This type is far more common in contemporary romances than in literature of the nineteenth century.
The nineteenth century saw the creation of the jaded romantic, non-pragmatic hero due in no small part to Gothic literature--discussed in Persuadable's Chapter 11 post--and Lord Byron, often considered the creator of the angsty romantic anti-hero. Persuasion, which centers around 1814, references Byron although most of his works were published later. Byron in turn heavily influenced romantic poets from Wordsworth to Coleridge, many of whom seemed to suffer from dark tangled locks and early deaths. I
obtained the drawing of Keats (ill, near death) when I was on a study
abroad program in London as an undergraduate. At the same time, I viewed
(but was less impressed by) the overwrought statue of Shelley by Edward
Onslow Ford (1892) . 
Gothicism, Byron, and the Romantic poets together created a zeitgeist that resulted, amongst other things, in Mr. Rochester of Jane Eyre and Dr. Frankenstein (of Frankenstein), haunted heroes whose dark tangled locks tumble across troubled brows. The jaded romantic hero is full of feeling and angst but is rarely objective or pragmatic. Austen, falling directly between the Classicist era and the Romantic Movement, was not particularly enamored of the jaded romantic hero (although she would have recognized the type). Instead, she endowed her heroes and heroines with strong pragmatic natures, reserving impulsive angstiness for her villains and victims.
Charlotte Bronte, a devotee of a Romantic era (and a favorite author of mine), poured scorn on Austen's supposed lack of passion, but many modern romances--some set in the Regency era--combine Bronte and Austen. The heroes (and heroines) are troubled, but they are also often down-to-earth and practical. Modern writers have recognized what Bronte failed to value: Austen's pragmatism is a perceptive and forward-looking acknowledgment of the precarious negotiations that can take place in relationships:
[Penelope Clay and Will Elliot meet at Bath's Abbey.]
They sat together and contemplated the warm light on the near-white stone.
“You know I don’t want you to marry Sir Walter,” Will said finally.
“For fear I will give him a son.”
Will didn’t reply immediately. She kept her eyes on the pew back before her.
He said, “I would hate to lose the baronetcy at the eleventh hour.”
“You never wanted it before.”
“People change—well, not really. But our desires do. We become more ourselves. Or less. Or something. More of what we’ve been heading towards.”
“You’ve been heading towards a baronetcy?”
“Towards stability—money, land.” He paused. “A helpmate.”
“Helpmate?”
“I need company. I’m too old for frivolity. Too young for dourness.”
She supposed his late wife had been frivolous. She never thought of Anne as dour but likely Will was referring to Elizabeth.
She questioned the unspoken elimination: “What about Anne?”
“She discovered that I married for money.”
“Everyone knows that you married for money.”
“But I kept it. That’s the real sin, you know. Sir Walter can be pompous and proud and his insolvency embarrasses Anne, but at least he isn’t stingy. That would truly mortify her. Me, I kept my wife’s money, invested it—for her sake as well as my own—and held onto it when she died. I didn’t fritter it away on her friends or invest in useless legal actions. It’s positively . . . bourgeois.”
“It’s intelligent,” Penelope said.
“See, I knew you understood me. I think we could get on well together. I would give you a home.”
She started. She’d anticipated seduction, not anything as long-range as the suggestion that she become Will’s mistress.
“And I’d support your sons.”
She nodded. A mistress was not as secure a position as a wife, but a clever mistress bartered for certain benefits. Though Penelope wasn’t much of a mother, she was enough of one to get her sons situated where they could make connections and obtain good employment.
She sighed, aware that Will watched her.
She said, “How long would our affair last?”
“I don’t know. I never think that far ahead. Long enough for me to enjoy you.”
Penelope flushed and stood. “I should get back.”
He also rose, his hand at her elbow.
“You’re supposed to be on the road to Thornberry,” she said with only slight asperity.
“I’ll walk you out to Stall Street.”
As they left the Abbey, Penelope resisted the impulse to lean into the hand that still hovered at her elbow. Will might not be the best solution to her future, but he was a kind of solution, and she wanted to be done with scheming.
She said abruptly, “And if I took your offer?”
He halted, turned her towards him by the shoulders. “You’d come with me. Right now. All the way to London.”
“We would miss the card party tomorrow.”
“We will both become personae non grata with the Elliots . . . should you accept,” Will said. “Personally, I can bear to give up their company. Can you?”
She was beginning to believe nothing would please her more.
