I think all of us suffer from the Mr Darcy Complex.
What appeals to us about Mr Darcy is that for a man who at first appeared to be so grotesquely proud and haughty and destructive and anti-love, he is a pretty impressive romantic hero with all the romantic heroic ideals of a romantic hero: tall, rich, good looking, kind, sensitive, generous, blah blah blah. It gives us girls hope that fags may not be fags, they're Mr Darcy's - good men hiding under a bad cover.
But Mr Darcy is a character, from a book. These fags are people, from real life. And fags are just fags, and will always be fags. I've learned that the hard way.
We all like to imagine our men to be Mr Darcy's, and ourselves as the Elizabeth Bennet who peels away his cold mask, makes him realize his flaws, and be the inspiration for such a character metamorphosis. It's our way of coming to terms with the many failures of love and the opposite sex. It also makes us come to terms with our own faults - our faults in character, in appearance, in situation - because Elizabeth got her new and improved Mr Darcy, so why shouldn't we?
Another great appealing feature of Mr Darcy is his exoticness to the Bennet sisters - they were country girls, unaccustomed to such rich and refined company. It's the reason why we schoolgirls are often attracted to men who are in uni, who have jobs and lives, because they seem so much detatched from the endless chore of school, and so different, so grown-up and exciting and mature compared to the poo-jokes and fart fascinations of the boys in the schoolyard.
We are all fools in love.