piece of charity with deep suspicion. Her eyes cinched a touch. 

“With respect, ma’am, I fail to see why Mr Thornaby should want to marry me.”

“I do not.”

Blushing, Effie picked up her embroidery box again. “I mean, ma’am, that Mr Thornaby must have a great many… um, admirers. I cannot see that he will mark me with any distinction.”

“He will not, but I shall tell him he is to marry you. Likely, the novelty of it will tickle him, and he will entertain it for a while. Thereafter, it is your duty to… charm him.”

Effie touched her nose. She looked around the cavernous room. 

It was an early, grey morning, but the shiny mahogany and silk furniture, glossy wallpapered walls, and great sash windows shone under the blaze of three gilded hearths. 

“Oh. I see.”

Mrs Thornaby’s eyes followed Effie’s, and she grimaced.

“We are family, Miss Bowman. Now more than we ever were. My son represents Barraton. He is Barraton.”

Effie’s jaw quirked.

“To put things plainly, my dear, it has lately come to my attention that my son is very much in need of the companionship, temperance, and governance that a wife must, to some unions, bring.”

Mrs Thornaby paused.

“Now, am I saying that my son is bereft of the faculties required in choosing or acquiring a wife? I am not. But one cannot but put more faith in one’s own family, especially a family so interconnected.”

Effie bowed her head. “It would be in my best interests, indeed, to… govern Mr Thornaby—as a wife or no.” 

“But as a wife especially,” Mrs Thornaby reiterated.

The man flinched. “Oh. It’s you.”

Rattling her head to shake leaves and splinters from her despondent straw bonnet, Effie said, “Now there is an allegation I cannot throw off.”

“Indeed?” The man closed the final few yards in silence, bringing with him the peculiar, refreshingly cold scent of cedarwood, his eyes fixed on Effie’s hands: one was being licked by the stray, the other held by the dirty boy. “My condolences.”

Following his gaze left and right and taking in her dishevelled, muddied state all the while, Effie was unable to disagree on that head and promptly burst into laughter.

“Oh, sir!” she cried at length. “I declare you have the rightof it, and in more ways than one.”

It was not at once clear if this was the jest in which Effie took it to be. For, though this was a man blessed with vastness in every faculty worthy of notice, conceit and arrogance ranked highest amongst his attainments. 

But as she continued to laugh at herself, his demeanour shifted. His bright grey eyes examined every vanquished shard of leaf and traced every kink in her gown.

Her fussy chuntering as she smoothed and raked herself further punctured his aloof dignity.

“Are you quite finished?” said he, archly.

Effie, deep in the surgery of removing a twig from the lace of her sleeve, did not perceive his tone nor halt her operation. “Not just yet, sir, if you would give me a moment…”

Before the man could reply, the young vagrant deemed his mandated deferential silence elapsed and pressed his case.

“This dog,” he pointed an oratorical finger at a dog whose shifting eyes told the whole story. “Have stolen all me scran!”

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