George Wickham walked into the drawing room of the house in Ramsgate with a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand and his most charming smile on his face. Instead of the joyful greeting and shy smiles he expected of Georgiana Darcy he found silence and a stern glare.
"Georgiana, sweetheart, whatever is the matter?" he asked, trying to make his smile even more charming.
She looked at him standing there, with the flowers and the smile, and replied, "I finally realize how your eyes deceived me, George, with those tender looks that I mistook for love."
"But I do love you, sweetheart. I want to marry you. See, I brought you flowers to show I care."
She took the bouquet, looked at the flowers, then handed it back. He refused to take it and the bouquet dropped on the floor between them.
"Take away those flowers that you brought me, George." She picked up three small red roses that lay on the table and offered them to him saying, "You should have brought the kind of flowers that you remind me of."
He took the posy and examined the flowers.
"Paper roses?" he asked in disbelief.
"Paper roses," she replied quietly.
"But they are only imitations," he protested.
"Like your imitation love for me," she answered with a cold look.
He seemed unsure how to respond, so she continued, "I thought that you could be the perfect lover. You seemed so full of sweetness at the start. I know better now. I have seen you making up to other women when you did not know I was there. I have learned about your gambling and your debts. You do not care for me. You only want my dowry. You are like these red roses made of paper. There is not any sweetness in your heart."
"Paper roses," he said with a smirk. "Well, you cannot blame a man for trying."
"Yes, I can, George," she answered sternly. "Take your flowers and never return. I know what you are now. I will not be fooled by you again."
He left the real flowers on the floor and took only the three red roses he still held in his hand.
"Paper roses," she heard him say with a humorless laugh as he walked from the room.
"Only imitation," she whispered, settling down on the sofa to indulge in a good cry. "Like your imitation love for me."
AN: For as long as I can remember I have enjoyed the Marie Osmond version of the song "Paper Roses". For the past few years, though, I have thought of Wickham every time it turns up on my car music play list. When I heard it on the drive today this came out. Now I suspect you will think of Wickham when you hear the song as well. :oD