Thither comes a dashing gentleman

When wind whips my hair and blows it across my face dramatically, 
I pretend to be in a Jane Austen novel.
For, what! I cry to the sky through my hoarse throat,
thither comes a dashing gentleman!

(the sky is grey like murky tea.)
Dear, dear me, I am faint! I sweep my hand to my forehead and stumble across the ground.
Are you alright? (I switch to being a handsome young man in a grey waistcoat and a concerned expression.)
Just a little… c-cold, I stammer helplessly.

He regards me and invites me on his horse,
(I am quite faint at this point, and my skin is turning blue.)
and rides home with me draped in his wool coat and clutching tight to his horse (and most certainly not him.)
I am propped in bed with warm tea, the colour of the sky, and he waits anxiously in the parlor, as when he carried me in I looked quite cold and he is wondering how I am doing. 
I blush when the maid suggests something very inappropriate and unreasonable, and hide my face when he asks to enter. 

Certainly not! I am quite unpresentable!

Alas, I finish the scene with my arms stretched wide and feeling very cold and not draped in a wool coat and clutching fast to my romanticized dreams.