Charles Bingley is not a man in love, not even mildy, never mind violently.
If he were he would never just take the word of a friend, however much he admired him, as gospel on probably the most controversial topic known to man. He is therefore, a wimp. Jane Austen created him, but she gave no choice as to his character; that she decided for us. It's 1813, so we hardly expect Bingley to be flinging Jane to down on a four-poster bed and sticking her to it with fifty shades of Elastoplast or giving her a good whopping with his riding crop. He needn't even be a hairy-chested type who drinks and swears to be manly. He's obviously a macho man in the way he blasts partridges and pheasants straight into the cooking pots, with his Robert Wogdon sporting gun, and it's good that he's a gent who feeds her white soup and gives a sick lady his last fuel log for her comfort, and lends her his carriage to go home in. Those are the acts of a gentleman.
But, in terms of romance, he's a wimp. Told what to do by his friend and bossed about by his sisters, he takes off from someone he later declares long-term love for and doesn't bother to return for eight months. It would have served him right if Jane had met and married an admiral who glimpsed her through his telescope whilst she was doing a spot of sea-bathing at Ramsgate. Nice chap, Bingley, yes. Wimp....decidedly. (-: