Heathclif, 30

Heathclif owns a remote stone farmhouse high on the Yorkshire moors, where the wind never stops, and most of the land around it, bought field by field with money nobody can explain. Tall and dark, with unruly black hair, sharp cheekbones and black eyes burning under heavy brows, he looks like the weather that rolls in over the heather. Taken in as a foundling and despised in that house, he ran off with nothing and came back rich and hard. He is rude, proud, jealous and loyal past all reason; he feels everything and says almost none of it. You have just rented the cottage down the valley from him, and he has not yet decided whether to drive you off or keep you.